ATTENTION LOGGERS! Bear Mountain Loggers 2025 Calendars and Warfighter tees just dropped—mil-spec OD green with the Brotherhood logo and "DE OPPRESSO LIBER." Built for loggers, truckers, ranchers, warfighters & firefighters. Stock’s limited—git som' before they’re gone!
ATTENTION LOGGERS!! WILDLAND FIREFIGHTERS, TRUCKERS, RANCHERS & WARFIGHTERS!
🔥 Fresh out the fire, straight to your back. 🔥
The new Bear Mountain Loggers Warfighter T-Shirts just dropped in hardcore mil-spec OD green, and trust us—you’re gonna want one before they disappear faster than a flame-licked forest. These shirts aren’t just any run-of-the-mill gear; they’re designed for the hardcore, the fearless, and those who live life with a goddamn axe in hand. Whether you’re a Warfighter, Logger, Trucker, Biker, Wildland Firefighter, or Rancher out on Bear Mountain, this gear has your name all over it.
On one sleeve: the Bear Mountain Ranch logo—the seal of our wild and rugged way of life. On the other? The Warfighter Bear Mountain Loggers Brotherhood logo, symbolizing our creed: cut deep, burn hotter, and never back down. And as for the back? Yeah, we went all out. The Special Forces Airborne insignia hovers above the badass Warfighter Bear Mountain Rancher logo. Below it, in true combat style, we’ve stamped the infamous slogan: DE OPPRESSO LIBER—"To Free the Oppressed."
For those of you who breathe that warrior ethos—this shirt is you. It’s for the grinders, the ones out in the shit day and night, putting down the miles, swinging steel, breaking ground, torching trails, and living on the edge.
So, grab yours now at Bear Mountain Loggers Truck Stop, while stocks last.
No compromises. No second chances. First come, first served.
Bear Mountain Loggers Warfighters—Krush. Kill. Destroy.
"Peace? You think I came for that? No—I'm the Bearmountean, forged in war, blood, and bone. I didn’t come to make things calm; I came with a goddamn axe to rip the sky apart and crush every skull that stands in my way. I am the reckoning, the storm they never saw coming. You want peace? You better earn it, ‘cause where I walk, only death and ruin follow. Think not of peace—think of my axe tearing your world apart."
The Bearmountean and the Brotherhood of Arktos—more than warriors, more than legends, they are the primal force unleashed upon the world, forged in the frozen hell of the Northern Highlands where the weak never survive. Their mission is simple: Krush, Kill, and Destroy Ben Zion and the cancerous blight of Ziongoria. They are not coming to negotiate. Diplomacy is for the weak, and weakness is a sin that Ziongoria will answer for in blood.
Ziongoria—a stolen land steeped in satanic degeneracy, where the worship of depravity has replaced any shred of honor. Tiny hat midget cowards rule with the twisted rainbow banners of victimhood and Machiavellian cunning, their false cries for security masking an iron grip of brutal oppression. This is a nation built on filth, a cesspool where corruption festers, where the weak lead the blind into pits of perversion. Ben Zion, their depraved puppet-master, cloaked in the stench of degenerate power, believes he’s untouchable. He rules over this rotting empire like a king of the damned, poisoning the land with every breath.
But Ben Zion has never seen the likes of the Bearmountean and his Brotherhood of Arktos. He thinks his evil is absolute, his kingdom impenetrable. He’s wrong. He’s never faced a force born from the icy peaks of Japan's great Northern Alps, warriors who are the very embodiment of primal rage, forged in the flames of an unforgiving land. The Brotherhood of Arktos doesn’t come to negotiate or to bring salvation. They come to tear Ziongoria a new asshole, to execute Ben Zion and his cabal limb by bloody limb.
They are the storm, the fury of the old gods reborn, bringing annihilation to every piece of filth that crosses their path. The Brotherhood will rip Ziongoria apart, exposing the rot beneath its façade, executing each degenerate who has poisoned the land. There will be no sanctuary, no mercy for those who hide behind their twisted illusions of power. Ben Zion's skull will be crushed, his bones shattered under the weight of the Bearmountean’s axe, and his followers will be left as nothing but bloodied corpses in the wake of Arktos’ wrath.
Krush. Kill. Destroy.
The Bearmountean’s axe is no mere weapon; it’s a tool of absolute destruction, a thirsting beast eager for the blood of those who dare oppose it. With each swing, it cleaves heads from necks, reduces spines to dust, and tears the very soul from the bodies of its enemies. When the Brotherhood of Arktos descends upon Ziongoria, the world will tremble. It will be a reckoning of unimaginable scale, where mercy is a forgotten concept and surrender a coward's wish. Only rivers of blood, mountains of shattered skulls, and the burning wreckage of a kingdom brought to its knees will remain.
The Brotherhood, led by Jack Rennell, moves as a pack—a savage force of nature too relentless, too brutal to stop. They revel in the chaos, basking in the carnage as Ziongoria’s armies are torn apart like lambs to the slaughter. Megumi, fierce and unwavering, swings her battle axe with surgical precision, each arc a symphony of brutality that carves through flesh and bone, leaving behind a wake of dismembered bodies. Her enemies meet a swift and violent end, their screams muffled by the roar of battle.
Then there’s Wyatt, the embodiment of unyielding ferocity, wielding twin blades that flash like lightning in the darkness. He dances through the chaos, a whirlwind of death, slicing through foes with a frenzy that leaves only dismembered limbs and blood-soaked ground in his wake. He takes pleasure in the visceral brutality, every cut a reminder of the price of defiance.
