Men stumbling aimlessly through the streets at night alone can be seen as romantics despite the likely inner turmoil, but for a bear to do the same is anything but.
Bears are carnivorous vile killers that devour us so they can lazily slumber through a cold winter, as if we are a luxury to them.
It was a bear that wandered the streets alone that fateful night, and the city slickers who passed by were fortunate that this bear was in a dour mood for to see a bear often signals death and last rites and such.
Bloody paws trickled red into the puddles that lied in the hollows of concrete, twirling around abstractly in the muck.
Sniffles from Mr. Bear’s ugly snout disturbed many as he wandered, mouth clamped so tightly that the lips folded inwards, as if it were a poor man’s imitation of a grandmother.
But Mr. Bear had no reference to draw from for a dear grandmama character if he were to perform as one on stage for he had murdered his grandmama much before her Golden Years. It was a fluke that he got away with it. Years later, Mr. Bear slung his arm over a meerkat he mistook to be a table, and lamented this thought.
There’s no room for order in the forest, Mr. Bear lied to himself.
Mr. Bear later killed that meerkat because of his general inclination towards murder and death.
Oh yes. Mr. Bear was a rapscallion bear. A monster to behold, the King of the Forest!
But on this day he was a-wanderin’ because he had once again gone killin’ and found himself empty. He had killed oh so many that night, too many to count. Perhaps if he were to poop them out, he could perhaps weigh the stool to estimate a faint idea on what his murders were, but this was too much of an effort for Mr. Bear who only felt sorry as far as he could pity himself.
Fur bedraggled by the downpour, reared himself up onto his hind legs as he reached his destination, a hive of scum and villainy, The Crooked Hook. A bar many hardened folk turned to in their bleak moments. Folk like your best friend Alex. You should talk to him, see how he’s doing.
“Mmmmmrrrrrooooooo….” Mr. Bear whined in an ambiguous way that was really quite grating on the ear, stepping up to the bouncer, who happened to be a Walrus Man in a suit. A buff Walrus Man at that, with further highlighted how Mr. Bear’s tummy hung over his feet like a four year old’s eternal pudge.
Mr. Bear blushed for he felt horribly naked next to this suited Walrus Man and of course, the Walrus saw right through Mr. Bear and with a mighty large flipper pointed at a sign that read:
No shirt. No shoes. No service.
But Mr. Bear was not a literate man and knew nothing of any basic communication behind his classic “Mmmmmmmrrrrrrrooooooo…” Thus Mr. Bear was clueless as to the nature of the sign, but he was very good at reading the room sometimes, and understood the rude flipper gesture to imply a “poo poo to you” sort of attitude regarding his nudity.
I fear using my keyboard to exclaim anything of a political nature, but I have to say, because I care very much about this issue, it is wrong for these animal people to assume each other to be academics plugged into the same worlds of knowledge. The veins in my forehead bulge at the actions of the Walrus Man.
Mr. Bear was, as you know, dear reader, a very visibly dumb bear. I don’t even like Mr. Bear that much but this blatant disregard for compassion stirs me in such a — a — way — yes, a way — that I get? I lost my — where was I? Right, the Walrus Man stunk.
But you know how Walrus Men are.
So anyways, there was a long dialog between the two, consisting mostly of Mr. Bear sadly moaning his morose “Mmmmrrrrrrrrroooooooo…” much to the chagrin of the Walrus, who tried to get Mr. Bear to go the fuck away. But due to his stoic nature and low wages, he cut his efforts off at waving a flipper towards the bar sign.
It was such a repetitive experience that the only way to really capture would be to watch Pocahontas and Avatar back to back.
It was only when the Walrus Man pointed at the dark streets that Mr. Bear finally took the hint, his butt humorously set a-wagglin’ as he strutted away.
Mr. Bear paused for a moment to look into a puddle beneath him only to find a dimwitted ruffian blinking stupidly back at him, and for the first time in his long murderous life, Mr. Bear realized that he was such a plebeian.
How he longed to give up his killin’. How he longed to no longer shed blood but to instead shed poops that were laden with healthy foods like asparagus.
I apologize, I myself, the author am going through a crisis, I don’t mean for it to get in the way, I’m just feeling a lot right now, and please ignore my pain while we reflect on Mr. Bear for I do not care about Mr. Bear very much and I am definitely okay with a character assassination on his person.
Anyways, um, where were we? Oh right! The puddle! Mr. Bear was looking into the puddle, hoping to see a badass version of himself with a scar ‘neath his eye, which is actually quite interesting, because Mr. Bear in this moment, I like to believe, scholarly woman that I am, was attempting to enact a pivotal scene from The Lion King II: Simba’s Pride.
Mr. Bear blinked a few more times, unknowingly farting, the gassy breaths that slipped between his buttocks unpleasant and unnerving to those passing by him.
