INT. BEAR MOUNTAIN LOGGERS' TRUCK STOP – "Don't bring a bottle to a Whiskey barrel fight"
INT. BEAR MOUNTAIN LOGGERS' TRUCK STOP – DUSK A Short Story by Bear J. Sleeman
The Bear Mountain Loggers’ Truck Stop is packed wall-to-wall, the place buzzing with raw, primal energy. Whiskey glasses slam down on wooden tables, the air thick with the smell of booze, sweat, and testosterone. Whitey Morgan and the 78’s tear into a gritty tune, the kind of outlaw country that makes a man want to punch something just to feel alive. The guitar riffs cut through the noise like the mountain winds, raw and unapologetic.
Up on the bar, wild mountain women—dressed in little more than torn t-shirts and cowboy boots—dance with reckless abandon. Their hair is wild, eyes gleaming with the kind of madness that comes from a life lived hard and fast in the untamed wilderness. They pour jugs of beer down the front of their shirts, laughing as the liquid soaks them through, sticking to their curves, making the whole damn bar howl in delight.
The doors crash open, slamming against the wall with a booming thud, and in strides Paul Rennell, flanked by Jack, Steve Jugs, and Megumi, the four of them walking in like they own the place—because tonight, they do. Their boots echo on the floorboards, dirt and blood still caked on from the day’s battle, but they wear their wounds like badges of honor.
Paul, his face hard as granite, raises a hand. The room goes silent, the only sound the low, menacing strum of Whitey’s guitar, keeping the tension hanging heavy in the air. He steps up onto a chair, towering above the crowd, his eyes scanning the sea of rowdy cowboys, ranchers, loggers, and drifters who’ve packed in for the night. His voice cuts through the silence like a whip.
PAUL
(shouting)
Attention, cocksuckers!
The crowd stills, eyes wide, necks craning to catch what comes next. Even the women on the bar stop dancing, frozen mid-move, waiting for the next word.
PAUL
One shot of whiskey is on the house, and for the next 30 minutes, pussy is on the house!
For a second, the room holds its breath, and then—pandemonium. The place erupts into a roar of cheers, glasses held high, fists pounding on tables, boots stomping the floor like the rumble of a cavalry charge. Men leap from their seats, slapping each other on the back, and the women on the bar kick back into gear, pouring beer down their fronts, their shirts clinging like second skin as they grind to the rhythm of the music.
Paul, grinning like a devil who just signed a soul away, raises his arms, soaking in the chaos.
PAUL
(laughing, yelling)
Ladies, git to work!
The women flood the room, sliding off the bar, pulling cowboys out of their seats, straddling laps, whiskey bottles in hand as they pour shots straight into wide, grinning mouths. The music kicks up another notch, Whitey Morgan's voice growling through the speakers, drowning in the howls of men too drunk and too wild to give a damn about tomorrow.
At the back of the room, Steve Jugs slams his massive fist into the table, sending glasses jumping, and laughs like a madman. He grabs a bottle of bourbon, takes a deep pull, then tosses it to the next guy, all while the women grind on his lap.
STEVE JUGS
(growling)
This is how you fuckin’ celebrate, you motherfuckers!
Jack, quieter but no less dangerous, leans against the bar, watching it all unfold with a dark smile. His fingers drum the edge of his glass, eyes scanning the room like a predator sizing up its prey.
JACK
(low, to Megumi)
This is our town now. Ain't nobody gonna take it from us.
Megumi, ever the sharp-eyed vixen, smirks as she leans in close, lips brushing his ear.
MEGUMI
Damn right. And if they try, we’ll bury ‘em out in the woods where no one will ever find ‘em.
Jack chuckles, his hand slipping around her waist as he pulls her close.
The whiskey flows like water, glass after glass disappearing down throats as the crowd grows wilder, more unhinged. Fistfights break out in corners, chairs fly across the room, and yet nobody cares. This is Bear Mountain, where violence is just another language to speak.
