Of Elk & Men
A word from your quarry.
Well, it’s about that time again. Wapiti killin’ time. It really sucks that this happens every damn year. I mean, for all the hype surrounding domestic terrorism, nobody seems to notice the elk genocide. We’re people too. OK, so not really, but we’re pretty noble creatures. Just ask Charles M. Russell. Of course, when he wasn’t immortalizing our nobility on canvas, he was happy to fry up a cut of our meat. He was a bit of a flip-flopper, that one.
The problem is that we just happen to be cursed with succulent flesh and elegant antlers. I’ll admit it: we’re freakin’ delicious, and beautiful to boot. And humble. Apparently this makes us a target. And our traditional defenses, which have served us pretty well since, oh, the Pleistocene epoch, are… how to put this delicately…. dated. At best.
Hunters these days aren’t too worried about getting kicked. Even the scariest bark or grunt from the nastiest bull doesn’t faze them. If we bunch up for protection, they can take their pick of the best of us. It’s a mess. I mean, our only real chance is to split up and make a run for it. And have you ever tried to run through the woods with an enormous rack of antlers? Easier said than done, brother. I’ve still got a crick in my neck from the last willow I snagged while I was on the lam.
The deck is stacked against us. It’s like the goddamn Gaza Strip out there. Y’all have kick-ass weapons that can drop one of us from hundreds of yards away, and we have antlers. Freakin’ antlers. They leave a little to be desired in the way of long range capability. Hell, at least the Palestinians can throw rocks back at whoever’s firing assault rifles into their herd. Hooves are a bit of a handicap in the rock-grasping department, awesome as they are for pawing snow.
About all we can hope for is a severe economic recession or piss-poor weather. Humans are easily distracted by money and have gotten pretty soft over the years. Most of them just don’t seem to want to wander all over hell looking for us in a blizzard. Or the rain. Or a windstorm. Hey, I’m all about the shitty weather, man. A hunters’ blizzard is an elk’s salvation. Bring it on.
Besides hoping for miserable weather or an economic collapse, all we have to rely on is stealth. Now you see me… now you don’t. We’re like cloven-hoofed woods ninjas in brown pajamas. Chuck Norris is an elk. Bet you didn’t know that about him.
So that’s it. Killin’ season is here again, we’re still outgunned, and there’s not a goddamned thing we can do about it. But know this, hunter-fiends: if you find me (which I doubt), you will find me in the steepest, loosest, rockiest, brushiest sonofabitch of a ravine that I can locate on the run. When you try to drag my carcass out of there, you’ll wish you’d never come after me. You might even have a heart attack or throw out your back. It’s not much of a defense, but hey, it’s all we’ve got until Chuck Norris stops making Bowflex commercials and gets his ass home. Happy hunting, suckas!