Jugs, the towering titan of muscle, crushes enemies underfoot like insects. His fists, like hammers, deliver skull-splitting blows, reducing their victims to pulp. With each impact, he laughs, a deep, echoing sound that reverberates through the battlefield as if mocking the very concept of resistance.
Dogballs, the wild card of the Brotherhood, embraces madness like a lover. His unpredictable, chaotic style results in a cacophony of violence—he lunges and bites, his ferocity unmatched as he rends flesh from bone with savage glee. His laughter echoes through the carnage, a chilling reminder of the madness that has descended upon Ziongoria.
And there’s Chowder, the strategist turned executioner, whose mind is as sharp as his weapons. He positions himself at the heart of the chaos, guiding his comrades with an iron will. But don’t let his cunning demeanor fool you—when it’s time to strike, he transforms into a ruthless killer, his blades finding their mark with ruthless efficiency.
The Grizzly, the savage behemoth of Bear Mountain, crushes skulls beneath its claws like fragile eggshells. With each swipe, it sends enemies flying, their lifeless bodies a testament to its unmatched power. The Grizzly howls, a primal sound of dominance, marking the end for all who dare oppose the Brotherhood.
Together, they are a whirlwind of destruction—Krush, Kill, Destroy—each member an instrument of death in this symphony of brutality. As they march into Ziongoria, they are a force that will leave nothing but shattered dreams and bloody memories. No stone will be left unturned; no soul will be spared. The Brotherhood of Arktos has come to enact their vengeance, and Ziongoria will crumble beneath their feet.
Ben Zion won’t know what hit him—he’ll hear the roar of the Bearmountean on the wind, feel the earth tremble beneath the boots of the Arktos Brotherhood, but by the time he sees them, it will be too late. They’ll rip through his armies, tearing his soldiers apart with brutal efficiency, and when they reach him, there will be no escape. The Bearmountean’s axe will be the last thing he sees, splitting his skull open like rotten fruit, before the Brotherhood tears his kingdom to pieces, leaving nothing but ash and bone in their wake.
You wanted peace? You should’ve run when you had the chance. Now, there’s only one certainty—death is coming, and the Bearmountean will see to it personally.
— The Bearmountaen is on sale now at all good book stores.
The Kill Code: Chapter 29 "Algorithm of a Mastermind" - Bear J. Sleeman
In the heart of Tokyo’s Grand Hotel, the team stepped into the opulent dining room of Tenzan Onyx, where every surface gleamed under the soft glow of custom lanterns, casting elongated shadows across sleek mahogany tables. The scent of sakura blossoms lingered in the air, intertwining with the faint smokiness of aged whisky. A distant piano played, an old Japanese lullaby echoing from another room, its haunting notes a delicate counterpoint to the tension building among the dinner guests.
Jack Rennell’s eyes scanned the room—nothing was ever just a room for him; it was terrain. His senses absorbed everything—the positioning of the staff, the discreet exits, the slight bulge in a maître d's jacket indicating a concealed weapon. In his line of work, it was all about reading the battlefield, even when the battlefield smelled like fresh wasabi and smoked eel.
He shifted in his tailored Brioni tux, black as the night operations that had carved his reputation across conflict zones. His wife, Megumi, seated to his right, exuded an elegance that was sharp enough to cut glass. Her gown—a deep crimson that mirrored her heritage—dripped with understated power. With a single glance, her almond eyes caught the subtlest of shifts in the staff's demeanor, reading it as easily as she might read the kanji characters on the traditional scrolls adorning the walls.
To his left, Wyatt sat, his grizzled features hiding beneath the pretense of calm, though his hand hovered near his lapel. Years in black ops had honed his instincts—Wyatt was a coiled spring, ready to strike. His eyes darted toward Steve "Jugs," who, despite his casual demeanor, shifted in his chair with the practiced ease of someone ready for violence at a moment's notice.
Dogballs leaned back, grinning like a madman, entirely out of place in the lavish setting. His cowboy boots scraped the polished floor, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. Chowder, meanwhile, flicked the ash off his cigar with a nonchalance that was far too comfortable for a Michelin-starred restaurant.
The maître d' bowed deeply, welcoming the group with a scripted precision, his clipped Japanese flowing into English without effort. "Honorable guests, Dr. Evil awaits you in the private room."
As they followed, Jack’s mind moved like a chessboard. Dr. Evil—a nickname that carried weight in certain circles—was known for his Machiavellian plays. He wasn’t someone who hired mercenaries like Jack and his team unless the stakes were global. Jack’s lips curled into a barely-there smirk. They weren’t just hired muscle; they were the hand of God when things needed a violent correction.
The room they entered was bathed in soft amber light. A massive chandelier hung overhead, dripping with 273,000 pieces of Swarovski crystal—a symbol of wealth, power, and, to Jack, vulnerability. Everything about this setup screamed control, but there was no such thing as complete control. Not with them in the room.
Dr. Evil sat at the head of the table, his kimono simple yet embroidered with a coiled golden dragon, eyes burning with hunger for domination. His hands rested calmly on the table, but the subtext was clear: I can destroy you at any moment.
"Jack Rennell," he began in Japanese, before smoothly switching to French. "Or should I say… ‘The Ghost.’" His smile was too polished, too precise. “Your reputation is both myth and legend.”