Paul tosses back another shot, feeling the burn deep in his gut, and scans the room. His eyes fall on a group of outlaws in the corner—men who’ve been trouble in the past. They’re leaning close, whispering, eyes darting around like rats looking for a way out. Paul’s smile fades, and he motions to Jack and Steve.
PAUL
(quiet, deadly)
Looks like we got a few fuckin’ vermin trying to spoil the party.
Jack cracks his knuckles. Steve grins, fists tightening.
JACK
Let’s take out the trash.
The three of them move through the crowd like wolves among sheep, closing in on the outlaws. The lead outlaw, Duke, looks up just in time to catch the deadly gleam in Paul’s eyes.
DUKE
Shit...
But it’s too late. Paul grabs Duke by the collar and slams him into the wall, his face inches from Paul’s.
PAUL
(low, growling)
This town’s ours now, and you’re either gonna piss off or I’ll gut you where you stand, you fuckin’ snake.
Duke’s eyes widen, but he barely has time to blink before Steve cracks a fist across his jaw, sending him sprawling onto the floor, blood spilling from his busted lip. The other outlaws leap to their feet, but Jack’s already on them, pummeling them into the ground one by one.
Fists fly, teeth hit the dirt, and soon, all that’s left of the outlaws are their broken bodies, slumped against the wall, faces swollen and bleeding. Paul dusts off his hands, stepping back with a satisfied smirk.
PAUL
(grinning)
Now that’s how you clean house.
The crowd cheers, and the party roars back to life, louder and wilder than ever. Whiskey bottles smash, the women keep dancing, and the night burns on in a blaze of booze, blood, and brutal celebration.
Paul, Jack, Steve, and Megumi return to the bar, their faces lit by the firelight and the chaos they’ve unleashed. This is their world now—hard, unforgiving, but theirs. And tonight, the mountain howls with them.
The camera pulls back as Whitey Morgan’s band rips into their final song, the sound of guitars and drunken laughter filling the night air. The Bear Mountain Loggers’ Truck Stop glows in the dusk like a beacon of lawless freedom, as the scene fades to black.
The Bear Mountain Loggers’ Truck Stop is packed wall-to-wall, the place buzzing with raw, primal energy. Whiskey glasses slam down on wooden tables, the air thick with the smell of booze, sweat, and testosterone. Whitey Morgan and the 78’s tear into a gritty tune, the kind of outlaw country that makes a man want to punch something just to feel alive. The guitar riffs cut through the noise like the mountain winds, raw and unapologetic.
Up on the bar, wild mountain women—dressed in little more than torn t-shirts and cowboy boots—dance with reckless abandon. Their hair is wild, eyes gleaming with the kind of madness that comes from a life lived hard and fast in the untamed wilderness. They pour jugs of beer down the front of their shirts, laughing as the liquid soaks them through, sticking to their curves, making the whole damn bar howl in delight.
The doors crash open, slamming against the wall with a booming thud, and in strides Paul Rennell, flanked by Jack, Steve Jugs, and Megumi, the four of them walking in like they own the place—because tonight, they do. Their boots echo on the floorboards, dirt and blood still caked on from the day’s battle, but they wear their wounds like badges of honor.
Paul, his face hard as granite, raises a hand. The room goes silent, the only sound the low, menacing strum of Whitey’s guitar, keeping the tension hanging heavy in the air. He steps up onto a chair, towering above the crowd, his eyes scanning the sea of rowdy cowboys, ranchers, loggers, and drifters who’ve packed in for the night. His voice cuts through the silence like a whip.
PAUL
(shouting)
Attention, cocksuckers!
The crowd stills, eyes wide, necks craning to catch what comes next. Even the women on the bar stop dancing, frozen mid-move, waiting for the next word.
PAUL
One shot of whiskey is on the house, and for the next 30 minutes, pussy is on the house!
