Short versions:
HUNTING
Lots of camo-bros which isn't me to begin with. Lots of intoxication. Up at the crack of dawn, traipsing into the woods to surround an illegally baited field (I know it was illegally baited because I'd helped set that up). Sit in a tree with a gun I'm not familiar with. Deer!!! Blast away. Did I hit it? I don't know. Somebody did. It wasn't dead. Hey! My first hunt so they give me a knife and tell me to throat it so it dies. Nope. Fuck all y'all sick fucks. Much ridicule. Later over gallons of booze and a bonfire, handed cup of blood. First hunt. Must drink. Nope. Fuck all y'all sick fucks. Poured on me. Fight ensues. Faces, hands, ribs bruised. His mine and a few others.
I'm not allowed to go out for day two. Just sit back at the camp. No, that's wrong of us, you can ride the four-wheeler. Come out and get us later today. Four wheeler tumbled down the side of a ravine and crashed into a creek. Somebody had to go get a jeep and winch it out. Handlebars were broken, among other things.
I was taken back to town before day three.
FISHING
Step-father-in-law to be. Invited to an abandoned home next to a big muddy creek with him and a bunch of his friends. Running a generator to power it up. Went out and set lines in a creek swollen with rain in a creaky boat. It's raining all day.
Went back so he could cook. He cooked chitlins and possum with sweet potatoes. I can eat damn near anything. I cannot eat poorly washed chitlins or possum. The chitlins smelled like something with IBS shit on the plate. I tried a bite and had to struggle to keep from throwing up. The possum was extremely greasy and stringy. I couldn't even try it. The only other thing in the house food-wise was a pack of stale crackers.
About 10 pm they wanted to go out and check the lines. I'm terrified of snakes. They were in the trees. Saw them with the spotlight. They were in the water. Saw them skizzing around. Caught at least one on the lines. Also turtles. And gar. Turn around at the last line to go back upstream to the house motor's out. Boat filling with water. There's no oar. Only lid to a cooler and that's not doing anything with the current. Going down. Shit. Gotta swim. Spotlight, cooler, everything in the water. Gone. Head to the bank, against the current, and claw up the muddy sides figuring snakes were converging. Then trample through thick underbrush in the rain, mud and snakes and pitch dark back to the old house. Open the door and the shit-caked scent of cooked chitlins drifts over me. I throw up.
Way after midnight, the wife of a friend shows up. She's there to fuck a guy who's not her husband, in the same room where I'm starving on a ratty mattress. And I'm supposed to be quiet about it. Bro code.
I'd rather stay home.