A YETI REMINISCES

By Thorsten Mungren

The large window by the cigarette machine afforded patrons of Rusty's Bar & Grill a commanding view of the snow-capped Rocky Mountains.

"You call those mountains?" the Yeti asked of no one in particular. "Those little pieces of shit?"

The Yeti had been drinking since late morning. He had started with bottles of Bud Light and various wine coolers, and by the afternoon had progressed to whiskey, Malibu and whatever else caught his momentary fancy. And now the Yeti was now thoroughly drunk. His fur, once white as Himalayan snow, was dusted with cigarette ash and tangled into dirty, crusted knots that stank of beer and onion rings.

"Where I'm from, we know what a mountain is," the Yeti muttered, motioning for another drink with his smelly, bandaged paw. "Ain't no real mountains here, that's for damn sure."

Everyone felt sad for the Yeti. He was so far from home. He had no friends, no job prospects, nothing to do at all but sit at the bar and daydream about the mountains of Nepal he so dearly loved.

The Yeti drained his glass of bourbon and stumbled toward the bathroom, pausing at the pool table to tear the head off an unsuspecting lumberjack. And after that, folks couldn't help but feel a little less sad for the Yeti.