Three knocks. A beat. Three knocks again. Raylene jumped up from her chair. “The beer!”
Dave was relieved. He’d spent nearly thirty minutes defending the merits of his musical taste with Raylene as Nicole flipped through and dismissed every CD and cassette of his as “a downer.”

Dave wanted Raylene and Nicole to leave, and to return to playing Scrabble with Rebecca, alone, maybe plan a new photo shoot, talk about the fun they’d have at art school in September when they’d be miles away from girls like Raylene and Nicole. It was going to be great: being together, sharing one of those cozy houses in Dawson City, laying on the ice of the Yukon River in the unspeakable winter cold, watching the Northern Lights.

“That’s a lot of beer,” Dave said. At the sight of the two cases, and surrendered any hope of Raylene and Nicole bailing for some meathead party or clandestine drinkfest down by the river.

Paula twisted caps off the beer and distributed them to the teenagers. She was playing waitress, hoping to be invited to stay. Raylene and Nicole were clearly impressed by her generosity and suggested she join them. Paula agreed and twisted open a beer for herself.

“Pretty cool,” she said, studying the Lady Sasquatch. Hair: probably bison or bear. The eyes were good. Haunting and blank, like something out of the special FX closet on the set of a Hollywood slasher film. The smell was a bit much, rancid and rotting: maybe a stink bomb bought at a novelty shop.

She admired Dave and Rebecca’s dedication and planning skills. They had the foresight to cause a commotion, create a ruse by stealing the mummified cat at precisely the same time word hit that Tucky Thompson shot the Lady Sasquatch. The story was spectacular, a goth teen fantasy. They were wannabe artists, she knew. It was the ultimate installation, a great performance piece.

Paula was unclear about how Tucky fit into the scheme. The kids were right in deflecting attention from themselves and onto him. It was clever, having the long-time Sasquatch hunter bag the big beast. He’d have his moment, relish the notoriety and play to the press who tagged along and hung on his every word. It was good for him, and good for business. But she found his enthusiasm and conviction unsettling. She’d observed Tucky in action, drunk, sober, always boisterous. He wasn’t a man, she imagined, who could keep a secret. Then again, she thought, maybe he doesn’t know.

It was too delicious. The kids pull off the ultimate hoax: fooling the media, tricking the Sasquatch hunters, deceiving their parents.

Dave was the mastermind, Rebecca the awkward and the oblivious object of his affection. Maybe she doesn’t know either. Paula smirked, her story was getting better every minute.

     

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