Fur Trade

The story of magic in North America.
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Fur Trade

Post by Straken »

A dull hum filled the cab of the Bergman family 1979 Chevy Silverado as Lovell drove down County Road 61, which acted as Main Street for the small town of Tofte, MN. The occasional ratlling noise could be heard coming from either the passenger side mirror, the aging body, or the assortment of hunting gear scattered around. With a placid look on his face he turned off 61 onto a side road, and eventually into the parking lot of the local hunting supplier. Parking the truck, the teen wolfman got out and walked around to the tailgate. Upon dropping the gate climbed up into the bed with a quick vault and began pulling a series of small blanket-wrapped bundles to the edge; inside of which were the pelts of various small game animals that Lovell and his father had accrued over various hunting outings, which now warrented selling.

Hopping down from the bed Lovell looked around the area. As to be expected from a town of less than 400 the retail center comprised of a small assortment of shops that shared a smaller number of parking lots, and a significant portion of the community used the shop fronts and nearby lake shore as hang out spots. The older residents generally hovered around the hunting/bait shop/bar while the younger crowds stuck to the market, gas station, restaurant, and beach; Lovell prefered the older crowd to the younger to be honest. His survey solicited a couple of nods and a wave from the group of old men who always sat in front of the supplier all day, and much to Lovell's disdain a shout out from a group of guys his age from across the lot; knowing everyone in a small town can be a blessing as well as a curse. Returning the nod to the old men, and simply giving a disinterested wave to the other teens, Lovell grabbed one of four bundles of furs before grabbing a second.

Turning from the truck Lovell had to restrain a growl as the group of guys had decided to come over to him. "Hey Lovell! How's it going?" called the lead teen. He was Calvin, son of a farmer, football player, knew everybody, had an inferiority complex a mile wide, and could not stand the thought of not being the center of everybody's lives all because of a lucky touchdown he had made a year or two back; today he wore a tight fitting trash tee, likely as way to show off his farmer tan and biceps. Behind Calvin were three guys; Greg, Simon, and Tyler respecively. Beside them were three girls who had tagged along; Casey, Melissa, and Dominique. Lovell merely grunted in response to the question. He had associated with this group in the past when he first moved into town as they tried to assimilate him into the little gang, but upon feeling put off by the Canadian's caloused demeanor most of their interactions now-a-days came down to little more than thinly veiled condescension.

"Here to sell another load of furs, huh?" Calvin continued as he now placed himself inbetween Lovell and the shop before leaning on the back of the truck. "Sure got a lot this time round."

"Hehe, yeah, he must be French or something," Simon piped in with a slightly vacant tone, aparently he had attempted a joke that he felt fell flat as he tried to explain it in the manner that seemed common for him. "You know, cause of all the furs he trades, hehe." One of the girls, Casey, rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner.

"Though it all looks like small game," Calvin continued after giving Simon a deadpan stare. "Still haven't got that buck you have been tracking, huh? Shame. How many points did you say it was again? A thirty pointer?" Simon gave another oafish laugh at the hunting joke older than Minnesota itself, at which point Lovell set down one of the bundles onto the tailgate as he had a feeling this might take a bit.

"Nope, just fourteen points," Lovell responded in the flat, bored tone that he used around people that got on his nerves. He only ever said as much as he felt needed to be said, though he often strived to say less.

"Oh yeah, that was it! Though, you know, deer aren't squirrels, you can't hunt them anytime you want. What are ya gonna do if you don't bag him before the end of the season?" Calvin's tone reeked of snide condescension.

"I'll wait til next season," Lovell replied.

"Always so serious, Lovell. Ya know, you could always take us to your hunting grounds one day, we could work together to bag it."





"I can manage on my own," Lovell's tone on this last bit had an extra bite to it to reinforce its meaning. This was not the first time the group had tried to weasel in to try and find where exactly Lovell and his father hunted, and the wolfboy did not like the idea of someone else bagging his quarry before him. With that Lovell grabbed up all of his bundles of fur and made a path through the group. At first it seemed as though Calvin was going to step in and try and continue the discussion, but then the girls chimed in saying that they should forget about it and go back to the beach. With some grumbles and complaints that Lovell did not bother paying attention to as the group dispersed.

After taking care of his business inside Lovell pocketed the money he had gotten from trading the furs and made his way back to the truck. With his usual steady pace he closed the tailgate before getting back in the cab and pulling back out on to County Road 61.
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