Whiskey & Venison
Ryan Scott
→BFA GD 2026
Illustration courtesy the author.Every Christmas night, parts of the Scott family gather at Aunt Julie’s house and spend the evening dining on a half dozen dips and making sandwiches out of Martin’s rolls and leftover turkey and ham. Afterwards, aunts, uncles, cousins, and anyone else there participate in our annual gift exchange. Usually held in my aunt’s basement, the space has slowly been taken over by her husband’s collection of guitars, amplifiers, and other elaborate sound equipment that doesn’t fit in the living room, or the bedroom, or the upstairs hallway.
As a flock of Scotts descend the stairs and settle in for a night of exchanging gifts, we watch bits of It's a Wonderful Life with the sound off and try to remember the lines. Setting aside various glasses of something strong along with a few misshapen crocheted coasters and a complete box set of WKRP in Cincinnati, gifts from every player gather and squeeze onto a small glass coffee table in the center of the room.
Being one of only two players under the age of 21, I didn’t always want to be the one going for the booze, the other player being my 15-I-think-year-old cousin. As a kid his mom would make monkey bread when he bit me, though it’s not like my parents didn’t mind the gesture. At lunch I had a glass of pinot noir with my mom’s side of the family. I probably could have asked for a second glass but I felt the spirit of my Catholic grandmother, who never drank anything besides sacramental wine, telling me not to push my luck.
As each member of the family drew numbers from a bowl to decide the order of picking gifts, my aunt, but also my dad, but also maybe someone else in the family took the lead and re-explained the rules: each gift could only be stolen three times and then it locked, stealing from your spouse in pursuit of a strategic gain was not allowed, and the game ended when all gifts were off the table. My sister had the first pick and, for likely the first time in the history of the game, opened her chosen bag to find a board game adaptation of Wheel of Fortune inside. My aunt confessed to her that she bought the gift for herself and, within a few turns, stole it, unable to resist a good game.
Soon, a few more members selected their gifts; liquor, scratch-offs, and gift cards were claimed one by one until it came to be my turn. With about a half-dozen bags left on the table, I decided to go for the largest, hoping it wasn’t something small or a gag gift like the can of green beans my mom had found herself stuck with earlier in the game. Looking down into the bag, I rummaged through the pieces of festive tissue paper and found myself speechless. What luck!
I wasn’t sure if I should have even shown the other players what I had just opened out of fear that they would begin plotting how to take it away from me. I hoped I could reveal the gift, present it to the family, and then hastily put it away so those who hadn’t picked yet wouldn't have even noticed. But sadly, I had no choice but to show off my prize: a large bottle of high-proof whiskey and a tube of deer bologna, as thick as a Stanley tumbler and probably twice as long as one, were lifted from the bag. As soon as I spun around and displayed my haul, I knew that I had lost. To my family, I might as well have pulled a thousand bucks out of that bag and their reaction would have been the same. At least to us, this was the good stuff.
Miserable, I hung my head and waited for someone to take my gift.
My uncle, with the next pick, and after a moment of feigned contemplation over the tiny bags that still remained on the table, broke my heart by ripping the whiskey and venison from my grasp. The first steal was gone, with only two chances left to reunite myself with my Christmas prize.
Having to pick a new gift, I selected a tall slender bag that felt as heavy as a wine bottle and pulled a wine bottle out. It was something fruity, but too deep in my own self-pity, I didn’t bother reading its label and hoped maybe my sister would find more joy from it than I would once we sulked back home. The next pick was a cousin of mine, who as a sign of mercy or more likely an indifference to family traditions and social gatherings, stole my subpar wine without the slightest expression of joy or playful competitiveness.
I was never so excited to have something stolen from me before! Without hesitation, like a falcon tracking down its prey in a field, I spun around on the couch cushion I found myself slowly sinking into, stared down my uncle through a crowd of half-amused relatives slouched on rubbermaid chairs and a dusty elliptical machine, held out my hands, and said “whiskey and venison please!”
You would have thought I had ripped the man’s heart out. Never before had this gift exchange witnessed such drama and betrayal, and as the gift swapped places, I could see the contempt and envy growing between us. In a moment of playful sportsmanship, he remarked that I’d never be let into his house again. I held in my laughter and composed myself, knowing that I wasn’t home free yet. The second steal was gone, only one more before the gift was locked, and a few gifts still sat on the table.
“Like a conniving advisor to an ignorant king, he twisted my grandad’s mind with the simple flick of his finger towards the half-crumpled bag resting between my legs.”
With each steal and pick that passed by, I held myself close to the bottle and the bologna. My anxiety grew as slowly but steadily as the hope that I could walk away from this game with arguably the merriest prize. Soon, another bottle of wine was picked, and then another scratch-off (this one winning $50 for the little cousin who used to bite me, so maybe he was the real winner after all), as well as a box of Hickory Farms crackers and cheeses, and my mom was still stuck with her festive green beans.
As the game began to reach its end, my grandad’s number was called. His titanium hip helped him rise from the old dining room chair that he sat in and I could see my uncle, my enemy for this evening, whispering to him as he made his way from the back of the room to the table. Like a conniving advisor to an ignorant king, he twisted my grandad’s mind with the simple flick of his finger towards the half-crumpled bag resting between my legs. I knew foul play was at hand, my minutes—no, seconds—were numbered. He looked at the lone bag that still sat on the corner of the table, then looked at me, and then to make the inevitable choice less humiliating, acted like he was really interested in my mom’s can of green beans or the cheap cherry wine still up for grabs.
The final pick. The gift was locked. Grandad walked away with the whiskey and tube of deer bologna. This was tragedy inherent; I could only watch as this near octogenarian swiped my gift. I was helpless and found myself on the losing end of the greatest late-game steal that the Scott family gift exchange had ever seen. I did not turn around to see my uncle’s expression, too focused on my own defeat, but I was sure the old rocker must’ve enjoyed seeing the pain this loss had brought me. I don’t think he even got to try the whiskey or venison for himself, so I am certain this was a move out of spite and spite alone. I was no longer merry.
Beaten, my ego bruised and soul crushed into dust, I had no choice but to take the last gift. Nothing else interested me. I only cared about what was just ripped away from me. Hopeless, I lurched forward from the sinking couch and staggered back clutching a new gift, not even a fifth the size of the bag that my original pick had come in. Eyes watched as I opened this little light blue bag, and I could feel the jolly snowman pictured on its side sealing my fate with a gleeful, coal-filled smile. After this, the game was over, everyone had picked—this was the final reveal.
Plunging my hand into the bag, a brief thought of hope bounced between my ears, wondering if maybe someone had somehow found something just as impressive as what I had lost that would still fit under our $25 budget.
“I got a damn candle.”
Emotions flowed from my seat and poured over each member of my extended family. Some showed disappointment, others showed pity, and my father wheezed and howled with laughter aided by a seasonal cough that flung himself further into the couch cushions that slouched as quickly as my spirits. The scent, to rub salt in my holiday wound, listed on the label of this cotton candy pink candle, was Bubbly Rosé—a celebration of sweet and bubbly fun.
It was a worst case scenario brought to life on Christmas Day: a bottle of hard liquor and fresh hunk of deer meat for a Bath & Body Works candle. Without hesitation, accusations were flung across the room like snowballs packed with ice as George Bailey silently remarked on his wonderful life. Who brought this damn candle?
Ryan Scott wants to see a little silhouette of a man