An Oklahoma Seminole (an actual Seminole, not a punk from the panhandle) and his son are offering Bigfoot safaris in the riverbeds along the Texas border. Like a casino, this endeavor is not for locals and, as such, man-ape hunters have come from all over for a shot at the big money, the farthest from Great Britain.
And just as the Trump Atlantic City offers $5 lobster buffets as apologies for stealing your money on the slots, the Seminoles offer much peripheral entertainment to compensate for the highly probable lack of Bigfoots (Bigfeet?).
For starters, there's a night out on the Rez, which consists of encircling a fire and watching the old guys summon the beast through song. How does one serenade a Bigfoot? My guess would be Delta blues, something with lots of cheating women and sliding guitars. If you were a hulking man-beast lost in the wilderness, those would be the waters you'd wallow in.
The morning brings the hunt, and your guides march you through calf-deep mudbanks, eyes open for the beast's territory, until you make camp in absolute nowhere and the Seminoles teach you the secret of the Bigfoot mating call throughout the night. If such a creature exists and conforms to the size and scope of its legend, why would one wish to play the tease with it?
Bunk, you say? Oh, people believe what they will and see what they expect. The Brits themselves offer nothing but praise for the experience, stating that while on their morning trek they came across an incredible odor, a foul vapor mixing wet deer and something certainly subhuman.
You and I may think Queen's lads have simply paid two locals to walk into the woods and fart on them, but that would be unkind.