On Little Broly’s fourth birthday, he not only enjoyed reindeer meat stewed with potatoes and a fruit cake, but also devoured a special bowl of tomato-egg gravy noodles that Lee Price had cooked just for him.
Once the boy’s birthday was over, Lee entered his busiest stretch of the entire year.
Although selling pelts from hunting brought in some money, raw furs in Alaska rarely fetched a high price.
Lee’s real way of earning greenbacks was working as a wilderness hunting guide.
From May to August, tourists loved to travel, and Alaskan summer temperatures could reach around 20 degrees Celsius—making it the mildest time of the year.
As a result, a steady stream of vacationers poured into Alaska every summer.
Among them were big spenders willing to throw down serious cash to hire guides and go hunting in the wild, under the pretense of “experiencing frontier culture.” In reality, these rich folks were just playing around.
Yet there was no denying that when wealthy people decided to indulge a hobby, they were remarkably generous with their wallets.
By acting as a hunting guide for these big spenders, tracking wild boars, black bears, and brown bears, Lee could clear $50,000 to $60,000 in under two months.
And this was $50,000 to $60,000 in the 1990s!
Even after paying his taxes and taking out the customary ten percent cut for the “hunting broker,” Lee still walked away with over $40,000 in clean profit.
For a father raising a child on his own, making good money was always the ultimate motivation.
So early the next morning, Lee got behind the wheel and drove to Picoto, the closest town to his cabin.
He went to visit the first person he had met after arriving in the Marvel world—his very first boss, the widowed owner of Big Martha’s Tavern.
“Martha, look what I brought you!” The moment Lee stepped into the tavern, he set down a large bag of fresh egg noodles made with a manual pasta roller, along with a heavy sack of various canned fruits he had bought in Anchorage.
“Hey, Lee!” When Martha saw him, she tossed her mop straight into the bucket, swayed her generously plump hips over to the counter, and gave him a warm greeting.
“You really didn’t need to bring all this.
If folks didn’t know better, they’d think you were sweet on me.” As she spoke, the innkeeper—a woman in her fifties with Native ancestry—actually flashed Lee a playful wink.
“Come on, Martha.
Why does giving you a gift mean I’m sweet on you?
Didn’t your granddaughter, Little Martha, start college this year?
Can’t I just…” Seeing Martha smile and casually pick up an empty bourbon bottle from the bar, Lee wisely shut his mouth.
He knew this old lady wouldn’t hesitate to crack that bottle over his head.
Smirking nervously, he quickly redirected: “…I mean, going to college costs a fortune, doesn’t it?
Look what else I brought you.” Lee pulled out a thick envelope and handed it to Martha.
“There’s eight thousand dollars in here.
Count it.” Martha looked surprised.
“Eight thousand?
Why is there three thousand extra?” “Didn’t I just say?
Little Martha’s starting college this year.
As her big brother, shouldn’t I show a little support?” Although she scoffed at Lee’s shameless attempt to call himself her granddaughter’s “big brother,” Martha was deeply moved that he had brought this much money.
She stepped out from behind the bar and gave him a firm hug.
“Thank you, Lee.
If you were fifteen years younger, I wouldn’t mind introducing you to Little Martha.
But as things stand, the best I can do to make it up to you is hook you up with a lucrative job.” Lee grinned.
He had come to see Martha specifically for business.
Besides running Big Martha’s Tavern, Martha was a well-known hunting broker in Picoto.
She didn’t hunt herself, but every year she earned handsomely by connecting visiting clients with local hunters.
Initially, compared to an “outsider” like Lee, Martha naturally favored her own townsfolk.
However, Lee understood interpersonal etiquette far better than the locals.
He didn’t just bring her gifts regularly; every summer before the season even started, he would pay Martha her brokerage commission in advance.
If he overpaid, he never asked for a refund; if it fell short, he always made up the difference before the season ended.
Furthermore, Martha knew Lee genuinely needed money because he had adopted a young child.
Gradually, she began treating Lee like one of her own, referring premium clients to him that she would normally reserve for her local kin.
Adding three thousand extra dollars to the envelope today was Lee’s way of thanking Martha for looking out for him over the years.
“What you gave me today definitely covers it,” Martha said.
She placed the envelope into a drawer beneath the bar, then pulled out a hunting tag and a business card.
For out-of-state tourists in Alaska, legally hunting anything larger than squirrels or rabbits required a special tag in addition to a standard hunting license.
Obtaining these tags was no easy feat—it could take anywhere from three or four days to a couple of weeks.
That was where a hunting broker like Martha proved her worth.
As a local with connections, her efficiency far surpassed what tourists could manage through official channels.
Through this service, brokers collected a referral fee from the tourists up front, followed by a commission from the guides once the hunt concluded.
“This is a high-end client from New York.
Russian descent, goes by the name Nikolai Kravinoff.
“This guy is wealthy, Lee.
And I mean *seriously* wealthy.
“He wants to take his family and bodyguards to hunt black bears and brown bears—at least one of each.
And he insists on finishing the hunt within a week, so he’s willing to pay top dollar for a guide.
“Though I should warn you, Nikolai has hunted in other parts of Alaska before.
From what I’ve heard from colleagues…
well, let’s just say he can be a bit of a handful.” “As long as paying the bill isn’t a handful, I don’t care,” Lee said with a shrug.
To be honest, in his years working as a hunting guide, he had encountered all kinds of eccentric clients.
He had dealt with clients who wanted to engage in wild outdoor group encounters with girlfriends or boyfriends, clients who wanted to “play” with their prey, and even oddballs who had tried to hit on him.
Those experiences had raised his tolerance for strange behavior to astronomical levels.
“It’s just bear hunting,” Lee added lightly.
“Even my Little Broly could guide them.” Martha assumed Lee was bragging again, but she handed over the business card and hunting tag anyway, telling him to go home and await further notice.
Early the next morning, however, the walkie-talkie in Lee’s cabin buzzed, accompanied by the heavy *thrum-thrum-thrum* of engines echoing from the edge of the forest.
“Hey, Lee, are you up?
I just got a call.
Mr.
Kravinoff couldn’t wait.
He didn’t even stop in Picoto after landing—he went straight into the forest to find you.” “Got it, Martha.
I think I already see them…” A convoy of all-terrain vehicles burst down the narrow trail, plowing into the woods before pulling up right outside Lee’s cabin door.
Several bodyguards chomping on cigars and wearing berets hopped off the vehicles.
Each held a Kalashnikov rifle, forming a defensive perimeter despite the furious barking of Lee’s sled dog, Ah Fu.
“…I think I understand what you meant by ‘a handful,'” Lee joked over the radio to Martha.
“They look less like they’re here to hunt and more like they’re trying to invade Alaska.” Even so, Lee quickly geared up, grabbed the hunting tag Martha had given him yesterday, and stepped outside with Little Broly, who had just finished his breakfast.