It is fun to talk about Mr. Bear in such an off handed way, for I regret to say, as an adult, I meet with Mr. Bear daily for tea, not for fun and joyful larks but to satisfy his need to stalk his prey. It’s this very complicated thing where I have to move to a new household every day, and he has to trust his nosey-wosey to track me down.
It is a sport for him and I allow it because I am very sad.
So Mr. Bear was — looking into the puddle — right?
Hm. I suppose. I think that’s — what — yeah — okay I scrolled up and see it — yeah, Mr. Bear was looking into the puddle, when he realized that the beast looking back up at him was himself and he finally felt the loneliness in store for him.
Nervously looking around, Mr. Bear took a quick whizz on the ground, hoping people would shrug off his miscreancy as acceptable due to his inherent bearliness.
“Hey! I saw that!” a Tiger Cop pointed out in a deep voice.
Mr. Bear frowned at this and scampered away.
God, Mr. Bear has told me that story so many times — his most utter humiliation that struck him at the core. I guess you could see it as a tragedy — it’s like — he’s like Adam and Eve trying to play off the pre-Forbidden Fruit version of themselves even though they are strikingly post-Forbidden Fruit.
Speaking of nudity and embarrassment, Mr. Bear was quite ashamed of his naked bod upon strolling into Macy’s that night, paws clutched over his private zone, mouth gnarled into an admittedly tear inducing display of humiliation.
“What do you want you fucking bear?” a mean Snake Retail Worker hissed, limply lying slack on the floor.
Mr. Bear looked down to the Snake and ground his teeth, gears in his mind smashing against each other as he attempted to process some string of sounds that would make sense to the critical reptilian fiend, but he was still just a big, fat, stupid bear. A naked bear at that. Standing in transparent shame in a Macy’s getting put down by a snake. What a joke.
“Mmmmmmrooooooo…” Mr. Bear blurted out, throwing his paws over his head. The snake’s eyes widened at this display of desperation, lip curling upward.
“You dumb fucking bear,” the Snake chuckled.
Oh how Mr. Bear longed to put one of his paws onto the snake’s back, pressing him so tightly to the floor that his body could become quite taut by pulling on him very hard, which would of course lead to Mr. Bear stretching the snake’s body to the limit and right at the peak tautness, let go of the slinky reptile and hold his belly while he erupted in guffaws as the snake’s body slammed back into the ground like a rubber band.
But alas, the snake slunk away before Mr. Bear could act upon his rage, leaving him foolishly licking his claws alone on the floor. It was minutes, minutes I say, before our hairy friend realized the foolish display he had launched his body into.
After realizing the awkward predicament that had become another blemish to his sorry life, Mr. Bear held the pose for an hour longer, hoping that maybe his social blunder could be considered a classic piece of performance art.
On the second hour in the Macy’s, Mr. Bear finally began his journey which by this moment, his short term memory had lost hold of, so for a few minutes he sauntered around farting all over the place much to the frustration of the patrons.
Eventually, once his mind had been purified of all the smelly frustrations that came with eating living and breathing creatures, Mr. Bear came upon the thing that changed him, that made him into — something — I quite don’t feel like getting into it.
But it was an Argyle Sweater that awakened the Mister in Mr. Bear.
Red and gray diamonds that intersected perfectly in this clean cut pattern that gave an immediate sense of academia. Knit so tightly together that it carried the lightness of a t-shirt, an elastic rim hugging the curves of the flesh that embraced it. Oh, how I could talk about the Argyle Sweater for hours. There was much to say about it. For example, (something ridiculous here),
But to speak of how it affected Mr. Bear? Nothing really comes to mind that I feel driven to say. If you really care that much, you could ring him up and get tea with him for a day. I could use the relief.
Now clad in the finest of fine Argyle Sweaters from Macy’s, fingers caked in fresh blood (Mr. Bear had no money on him and killed the cashier in a panic), Mr. Bear returned to The Crooked Hook.
“Oh why hello there!” Mr. Bear chirped in a high-pitched voice with a spring in his step.
It had been an Argyle Sweater that ushered in this new era of Mr. Bear.
Shuffling up to the Walrus Man, Mr. Bear grabbed hold of one flipper, the other claw wrapping around his hip, and stepped into a sort of old timey jig.
Those few seconds of dance were later retold to a support group years later after the Walrus Man had lost everything that ever made him happy with the exception of that one finite memory.
Mr. Bear, with the spark of Hugh Grant, raised his uno-brow into something alluring, a strain of wheat lodged in between his pearly whites. “I’m so happy that I have decided to retire as King of the Forest and become a bear that lives not in a forest but in a humble home among all the other fun loving humans of this world!” he declared, spitting the wheat into the Walrus Man’s mouth, and using his great behind, thumped open the doorway to the bar, and slipped in like any other average Joe.
Strutting past the seedy bar dwellers, the sobbing tough guys and brutes, Mr. Bear gently slid his still naked bum onto a stool before the bar, who happened to be a mustachioed koala named Francois who lost his husband in the war.