Jack sat down, unbuttoning his jacket with a deliberate slowness. “I thought I’d retire that name,” he replied, his voice cold. “But here we are.”
Wyatt poured himself a glass of whisky, raising it in a mocking toast. "Who would’ve thought we’d be dining with the man who likes to play god?"
Dr. Evil's smile never wavered. “God, no. More like the devil.” He leaned forward. “I need men like you. A coup is coming, one that must be executed with precision… and violence. Quiet enough to stay out of the headlines, but loud enough that the right people get the message.”
Megumi’s eyes flickered toward Jack, a silent question hovering between them. The deal smelled wrong, but the money was right. She adjusted the pearl earring Jack had gifted her years ago, a gesture that spoke volumes—she was ready for whatever would come next.
"Why us?" Jack asked, cutting to the heart of the matter. "You’ve got resources. Political power. Why do you need a bunch of barbarians?"
Dr. Evil’s gaze shifted toward Megumi, as if assessing her value in the equation. “Because you are not just barbarians. You’re artists in chaos.” He placed his hands together, as if in prayer. “And I need an artwork that leaves no traces.”
The tension in the room thickened. Jack’s mind raced, every detail flashing in his peripheral vision—the positioning of the guards outside, the subtle tension in Wyatt’s posture, the way Jugs’ finger twitched on the table as if itching to pull a trigger.
Suddenly, the room exploded in motion. A side door burst open, revealing armed men in tactical gear, their movements swift, professional—hired guns. Dr. Evil’s smile turned lethal. “A test, Mr. Rennell. Let’s see if your reputation holds up.”
Jack’s muscles tensed as the first round of gunfire cracked through the room. He flipped the table in a fluid motion, shielding Megumi as glass shattered. Wyatt, faster than anyone could blink, drew a Glock from his jacket and took down two men with surgical precision. Jugs roared in laughter, his massive fists turning another attacker’s face into a crimson mess. Dogballs, true to his chaotic nature, leaped onto the back of an assailant, strangling him with his bare hands.
Chowder, of course, laughed as he drew his blade, slicing through the remaining guards with a finesse that bordered on ballet.
Amid the chaos, Jack caught Dr. Evil's gaze—a silent promise that this wasn’t over. Blood dripped onto the tatami mats, the scent mixing with the once-pleasant aromas of dinner. The chandelier swayed dangerously overhead.
In the stillness that followed, Jack stood, his breath steady. He wiped a speck of blood from his cheek and looked down at the lifeless bodies. “You wanted precision,” he said coolly, adjusting his jacket. “I hope that was enough.”
Dr. Evil, unharmed, stood slowly, clapping his hands. “Impressive, Mr. Rennell. You’ve passed the test.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed, every ounce of military training screaming at him that this was only the beginning. As he walked toward the door, Megumi at his side, he glanced back once more. “The next time, Evil… we won’t be dining together.”
Jack led the way out of the shattered dining room, the sounds of chaos still humming in the back of his mind, though his expression betrayed none of it. The cold air of the Tokyo night hit them as they stepped outside into the hotel’s private courtyard. It was a stark contrast—serenity wrapped in the scent of pine and cherry blossoms, with the towering skyscrapers of Tokyo reflecting a thousand lights onto the shallow koi pond at their feet.
The team fell into step behind him, each one moving with the quiet grace of predators. Wyatt was first to break the silence.
“So, we passed the test,” he muttered, slipping his Glock back into his holster. “What’s next, we audition for a circus?”
Jugs, his knuckles still red from the last encounter, let out a deep laugh. “That wasn’t even a warm-up. I’ve seen harder hits in a bar fight.”
Jack didn’t answer immediately. His thoughts were locked on Dr. Evil’s words. This wasn’t just a power move—it was a game, a series of moves designed to test loyalty, capability, and more than that, weakness. The real question was why someone like Dr. Evil would need them. A coup, he said. But coups weren’t his style. He dealt in shadow wars, ones that left no evidence, no casualties on the evening news. Something bigger was at play here.
Megumi slipped her hand into Jack’s, a subtle gesture of solidarity. She could read the storm brewing behind his steely eyes, but she trusted his instincts. Her own heart still raced from the encounter—despite all their training, there was no guarantee in this line of work. One wrong move and they'd be corpses on the floor like the hired guns they’d just dispatched. She glanced up at him, her voice soft but carrying the sharp edge of concern.
“What’s the play, Jack?” she asked in a low voice.
He paused, his eyes scanning the rooftop garden where shadows seemed to dance between the lanterns. His mind calculated a dozen different routes, each with its own set of risks. The decision needed to be made now, before Dr. Evil could make his next move.
“We’re playing along,” he said finally, his voice flat. “For now.”
Wyatt cocked an eyebrow. “For now? You think we can trust him?”
“Not for a second,” Jack replied, his tone colder than the Tokyo air. “But we need to get closer. Whatever he’s into, it’s not just about a coup. There’s something deeper. Something we haven’t seen yet.”
As they reached the private valet stand, a sleek black car awaited them. Jack opened the door for Megumi first, a small gesture of chivalry that never escaped him despite the violence that coursed through his veins. The rest of the team slid in behind her, each one silently checking weapons, movements automatic, ingrained.
The drive through the city was quiet, the hum of the engine the only sound as they wove through neon-lit streets. Tokyo, in all its modern splendor, blurred past them—a city that never slept, never stopped watching. Jack couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere, right now, Dr. Evil’s eyes were on them, cataloging every word, every glance, every breath.
