If you’d like to believe that Bigfoot is every bit as afraid of you as you are of him, feel perfectly free. Who’ll stop you? Certainly not Bigfoot. As he stretches slowly in your direction, you have just that one moment of exquisite fear when you consider that his lazy, languid half-turn is the prelude to some sort of unbelievably rapid and horrifying action.
Good luck with that. And enjoy! It’s helpful for the cardiovascular system for you to hit the occasional moment of your heart seeing if it can, in fact, pound its way through your chest via sheer force of delicious panic. But most likely, it won’t kill you. And if it does, hopefully you have some companions with you, because it’s just unkind to leave a rare sentient crtyptozoological beast to clean up your messes. I mean, it’s a very human thing to do, admittedly; it’s little-known, but trolls eventually abandoned bridges because they were tired of having city trash landing, with neither ceremony nor apology, upon their heads.
But Bigfoot isn’t about to come at you. He might spill his drink; how barbaric!
I’d recommend taking a few dozen pictures. Oh, sure, none of them will come out; if there’s anything you learn about photographing the unexplained, it’s that no camera, film or digital or holographic or whatever comes next, wants to embarrass all the principles of science by every taking a decent shot of something you’re not supposed to understand.
However, the kindly refraction of light will, with its own internal puckishness, make sure that every photo you take is as ridiculous as possible. You, with your arm, inextricably, around a fur rug. You, for reasons unknown, taking a picture against some sort of poorly-mounted bearskin. You, smiling knowingly, as a mess of hair and fangs waits patiently behind you. You know; whatever Disbelief can do to make your life harder it’ll do.
And now Bigfoot’s inviting you in. For glass of the official house drink: beer with hairballs.
Bottom’s up, my friend!
