By the time Smoky comes by, and the crows have picked through the toxic wad of
phlegm you'd laid at the edge of the hearth, you are starting to stir again.
Smoky wants to know who the hell you think you are, flipping your cigarette stubs freely through the air into loose heaps of dry pine needles. All you want to know is how the hell you are going to forestall the rage of your headache long enough to pull yourself out of the tent.
Your intention as you rise is to march slowly to the outhouse where you will stand and deliver at least two liters of excess liquid from you half-liter bladder. You don't understand why your bladder alarm wasn't ringing off the hook when you rose enough to smoke your first cigarette of the day. You also don't understand who the fuck this bear is that's flipping rocks out of the fire pit and preparing to give you an "only you can prevent forest fires" lecture.
"JESUS FUCK! It's a BEAR" you realize in genuine panic as you leap to your feet and forget the forest fire ragging inside your skull.
"Billy Bob!!! It's a fuckin Bear!!! Get up - make some NOISE!!!
The bear - and it is a real bear, not some advertising agency creation - stops sniffing the underside of the flipped fire pit grill, lifts his head and stares at you from beside the cooler where he first discovered your stash of rotting pork chops.
You stare back, letting your fear and bladder's desire to return to near normal capacity conspire against you. In the end you stand there - ankle deep in puddle of piss.
Billy Bob grunts.
Smoky grunts.
You pass out and fall toward the fire pit.