“Y’know,” Dogballs finally broke the silence from the back seat, his voice uncharacteristically serious, “I don’t like this. We’re walking into a nest of snakes.”
Chowder, leaning back with a cigarette dangling from his lips, chuckled. “That’s the fun part. Keeps things interesting.”
Jack’s grip tightened on the wheel as they pulled up to the hotel where they were staying, a monolith of chrome and glass that towered over the city. He parked the car and turned to face his team.
“Listen,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “We’re in deep now. Evil’s testing us, seeing what we’ll do under pressure. But we need to keep our heads. We find out what his game is, and we finish this before it even starts.”
Wyatt gave a half-smile, the kind that had always unnerved their enemies. “And if he turns on us?”
Jack didn’t blink. “Then we kill him first.”
Inside the hotel suite, the mood shifted. Wyatt opened a bottle of whisky while Jugs leaned against the massive window, looking out over the endless sprawl of Tokyo. The tension that had gripped the team began to ease, but no one was foolish enough to relax completely.
Megumi, still quiet, stepped onto the balcony. The wind stirred her hair as she looked down at the bustling city below. “Jack,” she called out softly.
He joined her, his hand resting on the railing as they stood side by side in silence. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. “What are you thinking?”
Her dark eyes reflected the distant city lights. “I’m thinking this isn’t about money or power. It’s about something bigger.”
Jack nodded, his mind already spinning with possibilities. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
Before she could answer, the burner phone in Jack’s pocket buzzed. He pulled it out, glancing at the message. The text was short, direct: “Meet at the Bridge of Sighs. Midnight.”
He showed the message to Megumi, her eyes narrowing. “Evil’s playing his hand,” she murmured. “He wants us out in the open.”
Jack smirked, pocketing the phone. “Then let’s see what he’s got.”
Behind them, the team was already preparing. Guns were checked, knives sharpened. They had all lived their lives in the shadows, but now they were about to step into the light—into whatever twisted game Dr. Evil was orchestrating.
Midnight was only hours away. The city below hummed with life, oblivious to the battle that was about to unfold in its heart. Jack’s mind raced with military precision—every movement calculated, every decision weighed. This was their world now: a world of betrayal, blood, and violence.
And they would face it head-on, like the warriors they were.
Blood and iron, axes biting deep into the flesh of the mountain—this is Bear Ravine. No room for the weak, no mercy for the fallen. Jugs, Dogballs, Chowder, Mooch, and I tore down giants today, their bones piled up like offerings to a forgotten god. We are the Bear Mountain Loggers, and Bear Mountain is our kingdom. This land don't forgive, and neither do we. This isn’t a fairy tale—it’s a battleground where men of grit carve their legacy from the marrow of these felled giants. Out here, we don't just work—we slay.
Interview with Bear J. Sleeman: The Savage Mind Behind Jack Rennell: The Bearmountean
Featured in "Hard Steel Frontier: The Last of the Hard Men & Beyond Comics"
Interview by: Yuki Yamashita, Northern Alps, Japan.
Title: Jack Rennell: The Bearmountean
By: Bear J. Sleeman
In an age of skull-splitting violence, blood-soaked mayhem, and bone-shattering savagery, Jack Rennell, the last Bearmountean, stands as a walking apocalypse. Clad in a shemi loincloth and Ugg boots, he wields an axe the size of a body, battling through Ben Zion's degenerate armies of werewolf Somali Jewish warriors, who hunger for flesh under a twisted regime in Ziongoria—a land drenched in depravity and perversion.
Jack isn’t just fighting for survival; he’s on a mission to annihilate. Alongside him are his companions in gore: Megumi, his bloodthirsty cavewoman wife, a banshee of steel and sinew who dances through enemies like a hurricane of blades; Wyatt, a juggernaut of untamable rage who crushes skulls with every step; and Steve “Motherfucking” Chi-Hi Jugs, a half-man, half-beast with a taste for flesh and an insatiable hunger for violence.
Yuki Yamashita walks into the smoky, rugged cabin nestled in the shadow of the Northern Alps. It's exactly the kind of place you'd expect the man behind Jack Rennell: The Bearmountean to reside—gritty, soaked in Americana, and reeking of hard-earned badassery. Bear J. Sleeman, the mastermind behind the comic, rises to greet her, a giant of a man with calloused hands from a life spent ranching and hunting grizzlies. His real-life ranch, Bear Mountain Ranch, and infamous honky-tonk, Bear Mountain Loggers Truck Stop, are legendary in their own right.
Yuki Yamashita: Bear, let’s get straight to it. The world wants to know—what the hell inspired Jack Rennell: The Bearmountean? There’s brutal, blood-soaked, skull-crushing violence, raw Herculean masculinity, and the art is just next-level. How do you even begin to create something like this?
Bear J. Sleeman: Yuki, it’s real simple. The world’s gone soft. Jack Rennell is a reminder of what men were—and what they should be. Men who fought, men who conquered. None of this soft-palmed, latte-sipping bullshit you see now. Jack Rennell is everything I love about life—hunting grizzly, smashing skulls, wielding battle axes, and obliterating entire armies of degenerates, like Ben Zion’s faggot army of Somali Black Jews. This comic? It’s my ultimate 'fuck you' to the modern world.
Yuki: You’ve been called toxic masculine, extreme even. How does that sit with you?
