Yogi Bear and Ranger Smith on a nature trail, looking around at scrub pines and palmettos.
YOGI: Wow, Ranger Smith. I’m sure glad you talked us into this field trip. This Florida forest sure is a fascinating eco-system!
RANGER SMITH: It sure is, Yogi. I –
Eyes go wide. Stops in his tracks.
RANGER SMITH: Oh God. Don’t look, Yogi.
YOGI: What? Oh no!
Now Yogi sees the horrible scene.
Boo-Boo sprawled on the ground, the poor little guy's chest splattered open by a bloody Sam Peckinpah-style shotgun blast.
YOGI: Boo-boo!
Runs to him.
BOO-BOO: I-is it bad, Yogi?
YOGI: Nah. Just a scratch
BOO-BOO: F** you, Yogi. You’re a lying mother****
YOGI: I sure am, Boo-boo.
BOO-BOO: It’s c-cold, Yogi.
Yogi holds him.
YOGI: Who did this, Boo-Boo.
BOO-BOO: Hunters, Yogi. H –
Boo-Boo buys the farm. Eyes turn to cartoon Xs. His spirit ascends to the place dead cartoon characters go.
Yogi howls, stands clutching Boo-Boo’s body. Gently sets him down. Looks around. Then smiles, evilly. Spying --
The Hunters, now ironically enjoying a picnic, hunkered down near a stand of cypress, just chomping away, weapons conveniently out of reach, a lifeless Wally Gator strapped to the SUV behind them.
Yogi's eyes narrow to slits. He rears back and extends his claws, roaring in feral rage. Advances --
Ranger Smith puts out his hand to his chest and stops him.
RANGER SMITH: No, Yogi. That would be wrong.
Cocks shotgun, hands it to him.
RANGER SMITH: Use this.
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