Disclaimer: Certain persons have decided that particular words are inherently bad regardless of context. These words are known as swears, cusses, profanities, etc. in English. If you find words in this category so offensive as to render a story of "no value," you will probably not enjoy this story.
I belong to the Tennessee tribe Stock Car Racing. My redneck name is Bubba, and this is my manhood ritual tale.
My people practiced this rite long before humans first left the solar system or developed gravity generators.
Early in the morning, I stole two cheap piss beers from the frigerator, loaded some munition into my satchel, took my ritual rifle from under my bed, and snuck out the door.
I passed the rusted out Olds abandoned beside the road and trod carefully on the gravel 'til I reached the path.
The animals I was hunting are cautious creatures. It wasn't enough to spot one and take a shot. You'd never even see one if you didn't force 'em into a corner. I set up a trap and rigged it with something special from my satchel.
The beers were getting warm enough for the ritual. I pulled them out, opened one, and drank it as fast I as I could. Then I besought the wisdom and protection of Uncle Jess, opened the second beer, drank about half, spit some out, poured the remainder on the ground and kicked the can into the underbrush.
I felt slightly tipsy. That was the point. No one drank our sacred nectar for pleasure. A rustling sound crackled through the wood and I stalked after it in a wide circle.
The creature was canny, but not canny enough to realize what awaited it at the end of the path it galloped down.
I shot. The shell grazed its neck and I loaded another. It galloped so fast I worried it would blaze right through my trap.
It seemed to sense some trouble and slowed as it approached the trap. I shot it again and its shoulder bled.
It pranced forward, and the trap did its work. The huge explosion shook the ground and my ears rang.
Fifteen minutes later, the tribal elders arrived and woke me up.
Clancy had come along. We had hated each other since he told an especially nasty joke about my momma.
"Elders, Bubba cheated!" he complained. "He ain't worthy to be Stock Car Racing. He used explosives."
I felt pale. No one ever said explosives were cheating.
While the elders conferred amongst themselves, Clancy stuck his tongue out. I pounced the little asshole and clobbered him silly.
Two elders tore me off the boy.
"We've made our decision. Bubba has completed the ritual in the finest tradition of our ancestors. He didn't use store-bought explosives, he used homemade explosives and folk say he nearly lost a limb a few times perfecting his bomb," Eunice clapped a hand on my back. "You're a man now, and you've done us proud."
I looked at the majestic unicorn I had killed with my own gun and my own bomb. Tears welled in my eyes as I said with pride, "Let's eat!"
The elders and all the men of the reservation piled up a bonfire and cooked the flesh of the unicorn.
I got the biggest helping and my first taste of bathtub corn whiskey. Best of all, the charred unicorn tasted like bacon. Super bacon.