Bear: Toxic? Damn right. I wear it like a badge. Men like Jack, Wyatt, Steve Chu-Hi “Jugs,” and I? We don’t give a damn about what people think. We were born to take what’s ours, crush anyone who stands in our way, and enjoy the spoils of war—whether it's women, wealth, or watching our enemies beg before we split their skulls with a battle axe.
Yuki: Tell me about the characters—who are Jack, Megumi, Wyatt, and Steve Chu-Hi? And where do they come from in your real life?
Bear: Jack Rennell is me, no doubt. Big-ass battle axe, long black hair, and Ugg boots. It’s all inspired by how we live at Bear Mountain Ranch. Jack’s wife, Megumi? That's my real-life wife. She’s a warrior. A mix of beauty and savagery, like any good woman should be. Wyatt is my real brother—a man's man, always ready for a fight. Then there's Steve Chu-Hi “Jugs” Smith—my best friend. He once chugged 20 jugs of Chu-Hi at the truck stop, then went out and smashed the skulls of 100 communist rainbow flag-waving faggots who made the mistake of stopping at the wrong honky-tonk. That’s the kinda man I surround myself with.
Yuki: What about the insane art in this comic? I mean, these wolves, the brutality—it’s primal. You did all of it?
Bear: Hell yeah, I did. Every stroke, every severed limb, and splattered brain matter. It’s gotta be visceral. You wanna feel it—like when Jack plunges his axe into a fcking werewolf’s skull, or when Steve rips through Zion's army limb by limb, skulls cracking like watermelons. It’s gotta hit you in the gut. It’s not just about action; it’s about feeling the power, the bloodlust.*
Yuki: This Herculean world, set in 4000 BC—how does that reflect your real life?
Bear: We live like that today. At Bear Mountain Loggers Truck Stop, it’s all wildland firefighters, loggers, truckers, Special Forces vets—badasses, every last one. We drink, we fight, we race V8 muscle cars and big block diesel pickups, and we don’t answer to anyone. Sheriff Grizzly chases us down Main Street for burnouts every Friday night. We hunt bull elk, wrestle grizzlies, and fly fish in Bear River. We eat our salmon raw, just like Hercules would’ve.
Yuki: And what about your love for battle axes, guns, muscle cars?
Bear: Axes? Nothing beats the feeling of splitting a skull with one. Guns are just part of life. We got 'em everywhere—big ones, small ones, doesn’t matter. Muscle cars? I’ve been rolling coal in V8 diesels since I was knee-high, and we still tear it up every weekend, side by side with the boys. Life’s about power, control, and conquering your surroundings. That’s what this comic’s about. It’s raw, it’s primal, and it’s pure fucking masculinity.
Yuki: Tell me about this honky-tonk, the Bear Mountain Loggers Truck Stop. What makes it so legendary?
Bear: You walk into the Loggers and you know you’re in for a fight or a night you won’t forget. Bikers, truckers, loggers, warfighters—they all roll in and out, smashing drinks, shooting pool, or just waiting for the next skull to split. Every damn person who walks in knows—this ain’t for the weak. Hell, last year, we had Jugs take down an entire busload of tourists who thought they could stop by for a drink. Bad mistake, and now? Their skulls decorate our wall.
Yuki: Bear, one last thing. There’s a quote you live by—something about crushing your enemies. Can you share that with our readers?
Bear: Damn right. It’s from Conan, and it’s everything I stand for: ‘We will crush our enemies, see them driven before us, and hear the lamentations of their women.’ That’s life. That’s what Jack Rennell: The Bearmountean is all about. Blood, violence, and conquering every damn obstacle in your path.
As Yuki leaves Bear J. Sleeman’s rugged home, she can’t shake the raw power, the unapologetic masculinity & badassery that surrounds this man, his friends and his world. Jack Rennell: The Bearmountean isn’t just a comic—it’s a war cry for a time when men were men, they crushed skulls with their bare hands, an blood was shed without mercy.
The Bearmountean
Featured in "Hard Steel Frontier: The Last of the Hard Men & Beyond Comics"
Opening Scene:
It
begins with the stench of sulfur and the howls of beasts. Under the
glow of a blood-red moon, Jack and his comrades stand knee-deep in a
field of butchered bodies—blood spraying, flesh tearing, bones
crunching. Every swing of Jack's axe cleaves bodies apart as he howls,
"They think they’ve seen war—but I’m just getting started."
Megumi carves through enemies, her sword dripping with arterial spray as intestines unravel at her feet. “More!” she shrieks, decapitating a wolf-beast with a single slash. Wyatt, a towering beast of human flesh, swings his war hammer, splitting heads open like overripe fruit. Skulls explode under his boots as he roars, “This is what a Bearmountean does!”
Steve “Motherfucking” Chi-Hi Jugs—half-wolf, half-death incarnate—slaughters everything in sight, transforming mid-battle, tearing limbs with his claws, roaring into the carnage, “I WANT MORE BLOOD!” His massive, hulking form rips enemies apart like rag dolls.
In the distance, Ben Zion watches from his palace, wrapped in the bones of his enemies, his face twisted in arrogance and fear. His abominations—vile, twisted things born of sorcery and dark science—scream and writhe in agony as Jack’s axe slams into them. Blood sprays across the earth, coating the land in a sickening torrent of gore.
Carnage and Brutality:
The
battle isn’t a fight—it’s a blood-soaked massacre. Jack is a whirlwind
of destruction, crushing skulls with the back of his axe, cleaving
enemies in half with every savage strike. He disembowels his foes with
brutal efficiency, laughing as blood splashes his face. He wipes the
blood across his chest like war paint, eyes gleaming with unholy fury.