“Fran-coy-siss is it?” Mr. Bear smiled smugly, tapping an empty wine glass before him.
“Is it really pronounced that way?” Francois asked dimly, polishing a poop covered glass that he would never be able to convince anyone to drink from.
“Yeah, I think so, why wouldn’t it be?” Mr. Bear asked and before Francois was able to come up with a reasonable response, Mr. Bear continued, “I would like a gin and tonic.”
“Okay,” Francois frowned, punching a bottle of gin so hard that it shattered, splashes of gin neatly falling into an array of tonic glasses spread around the table. “Call 911,” he blurted and then collapsed.
Mr. Bear didn’t know what that meant because — and in his defense — he was a very stupid bear who was still quite fond of murder — thus he drank from all the glasses awkwardly, not sure what the deal was with the bleeding koala. He lingered at the bar for hours, hoping that there would be some kind of resolution.
That’s where I come in.
Yeah, I’m in this one! I know, it’s exciting! Me — in a story! Wow! Ha!
Don’t tell me it’s not cool that I’m in my own story because I am in fact the writer because — well — I don’t want to talk about that.
I — fuck, now I’m thinking about it too much. Hm.
God. Well. Shit. Argh. Arga-raga-raga-rooma-dooma-ding-dong-diddly-okay I’m back.
Here’s a helpful tip to the readers from a Suicidal Writer: Anytime you feel anything verging on suicidal feelings, stop and scream arga-raga-raga-rooma-dooma-ding-dong-diddly into your mind. It will do you wonders. Now quit your therapist today. Hah, I should write a book, huh?
Oh! Oh! That’s right! I’m supposed to come into the story at this point, it’s true, well, get this! I come into the bar, and wait — wait — that’s not the tone of the piece, I’m not just telling you a story casually at a party, come on! Focus!
I stepped into the bar, dressed in a black skirt and tights with a ruffled coffee stained blouse, nervously and tentatively, stepping past the sad sacks decorating the bar, eyes widening at the site of a plump bear leaning over an assortment of glasses, dunking them into his mouth one by one.
“Hey, uh, where’s the bartender? I’m supposed to be taking over for them,” I asked the Bear. He turned to me and frowned, saying “I have no rightly clue, Miss.”
I raised an eyebrow and stepped behind the bar only to find the dead bartender sprawled across the floor. “Jesus Christ!” I shouted.
“Speaking!” Mr. Bear responded with a finger pointed at the ceiling.
“Not funny,” I called out to the bear rudely, rolling my eyes as I propped the corpse against the bar, looking deep into his eyes. While it should have been a human moment for me to become enlightened by, I just kinda shrugged because you know, I got enough shit to worry about.
When I stood back up opposite the bear, I found him looking morosely at his stomach. “Sorry, I mean — your joke wasn’t that bad I guess?”
“I think you would have needed the context of me being the most amazing person to ever walk this Earth for the gag to work,” Mr. Bear slumped his elbow on the counter. “Ha, perhaps if you were to become my friend you would know about the greatness that I am!”
There was a brief lapse in his sentences where I thought I might be able to respond, but Mr. Bear steam rolled forward and I fell back into silence. “You know, I just turned my life around, ya know, I’m no longer a bad bear but a good one, and — see? See this sweater I wear so proudly? It’s pronounced ar-gee-lay.”
I decided to not touch that one with a twenty foot pole.
“I’m no longer the King of the Forest!” Mr. Bear drunkenly slurred, spinning his stool in place. “Nay, I am now a humble citizen of this world and I am going to live among you and do simple things like go to the grocery store and weigh pounds of oranges as opposed to my classic alternative which is gnawing creatures bodies until they are nothing but bones and misery!”
And then his body sort of hung there in his dramatic pose, knee bent to his belly, one foot dangling near the floor, a fist shoved into the sky. His posture loosened with a slight nervous shake and a pink shade came into his eyes that suddenly possessed very small pupils, and he slumped back into the bar, head banging into the counter.
And he sobbed.
And cried for hours.
Don’t get me wrong. I still hate him. I hate his cowardly murdersome butt and I hate the way he giggles at his own farts. I hate a lot about him — really truly, there is nothing pleasurable to our friendship.
But — But —
He was real. And present, and true. And I liked that. So I stayed there with him.
Even when he asked for another round and I shattered the glass containing the booze with my bare hand, as we did at our bar, I stayed with him as I lost gallons of blood by the second, because I cared deeply for him, even if he never even looked up from his own puddle of depression.
I fucking love this guy.
Liked Mr. Bear? Here’s some other stories that feature him.
A sequel: Mr. Bear or How to Ignore Your Problems and Become the Beast You Always Feared You Were
A Midquel to the aforementioned prequel, if you would: Mrs. Dogbutt or How to Make Wild Assumptions About Green Tea Lattes That Put You in a Bad Spot in Life
A story loaded with multiple cameos from everyone’s favorite guy: Katrinick