[ hiccups ] do you see that bear over there? if you wrestle it and win, i'll take three shots. OF VODKA. if you lose, you drink. then, i'll have a go at it and --- i don't know where i'm going with this.
Timo looks over toward the fat lump of an animal, minding its business and scratching at a tree. Perfect. Alright Dmitriy, you asshole. Thus goes his internal monologue.
“Oh, is that the challenge? Three shots of vodka? Haista vittu, pussy. I’ll show you.”
Making a show of cracking his knuckles, Timo wiggles his fingers and, with a flourish, snatches the half-empty bottle from Dima, draining another portion of it in a few heavy swallows before handing it back to the other. Of course he would do so! It’s liquid courage, and to tackle a bear sober is suicide, even if it’s well-practiced. But he has a point to prove, so he spreads his feet shoulder-width in a stance and ventures over to the unsuspecting animal.
Unsuspecting that is, until it spots Timo with his shoulders brought back and posture assured, obvious and looking for a challenge. It sniffs the air, scratches the bark once more, before scooting backward on its wide fuzzy ass and grumbling, only a slight roar, in warning. It fazes the Finn not, having faced down enemies more mechanical and much louder before, so before his liquid courage can dissipate, he releases his own roar, a battle cry to rival that of a mama bear’s, and rushes the final couple meters to tackle the animal around its wide midsection, both arms grappling its center-weight and taking hold of his own wrists to counterbalance. Teeth grit, Timo grunts, planting his feet flat, as solid as tree roots, and swivels on his heels, attempting to dislodge the bear from its position at the very least. It’s wrestling, is it not? he figures, so judo, grappling, all these sorts of martial arts--well, it might as well be the same.
Primal instincts take over; a piece of Timo’s molar splinters with the strength of his grinding jaw. The bear claws at his back, slashing through the fabric of his jacket and shirt, nicking his back in a few wonderfully straight lines to match several bouts of scar tissue, before he shoves forward, pushing a hacking growl from the bear’s diaphragm. As the bear inhales, Timo spares his dominant arm to swing upward, hooking behind the neck, the balls and toes of his feet swivelling to propel him up and over the beast until he straddles it, taking hold of his own wrists once more in a rear choke. The bear groans, shaking its head against the flex of Timo’s arms, well-practiced and holding from many a decade of the strange wilderness that his country prides itself on; so he grips his wrist and elbow tighter against the force, tensing as the bear rolls and bashes against a couple trees, attempting to shake the human off to no avail. Timo squints, closes his eyes, grits his teeth; opens them, and grins as wide and sharp as a bear himself when the animal resorts to snorting and shaking its wild, loose skin, trudging around and moping while Timo breathes from his gut, heavy and triumphant, riding the bear like a prized steed, his teeth flashing among the evergreen backdrop:
“You owe me three shots of vodka you son of a whore!”
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