Maverick heard shoes scrape the gravel of his driveway. When Cushing neared the remnants of Maverick's house, he found the monster hunter sitting on the ground with a bottle and a book. The bottle: whiskey. The book: On the Track of Unknown Animals.

"It's a classic." Maverick held up the tattered paperback. "Bernard Heuvelmans' masterpiece."

"Just glad it's not ashes." Cushing lowered himself on the grass next to Maverick.

"We used to have real scientists looking, you know? People like Heuvelmans or Grover Krantz. They took it seriously. In the sixties, I knew they'd find him. If not them, then me, you know? Then the seventies. The eighties. The nineties. The 2000s. You get it."

Brian insisted Cushing find Maverick.

"Get the fucking story, we need it or your little film is dead in the water," Brian said.

Cushing found himself fondly reminiscing on the Brian who went location scouting and never said more than three words to him. Fuck, Cushing thought. I broke Brian.

"You know, we came close. The cripplefoot prints. Found in sixty-nine. They show a creature with a broken or deformed foot. The detail is incredible; you can see bone structure! Not enough. Patterson-Gimlin film. No one, even today, can replicate it. Not enough. You know, both of those guys, the one who filmed Bigfoot, wished they'd never seen it."

"Do you think that?" Cushing asked.

"Not until yesterday," Maverick said. "Maybe I should have had an image. Grabbed a cowboy hat or wore crazy clothes like Gerhard or Blackburn."

The names seemed familiar to Cushing. He had probably interviewed or mocked at least a few of them. He knew that Coleman guy refused to appear on the show now.

"I could have hired a publicist! Maybe wrote a book like Jet said. My mom wouldn't have died in a shitty trailer."

"This place burned up quick, didn't it?" Cushing finally said.

"It did," Maverick said. "At least I got rid of all those fucking clippings."

"At least you still have half a house," Cushing said.

"I'd say a third." Maverick offered the bottle to Cushing.

Maverick seemed impressed that Cushing took his drink without cough or twisted facial expressions. Like most in the entertainment business, Cushing drank. Whiskey, for him, was attractive due to his connection to the westerns he devoured as a latchkey kid. The men, covered in dust and sweat, would saunter up to this rotted wood bar and get a drink. They pause, look it over, and down the hatch.

Cushing liked westerns. Maverick enjoyed monster movies.

Cushing told Maverick about his and Brian's employment issues.

"So, what are you gonna do now?" Maverick asked.

"Finish your documentary," Cushing said. "What else?"

"Really?"

"It's your legacy. And probably mine, too. The fuckers canned me. Just you and me. And Brian," Cushing said.

"Ah. Guess it better turn out good, huh?" Maverick laughed. "Well, thanks."

"No thanks needed, we have a deal," Cushing said.

"Well," Maverick said with a cough. "You won't have much more to do."

Before Cushing could respond, Maverick stumbled to his feet. Cushing admonished him for being a lightweight, proudly proclaiming his ability to handle his liquor to drinking away the sorrows of American Myths and Monsters.

"Oh God, come on," Maverick said. "There are jobs out there that are way worse. Way worse. You weren't digging ditches."

"So at least I can say it was better than digging ditches. Maybe in another universe there's a me digging ditches, a me that would kill to have hosted that shitty show."

"What are you talking about?" Maverick asked.

"We had a guy on the show talking about multiple universes, that every time you make a decision, no matter how small, it creates an entire universe. You decided to take the garbage out on Thursday instead of Friday, there's two universes you created right there," Cushing said.

"That sounds like a load of bullshit," Maverick said.

"Coming from a professional Bigfoot hunter?" Cushing said. Maverick smiled and took a drink. Cushing continued.

"So, I always imagine these universes, where I'm rich and famous, or destitute and forgotten. I wonder which ones are the better ones. Which one I'm happiest in. Or am I the same in them all?"

"You," Maverick said. "You seem like the kinda guy who could share a bed with twenty supermodels in a mansion on the hill and still find shit to complain about."

Cushing agreed. Maybe he was unable to find satisfaction in anything. Instead, he must always place an impossible goal in front of him. God help him if he reaches it. Cushing knew Brian would be anxious to know what Maverick said. He couldn't wait anymore.

"We talked to Jet. She mentioned some footprints?" Cushing asked.

Maverick narrowed his eyes at the half-burnt trailer home. "I don't know what she's talking about."

Cushing mentioned the letter. That Jet refused to say a single word on the subject, but suggested they ask Maverick himself.

Maverick walked back to the monstomobile, ignoring Cushing's calls. Cushing jogged over to him.

"You wanted a documentary. So, I'm documenting. The good with the bad."

"I'm not dumb. I'm a joke to you. I know that. I'm a joke to everyone. I also know you're my only chance to leave something behind. A record, a legacy. Even if it's this."

"I don't think you're a joke," Cushing said. Maverick shook his head and opened the creaking truck door.

"Fine! I thought you were an uneducated, backwards hick," Cushing said.

