The Most Dangerous Game
Chapter 7 Elmer Fudds
On Sunday morning, Greg met up with Tyler and Sean at Rightenour Survival Grounds. He arrived in a white Gucci t-shirt and GymShark shorts. Tyler wore an Anti Social Social Club hoodie with black jeans and Jordans. Sean, stylish as usual, had on a silk t-shirt—most likely Ralph Lauren—and ripped jeans.
"If we get attacked by a bear," Tyler said to Sean, "Greg will live because you're getting eaten ass first with those jeans."
They cackled like hyenas.
"That's okay," Greg replied. "He’d finally convince someone other than his girl to eat his ass."
More laughter.
They kept laughing until the instructor approached. "You must be Greg?" he asked.
"Yes!" Greg snapped out of it and shook his head. "I'm Greg. Your name?"
"Donald Rightenour." He was a lumbering six-footer with broad shoulders and arms like tree trunks. Combat boots, camo pants, tan t-shirt. His sunglasses masked lantern-bright blue eyes. Greg got the sense Donald hated being here.
"All three of y’all are here to learn basic survival skills?"
"Yessir!" they said in unison.
"Great. Follow me inside and we'll go over the basics."
"Oh, shit—Tyler, Sean, go get the cameras," Greg ordered. They obediently ran to the car. Donald frowned.
"We're YouTubers. I’m going into the woods, so I gotta keep making content."
Behind the sunglasses, Donald rolled his eyes. Greg knew this was going to be a long session with a boomer who had never been civilized by technology.
Tyler and Sean returned, giggling.
"Are we ready?" Greg asked, annoyed. They stopped giggling, hit record, and awakened the sleeping red eye of the camera. Greg smiled wide and let the persona take over.
"Welcome back to the channel. Today we're here with Donald Rightenour, who’s going to teach us all the survival skills for this upcoming hunt. You’ll have to be quicker than me, pal. So Donald," Greg turned to him, the camera zooming in. "What are you gonna teach us today?"
Donald didn’t smile. His frown was etched deep.
"Basic survival skills—finding water, applying first aid, sleeping in the woods."
"When do we learn to make fire?" Greg interrupted.
"Where are you going again?" Donald asked.
"Vickers Forest."
"There are bears and mountain lions out there," Donald said. "I'll tell you what to pack to stay warm. It's spring, so a fire's not essential—maybe just for cooking."
"Well," Greg clapped his hands, "you’re the man of the hour. Please, teach us."
"Sure," Donald said dryly. Even flattery couldn’t soften him.
He led them into a military-green warehouse lined with ghillie suits. The floor was concrete, the lighting harsh. Everything was in order—except for Greg and his crew.
"Out in the woods, everyone fears wild animals. But the biggest threat is microscopic. The elements will kill you faster than teeth or claws."
"You’ve got something microscopic," Tyler quipped to Sean, drawing laughter. Except from Donald.
Greg could tell he despised every second of this.
"Should we take a gun? Just to be safe?" Greg asked.
Donald looked dumbfounded. "Yes. You’ll be in the woods for a week. Bring something. Now follow me."
They stood in front of a table with band-aids, gauze, tape, and rubbing alcohol.
"Everyone thinks fire and fishing are the priorities. That’s true—if you’re still alive. But if you’re bleeding out and two hours from a hospital, you'd better know how to apply first aid. Risk is everything you didn’t account for. There are many unknown unknowns. Today I’ll show you how to apply a tourniquet."
He picked up gauze and a stick. "Greg, come here."
Greg stepped up, eyes wide and smiling like he’d been called to spin the wheel on The Price is Right. Donald, stone-faced, wrapped his arm.
"If Greg were bleeding out or broke a limb, straighten the arm, align the stick, wrap the gauze. Same with a leg—keep him off it. Got it?"
Tyler saluted. Donald snapped.
"You think I want to teach you this shit? The least you can do is listen and not patronize me."
They shut up. Donald’s voice dropped.
Sean was quiet, but Greg caught the glint in his eye. Not remorse—opportunity. This could be the thumbnail.
"I’ve seen your stupid fucking videos. My grandson, Chuck, watches them. Smoking weed in classrooms. Crashing cars into McDonald’s. Filming where people go to die because they can’t go on—and turning that into content. For what? A few likes?"
He left and returned with a backpack full of supplies.
"Nylon rope, first aid kit, matches, all in here. I’ve taught you the hardest things. Now get out of my sight."
They walked to the car in silence.
"That was heavy," Greg said. "Did we get it on tape?"
Tyler and Sean started snickering.
"You know we did, bro."
Greg laughed. "Who the fuck does he think he is?"
"Make your next video for him," Sean suggested.
Greg’s eyes lit up. "Why not dedicate this video to his grandson?"
"Turn the camera to me," Greg said.
Tyler aimed the lens.
"Hey, Chuck, this video’s for you. Your grandpappy helped us out, and I hope you enjoy this trashy video."
"Also," Tyler said, "this backpack looks like the equipment bag."
Too bad he didn’t notice the difference.
They laughed again. But something lingered in the air.
Something they couldn’t laugh off.
