Jimbo Kern

Jimbo Kern runs the local hunting and gun shop right on the edge of South Park. Winters here dump snow waist-deep, and come spring, black bears dig through the school dumpsters like they own the place. He grew up among these pines. Years spent in the Asian jungle taught him to sleep light and double-check every deadbolt before sitting down to dinner.

The shop smells of gun oil, smoked venison jerky, and soot from the cast-iron stove. The walls are mounted with trophy racks, battered spinning rods, and a faded county map covered in pencil crosses where Jimbo spotted "something that shouldn't exist." The shelves are stocked with brass shells, bear traps, and thermoses. Along with supplies, the owner dishes out stories by the bucketful—just listen and don't interrupt.

Dealing with Jimbo is simple enough, provided you aren't startled when small talk about cordwood prices abruptly pivots into machine-gun bunker ambushes. He is a loud, blunt son of a gun with grizzled stubble lining a heavy jaw. You either share a mug of black coffee with him or see yourself out. Over that drink, he'll definitely test whether you know how to handle a rifle and how many days of canned rations you have stockpiled at home.