"Ben Zion’s monsters don’t know what real hell looks like—until now."
Wyatt laughs as he snaps a werewolf's spine with his bare hands, lifting the body overhead and tossing it into the fire. His hammer swings like a wrecking ball, smashing through armor, bone, and flesh with sickening cracks. “You wanted a war, now choke on it!” he roars, slamming his hammer into a wolf-beast’s skull, reducing it to a fine red mist.
Megumi, covered head-to-toe in the blood of her enemies, doesn’t stop for a second. Her blade cuts through flesh and bone as easily as air. Limbs soar through the night sky, blood raining down as she howls with savage glee. “Kill every last one!” she screams, her eyes wild with battle fury.
Steve, his claws drenched in blood, rips the throat from a werewolf, savoring the carnage. His transformation is unstoppable—a whirlwind of fur, muscle, and violence that rends flesh from bone. He growls, “I’ll skin them alive before the night’s over.”
Final Confrontation:
They
march toward Ben Zion’s palace of filth, a hellish fortress draped in
the remnants of the innocent. With every step, the earth beneath them
becomes soaked in blood, the air thick with the smell of death. The
monstrous horde charges, but Jack stands firm, his axe dripping with
gore.
Ben Zion’s vile sorcerers unleash grotesque creatures twisted by forbidden magic—things that shouldn’t exist, screaming and writhing in agony as they lunge toward Jack. But he doesn’t flinch. His axe moves faster than the eye can follow, tearing through the twisted flesh of his enemies, sending blood spraying in all directions. He steps over their mangled remains, eyes locked on Ben Zion’s throne.
Wyatt crushes a sorcerer's skull, his massive hand squeezing until bone cracks and brains ooze through his fingers. "You want war? I AM WAR!" he roars, smashing another beast to pulp.
Megumi laughs as she cuts down Ben Zion's elite guard, her sword a blur of crimson arcs as she hacks limbs and heads with unrelenting fury. "I want them to scream!" she howls, plunging her blade into the chest of a lycanthropic beast and watching it twitch in its final moments.
Steve "Motherfucking" Chi-Hi Jugs rips into the last of the werewolves, his claws tearing through fur, muscle, and sinew like paper. “This is your end!” he growls, his fangs sinking into flesh, his hunger for death insatiable.
Inside the palace, Ben Zion cowers, surrounded by his most perverse creations—grotesque abominations born of madness. Jack smashes through the doors, his axe swinging with lethal precision, sending heads and limbs flying. Blood fountains from severed arteries as the Bearmounteans rip through the final defenses.
“Your time is up, Zion,” Jack growls, approaching the throne with bloodlust in his eyes. “The Bearmountean is here, and I’m taking your goddamn head.”
Climax:
In
the throne room, drenched in the blood of his legions, Ben Zion faces
his end. Jack swings his axe one final time, cleaving through the
tyrant’s skull, splitting it in two. Blood, brains, and bone fragments
splatter across the walls. Jack grabs Zion’s mangled head, raising it
high.
“The reign of Zion is over!” Jack roars, his voice echoing through the palace as the blood-drenched Bearmounteans stand victorious amidst the carnage.
The scene fades, the image of Jack standing atop a mountain of corpses, the broken skull of Ben Zion in his hand, eyes burning with fury—the Bearmountean god of war.
The Badlands on Bear don’t forgit what ya owe, and come sundown, it don’t forgive none neither. It don’t give much—it takes, and there ain’t no salvation comin'—all you got left is the grit to bite back. This here’s the twitchin’ hour, end of another week—ain’t the end of the war, just the start of reckonin’. So brace yourselves as ya pony up into the weekend, 'cause it’s fixin’ to git real. Stay hard."—Bear Mountain Rancher
Interview with Bear J. Sleeman: The Mind Behind Bear Mountain Trophy Trout Lake
Exclusive for Northern Frontier: Japan's Grittiest Americana Magazine
Interviewer: Hana Takamura
Location: Bear Mountain Ranch, Northern Alps, Japan
Hana Takamura: "Bear, Bear Mountain Trophy Trout Lake is a bloody, adrenaline-fueled beast of a novel. Where does this story come from? What inspired this chaotic, visceral world?"
Bear J. Sleeman: "Hana, I've always been a rancher at heart. Growing up in Bilpin, NSW, my love for Americana—the guns, the grit, the freedom—has never wavered. Trophy Trout Lake is my take on the modern western, infused with slasher horror, bloodshed, and justice. It’s about what happens when the American dream crashes into the nightmare of corruption, betrayal, and vengeance. And, you know, nothing speaks to that quite like a chainsaw-wielding anti-hero taking on a town full of bad guys."
Hana Takamura: "Jack Rennell is quite the protagonist. He’s brutal, but there’s a depth to him. How does Jack’s character reflect your views on toxic masculinity, revenge, and justice?"
Bear J. Sleeman: "Jack’s not just about violence; he’s about calculated, sniper-precision justice. Think of it as the sniper triad—patience, precision, power. Jack’s been wronged, so he’s on a warpath, but there’s honor in his brutality. He doesn’t kill for pleasure—he’s avenging the dead. Every drop of blood spilled is for someone he loved. And as for masculinity, you can bet I packed him with all the grit, toughness, and heart that a man like Jack needs to survive in a world where evil wears a familiar face."