"What do you think now?"

"You're still an uneducated, backwards hick. But you're like me. You want to do something different, make your mark on the world. Why are you still chasing this thing?"

"To prove it exists," Maverick said.

"No, there's more. Something else is pushing you."

Maverick shut the door to the monstomobile. He scratched the back of his neck, asking Cushing what he meant by that.

"You think you're destined to prove it exists. You're destined to do something great. Everyone thinks they're destined for greatness, but few try, and even fewer succeed."

"Did you?" Maverick asked.

Cushing laughed, a genuine laugh, deep and embarrassing. His greatest accomplishment career-wise was American Myths and Monsters. He wanted to do Shakespeare on Broadway. He wanted to do edgy plays about drugs and fucking off-Broadway. He wanted to star in movies, knowing all those little assholes that pushed him around in high school would sit in the audience, watching his greatness.

"It's not over yet. For me or you. I'm saying we do this. I'll go with you, fuck it, we'll leave the cameras behind."

And we could do something great, Maverick thought. "Tempting. Very tempting. But I think we should finish the documentary." Maverick said.

The pieces are moving, Cushing thought.

"No, can't do that. Because you're holding out on me," Cushing said. Maverick started to protest, but Cushing pushed.

"Jet hinted out some pretty provocative stuff, fake feet and lost letters...and my star! My star is holding out on me."

"A star, huh?" Maverick asked.

"Of this little film? Definitely. Come on, just tell me."

"Fine. But I don't know if I want it in the documentary."

"We'll play it by ear. Let's hear it." Cushing took a seat on the ground and looking up at Maverick as if he were an eager pupil.

Maverick Casey took a moment, leaning back on the van and watching the swaying treetops.

"The feet?" He said. "I found them after my mom died. She hid them from me. I was going through her stuff, seeing what to keep and what to trash and found them. Wooden cut outs of giant human footprints, nailed to the bottom of some old work boots."

Cushing struggled to his feet, barely suppressing his excitement. "Whoa...that had to be..."

"Disheartening to say the least," Maverick said.

Cushing asked about the note.

"And the note, she'd wrote it years before, telling me it wasn't real, dad faked it."

"So, there was no monster?" Cushing asked.

"It didn't say that," Maverick said. "It just said dad faked it. Some of it."

Cushing leaned back on his elbows, raising his eyebrows.

"Don't look at me like that," Maverick said.

"So, she let you keep running around hunting monsters," Cushing said.

"No! Wait, okay, just listen," Maverick said. "In this note, dated January 7, 1988, she told me how they first wanted to build the reservoir in the mid-1950s. That's around when up in California they first found those tracks and coined the term 'Bigfoot.' So dad, he got an idea.

"Convince people there was this monster in the woods, it might delay the reservoir. Have scientists and stuff looking for Bigfoot. People can keep their land, and no one is hurt."

Cushing countered that a petition might have worked a little better and would have saved his dad wearing fake feet and a costume.

Maverick explained that his dad based his idea of the Nobility monster on an older story of the Wildman of the Thicket. Once Maverick saw the monster and started being mocked by his peers, his dad would sneak into the woods to scare people, including Maverick.

"I didn't feel so crazy, knowing it was out there. I would catch a quick look, but nothing like that first time."

"It was him the whole time? Then why-?" Cushing asked

"No, no, you see, there was a monster. A real one," Maverick said. "Jet always struggled with this as well. That's what I saw. That's what I shot. That day I hit it, I ran home to tell dad, but he already left."

How did he not see? Cushing thought. "Yeah, Jet mentioned that. Your dad disappeared the same day you shot the monster."

"He left, he didn't disappear," Maverick said.

"He just drove away?" Cushing asked.

"Well, he left his truck. But yeah, he was gone. Left my momma and me. I came home, told her I shot the monster and she was crying. I guess she had already found out he left."

Cushing stood up. "Did he leave a note? Did she report him missing?"

"Why you asking?" Maverick asked. "This isn't part of the documentary."

No, Cushing thought. This is. This is the big twist. The finale. Just see it, Maverick.

"And no idea where he went?" Cushing asked.

"Never knew. Momma and him never exactly got along," Maverick said.

"So, he was willing to dress up like a monster to save your home? That's crazy, but that's not the kind of dad that runs out. My dad drank Mad Dog 20/20 like it was on tap and took turns wailing on my brother and me. That's the kind of dad that walks out," Cushing said.

"Well," Maverick said. "When I got home dad was gone. Mom was tore up pretty bad, wouldn't even look at me for the longest."

Cushing asked how Maverick's father left without a truck. Did he hitchhike? Did a friend pick him up? Maverick struggled to respond.

"And first thing you told your mom was you shot it?"

"Yeah," Maverick said.

"You ever think that might be the reason she never gave you that letter?"

"What are you talking about?" Maverick asked.

"Maverick?" Cushing scratched his chin. "Don't take this the wrong way...I think you killed your dad."