Muskoka Impromptu

They complained about the cottage being cold at night. The owner advised they keep the fireplace going and they’d be okay, there was plenty of wood piled by the side of the cottage. But that meant someone getting up through the night to fetch the wood outside and add it to the fire. Since the place lacked electricity, portable heaters weren’t possible. Guess we’ll have to make do, said one of the erstwhile cottagers, boasting a dense cable-knit sweater that would’ve bested Arctic climes. Whose brilliancy was it to go rustic? asked another cottager, the handsome one who’d made it his mission to complain about everything. We all agreed, said the trip organizer, we wanted something old school. The handsome guy showed his bright teeth. Old school’s one thing, he said, but primitivism is for losers. The others grumbled, but on which side they stood was unclear. Perhaps they were divided, as people often are these days, particularly during stressful moments. Anyway, over the next three days, they drank copious amounts of alcohol, ate psilocybin and cannabis edibles, and basically lost their shit. The ice in the Coleman melted and all the meat and cheese and milk went bad. Two of the cottagers developed head colds during the second night, despite a bosk of logs being burned on the fireplace. Another cottager sprained his ankle making his way in the pitch darkness to the reeking outhouse. And on the third night they built a big bonfire in the moonlight and ritually killed the handsome guy who would not stop bitching.