Tracking a beer thieve

When i awoke and stumbled outside, I knew something was off when the cooler lid was flipped, the ice was half-melted, and the only thing left behind was empty cans scattered and a muddy size 42 footprint.

Last night, under a full moon and the buzzing hum of one stubborn solar light, Bigfoot struck again. Not the discount beer. Not the off-brand cola. Nope, he went straight for the cold stash of premium road suds.

He didn’t just take a six-pack, he left a note. Scratched into the picnic table with what looked like a claw or the edge of a gear wrench:

“You park in my woods, I drink your beer. Respectfully—S.”

I respect that.

So if you're camping in the Smokies tonight, lock your cooler or at least leave a peace offering. Preferably something high ABV and low regret.

And if you’re wondering whether to believe this story?

Look at your beer. Then look at the woods.

If Bigfoot doesn’t get it, your cousin probably will.