Jason goes to Canada

Northward Ho

Gerald got out of his big truck, his boots sinking into the snow.
Ah, Springtime in Quebec. Soon, they would be able to see the ground.
He frowned. Something had busted through his gate. He made his way over to it slowly, would be no good to turn an ankle in this powder, seeing as it was 2 miles back to his cabin, and 200 to the nearest hospital.
The rails of the gate were bent something fierce, the big lock hung on it's chain, it's hasp busted.
Sacré bleu, what could have done such a thing?
"Merde." he muttered.
Gerald, like most of Quebec, spoke in Franco-English, but he cursed exclusively in French.
He imagined it must have been a moose. A big one, eh?
Out in the wild, they grow taller than men, their big racks extending from their heads like branches from a tree.
The best he could do was go back to his cabin for a replacement lock. It was too close to sundown to repair anything.
You don't work outside after dark in this region, where the temps drop below zero, Celsius AND Fahrenheit, like those silly Americans use.
He turned back towards his old truck, wanting to get it done so he could retire to a beer, a big plate of beans, and a Red Wings game.
Eh.
Some homme gros was standing in front of his truck. He was a big one, wearing a nasty pair of coveralls and an old goalie mask. The idiot must want to freeze to death out here, dressed like that.
He couldn't say that, his Canadian sensibilities bade him to be courteous.
"Bonjour! Can I help you? This is my property. Surely you must be lost."
No answer. The big ugly man only stared, his chest swelling and sinking with slow breaths.
Gerald squinted, trying to see his eyes, to maybe determine how crazy this stupidé actually was.
No good. His eyes were hidden in the black holes of the mask.
"Eh. You okay Mon amis? Did you see a moose come this way? It would be a big one."
Nothing.
Whatever the man wanted, he sure didn't trudge out here in the snow to play hockey. Gerald started to get uneasy. He had a rifle, but it was in his truck, currently being blocked by this hockey-janitor-mental patient.
Impatient with the impasse maybe, the man started walking towards Gerald.
Ever a friendly Canuck, Gerald extended his hand to make the stranger's acquaintance.
Come back to the cabin for a hot fire and a cold beer, Mon amis, is what he was about to say.
But his vocal cords wouldn't work anymore. Gerald looked down slowly and saw his own ass.
The big man had moved ghoulishly quick, and turned Gerald's head the opposite direction.
He fell forward into the snow like a log, his backwards face looking up into the sky.
Looked like more snow was on the way.
A big boot came down, smashing his head like a cantaloupe, and Gerald thought no more about the weather or anything else.