We found the next bear in the McGhee-Tyson airport. I don't remember exactly what I said but it sure ticked Poison Pie off. He had had enough. We wrestled right there in the airport terminal. We wrestled through the x-ray machine at the security station, into the gate, down the empty jetway, and fell splat out onto the airport tarmac. Poison Pie stopped a train of go-carts hauling luggage and hurled suitcases left and right. Soon a bevy of go-carts driven by friendly men with earplugs and sunglasses were chasing us down the runway. Overhead an airplane circled, waiting for the ruckus to subside and the runway to clear so that it could deliver its impatient passengers to their final destination. Sprinting down the concrete, Poison Pie gave them no heed. The air traffic controllers in the control towers placed bets on the race. The odds were eleven to one on Poison Pie. If I had been a betting man, I would have taken those odds too. After all, Poison Pie is a virtual sasquatch of a man. What ordinary man stands a chance against him? At the end of the runway, we dashed across the field, scrambled over the chain link, dodged through the traffic on Alcoa Highway, and hitched a ride in the back of DATSUN mini pick-up so rusted that it looked like it had been manufactured in the age of the trilobites, if not before. What a life!