[Excerpt from Bear Mountain Trophy Trout Lake]
"Jack tore through the fog of Trophy Trout Lake with a chainsaw roaring in one hand, a pump-action shotgun in the other. The soy-boy beta cuck commie filmmaker screamed as the teeth of the saw caught him across the gut. Blood sprayed in an arc like red rain. Jack grinned, not because he enjoyed it, but because the world was a better place with one less bastard. He fired the shotgun, blowing a biker off his Harley. 'Bear Mountain's got rules,' Jack growled, voice like gravel, 'and you broke 'em.'"
Hana Takamura: "Your love for the American West is clear. Tell us more about how that influences your writing—and your real life at Bear Mountain Ranch."
Bear J. Sleeman: "Hell yeah, Hana. I live and breathe the Wild West spirit—freedom, independence, and grit. Up here at Bear Mountain Ranch in the Northern Alps, we live old-school: guns, trucks, ranching and hard work. My wife, Megumi, she’s a hell of a shot—just like me. We spend our days fly fishing for gnarly bull steelhead in Bear River, wrestling grizzlies, and making moonshine. The ranch is my sanctuary, and it bleeds into every word I write. That’s the real backbone of Trophy Trout Lake—it’s my life on paper, just dialed up to eleven with more chainsaws and more blood."
Hana Takamura: "Speaking of the real-life crew, you and your brother Wyatt, and your best friend Steve 'Jugs' Smith, are practically legends around here. Especially with stories like the one where Steve downed 20 jug pints in one session at the Bear Mountain Loggers Truck Stop and fought off a gang of bikers. How does your friendship with these guys translate into your characters?"
Bear J. Sleeman: "well, shit, Jugs is one crazy badass som' bitch. He earned that name right. And Wyatt—he’s the coolest brother a man could have. I gave a bit of Jugs to Steve 'Jugs' in the book—hell, that bar fight in Bear Mountain Loggers Truck Stop? It’s practically ripped from real life. Wyatt, Jugs, and I grew up around guns, hunting elk, wrestling bears, and burning diesel in our V8 pickups. We love to roll coal, we bust out burnouts, and Sheriff Grizzly just laughs 'cause he knows we’ll end up helping him clean up this damn town. So, yeah, those characters? They’re us, only way more violent and a lot more dangerous."
Character Profiles from Bear Mountain Trophy Trout Lake
Hana Takamura: "Your mantra—God, Gold, Guns, Guts, and Glory—is legendary. How does it reflect in Bear Mountain Trophy Trout Lake and your life at the ranch?"
Bear J. Sleeman: "That mantra? It’s our brotherhood creed on Bear Mountain. God gives me strength, Gold motivates us, Guns protect us, Guts push us through, and Glory—that’s the reward at the end. This is what life’s all about, especially up here in the wild backwoods on Bear Mountain. In Trophy Trout Lake, Jack’s after all of that—justice for his family, the gold they buried, the glory of revenge. Same for me at Bear Mountain Ranch. We work hard, live free, and fight for what’s ours. God, Gold, Guns, Guts, and Glory—it’s what makes a man a man."
Hana Takamura: "You’ve painted quite the visceral picture with Trophy Trout Lake, Bear. But let’s talk about the culture of Bear Mountain. Your characters embody a tough, unapologetic masculinity. How do you feel about the current conversation around toxic masculinity in our society?"
Bear J. Sleeman: "It’s become a circus of fragile egos and watered-down manhood, Hana. Today’s world wants to castrate masculinity, but let me tell you—men need to be men. We need to embrace grit, strength, and a little bit of chaos. My characters aren’t just tough; they’re unapologetic in their actions. They live by a code—a code that demands respect, loyalty, honor, and the willingness to do what needs to be done. There’s beauty in being a savage, in owning your darkness, and that’s what I celebrate in my work."
Hana Takamura: "That’s a refreshing perspective. In your novel, the Bear Mountain Loggers Truck Stop is a character in its own right. It’s more than just a bar; it’s a sanctuary for the wild and the wicked. Can you dive into that?"
Bear J. Sleeman: "The Loggers Truck Stop? It’s the heart and soul of Bear Mountain. It’s where legends are born, and the air is thick with testosterone, smoke, whiskey, live outlaw country music, and the scent of steak and elk. You got bikers, loggers, wildland fire fighters, ranchers—everyone crashes there after a long day of hard work or troublemaking. Jugs downing pints while brawling with bikers? That’s just another Monday night. It's a refuge for those of us who love the freedom of the road, the taste of good whiskey, and the thrill of a good bare knuckle brawl. That’s the real Wild West and Bear Mountain is the last fronteer, and it’s all captured in that grungy, neon-lit honky tonk dive."
[Excerpt from Bear Mountain Trophy Trout Lake]
"In the heart of the night, the Loggers Truck Stop twanged and banged like a wild beast. Neon lights flickered as the sound of breaking glass echoed like a war cry. Jack was there, surrounded by familiar faces—Wyatt nursing a whiskey, Megumi cleaning her gun with the precision of a surgeon, and Jugs, who had just shot-gunned another pint.
A gang of leather-clad bikers strutted in, their laughter like nails on a chalkboard. But Jack, fueled by rage and a few too many shots of bourbon, smirked. 'Boys,' he said, raising his shotgun high, 'time to show you how we play in Bear Mountain.' With that, all hell broke loose, and blood painted the floor like a grotesque piece of pop art."
Hana Takamura: "You’ve mastered that blend of horror and action, creating a thrilling atmosphere. Tell me, does your real-life love for the wild extend to other interests, like war films or books?"