For a second, the room holds its breath, and then—pandemonium. The place erupts into a roar of cheers, glasses held high, fists pounding on tables, boots stomping the floor like the rumble of a cavalry charge. Men leap from their seats, slapping each other on the back, and the women on the bar kick back into gear, pouring beer down their fronts, their shirts clinging like second skin as they grind to the rhythm of the music.
Paul, grinning like a devil who just signed a soul away, raises his arms, soaking in the chaos.
PAUL
(laughing, yelling)
Ladies, git to work!
The women flood the room, sliding off the bar, pulling cowboys out of their seats, straddling laps, whiskey bottles in hand as they pour shots straight into wide, grinning mouths. The music kicks up another notch, Whitey Morgan's voice growling through the speakers, drowning in the howls of men too drunk and too wild to give a damn about tomorrow.
At the back of the room, Steve Jugs slams his massive fist into the table, sending glasses jumping, and laughs like a madman. He grabs a bottle of bourbon, takes a deep pull, then tosses it to the next guy, all while the women grind on his lap.
STEVE JUGS
(growling)
This is how you fuckin’ celebrate, you motherfuckers!
Jack, quieter but no less dangerous, leans against the bar, watching it all unfold with a dark smile. His fingers drum the edge of his glass, eyes scanning the room like a predator sizing up its prey.
JACK
(low, to Megumi)
This is our town now. Ain't nobody gonna take it from us.
Megumi, ever the sharp-eyed vixen, smirks as she leans in close, lips brushing his ear.
MEGUMI
Damn right. And if they try, we’ll bury ‘em out in the woods where no one will ever find ‘em.
Jack chuckles, his hand slipping around her waist as he pulls her close.
The whiskey flows like water, glass after glass disappearing down throats as the crowd grows wilder, more unhinged. Fistfights break out in corners, chairs fly across the room, and yet nobody cares. This is Bear Mountain, where violence is just another language to speak.
Paul tosses back another shot, feeling the burn deep in his gut, and scans the room. His eyes fall on a group of outlaws in the corner—men who’ve been trouble in the past. They’re leaning close, whispering, eyes darting around like rats looking for a way out. Paul’s smile fades, and he motions to Jack and Steve.
PAUL
(quiet, deadly)
Looks like we got a few fuckin’ vermin trying to spoil the party.
Jack cracks his knuckles. Steve grins, fists tightening.
JACK
Let’s take out the trash.
The three of them move through the crowd like wolves among sheep, closing in on the outlaws. The lead outlaw, Duke, looks up just in time to catch the deadly gleam in Paul’s eyes.
DUKE
Shit...
But it’s too late. Paul grabs Duke by the collar and slams him into the wall, his face inches from Paul’s.
PAUL
(low, growling)
This town’s ours now, and you’re either gonna piss off or I’ll gut you where you stand, you fuckin’ snake.
Duke’s eyes widen, but he barely has time to blink before Steve cracks a fist across his jaw, sending him sprawling onto the floor, blood spilling from his busted lip. The other outlaws leap to their feet, but Jack’s already on them, pummeling them into the ground one by one.
Fists fly, teeth hit the dirt, and soon, all that’s left of the outlaws are their broken bodies, slumped against the wall, faces swollen and bleeding. Paul dusts off his hands, stepping back with a satisfied smirk.
PAUL
(grinning)
Now that’s how you clean house.
The crowd cheers, and the party roars back to life, louder and wilder than ever. Whiskey bottles smash, the women keep dancing, and the night burns on in a blaze of booze, blood, and brutal celebration.
Paul, Jack, Steve, and Megumi return to the bar, their faces lit by the firelight and the chaos they’ve unleashed. This is their world now—hard, unforgiving, but theirs. And tonight, the mountain howls with them.
The camera pulls back as Whitey Morgan’s band rips into their final song, the sound of guitars and drunken laughter filling the night air. The Bear Mountain Loggers’ Truck Stop glows in the dusk like a beacon of lawless freedom, as the scene fades to black.
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