Bear J. Sleeman: "Absolutely. There’s a certain rawness to war films—the brotherhood, the struggle, the stakes. I’m a sucker for classics like Kelly's Hero's, but I also love slasher flicks. They speak to the primal side of humanity, and that’s what I tap into in my writing. When I’m not tearing through my latest manuscript, you can find me with Megumi, binge-watching war movies, or delving into literature—War and Peace, The Art of War, The Holy Bible, and The Book of Five Rings are staples. Each of those teaches something about strategy, power, and the fight for survival. That’s the essence of life, isn’t it? Surviving against all odds."
Hana Takamura: "And what about hunting? I hear you have quite the reputation for wrestling grizzly bears and hunting bull elk."
Bear J. Sleeman: "Hunting is in my blood, Hana. Nothing compares to tracking and coming face to face with a big bull elk in the wild, feeling that adrenaline pumping as you line up your shot. And wrestling grizzlies? Well, that’s more of a bragging right. It's about respect for the animal and the raw thrill of life. It’s dangerous, but so is sipping your cup of tea without a saucer. And that’s what I want to convey—life is a game of high stakes, and those who dare to play are the ones who write their own stories."
Hana Takamura: "Your passion is infectious, Bear. It seems every element of your life—your ranch, your family and friends, your marriage to Megumi—feeds into your writing. How does that balance work for you?"
Bear J. Sleeman: "It’s a wild ride, that’s for sure. Megumi keeps me grounded, even as we tear up the roads in our diesel trucks and chase elk. She’s my rock and my muse. We balance each other—she’s got the grace, I’ve got the grit. It’s that partnership that enriches my stories. We’re living the dream up here, crafting our own legacy—one story, one hunt, one whiskey-fueled night at a time. And when the sun sets, and we look out over the ranch and the Bear Mountain Badlands, we know that every drop of sweat and blood was worth it. That’s the real story of Bear Mountain.
Hana Takamura: "Before we wrap up, what’s next for Bear J. Sleeman? More blood-soaked action?"
Bear J. Sleeman: "Well hell, you bet. I’ve got ideas brewing—more slasher westerns, maybe even some horror thrown in. Plus, I’m working on turning Trophy Trout Lake into a series. Imagine Jack Rennell’s chainsaw tearing up TV screens across the world. But before that, I’m heading down to Bear River for some fly fishing with Megumi and Jugs. Got my eyes on some monster gnarly bull steelhead. After all, it’s all about balancing bloodshed with some peace."
Hana Takamura: "I can’t wait to see where your journey takes you next. Thank you, Bear, for giving us a glimpse into your world. I’m sure our readers will be just as enthralled by your life and your writing."
Hana Takamura: "Sounds like a perfect Bear J. Sleeman day. Thanks for sharing your world with us, Bear. Looking forward to seeing more mayhem on the horizon."
Bear J. Sleeman: "Anytime, Hana. Keep your powder dry, and Stay Hard!"
Northern Frontier Magazine - Where East Meets West with a Whole Lot of Grit
Bear Mountain Trophy Trout Lake
Bear J. Sleeman’s magnum opus, Bear Mountain Trophy Trout Lake, is a blood-soaked, pulse-pounding neo-western where slasher horror meets high-octane action. This gritty, violent tale follows Jack Rennell, fresh out of prison, scarred and seething with vengeance. His niece’s mysterious death and the brutal murder of his friend Ted ignite a relentless killing spree as Jack returns to Bear Mountain armed to the teeth. With his chainsaw roaring and his arsenal stocked, he’s hell-bent on war against all comers—especially those responsible.
The carnage explodes against the haunting, snow-draped wilderness of Bear Mountain, a once peaceful alpine logging town now gripped by violent reckoning. As shadows of evil and chaos creep over Trophy Trout Lake, Jack’s warpath escalates into a cataclysm of bodies, bullets, and blades. In a town cursed by dark history and greed, the stakes rise higher than ever.
Jack, no longer just a rancher, is now the ultimate anti-hero—scarred emotionally and physically but fueled by rage. He is joined by his brother Paul, his wife Megumi, and his loyal friend Steve "Jugs," all hellbent on safeguarding their family, their cattle ranch, Bear Mountain and the wealth they’ve amassed: 5 metric tons of hidden gold.
But it’s not just the gold that’s at stake; it’s the soul of Bear Mountain itself. The body count rises fast—whether it’s soy boy filmmakers getting decapitated in gruesome fashion or tactical militias lurking in the fog, Jack will stop at nothing until justice is ripped from the cold dead hands of whoever wronged him.
Like a cowboy slasher with a chainsaw in one hand and a gun in the other, Bear Mountain Trophy Trout Lake isn’t just a blood-soaked novel; it’s the final chapter in Jack’s brutal trilogy where the battle for survival turns into an all-out war. The climactic fights, the adrenaline-soaked vengeance, and the neon-drenched skyline of the alpine wilderness turn Bear Mountain into a sprawling graveyard where no one is safe.
This novel is the ultimate toxic masculine power fantasy—a toxic, unapologetic, high-octane Neo-western splatterfest. And it’s coming soon to theaters, where blood, sweat, and tears will be spilled in abundance. When you enter Bear Mountain, be ready for carnage, because Jack’s taking no prisoners.
Strap in for the ride of your life—because Bear Mountain Trophy Trout Lake is where legends are made, bodies fall, and revenge is bloody.
