This story appears in Black Scat Review 19. Owen has rather a difficult time in it. Here’s how it begins:

UP TO THE SUMMIT

Owen slipped, and fell 25,000 feet to the jagged rocks below. Fortunately, he was unharmed.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed, as he staggered to his feet. “I’d better be more careful.”
A tall lean man arose from a dense thicket. He was dressed top to toe in bottle green, and wore a cap with his own photo pinned to it.
“Oh, it’s you again,” said Owen.
“It’s me again,” he chuckled. “Still trying to climb that mountain?”
“I am indeed,” said Owen, “if it’s any of your business.”
“Oh, it’s none of my business,” the man replied. “I was just being neighborly. You have the stupidest face I’ve ever seen.”
“Do you call that neighborly?” snapped Owen.
“Well, someone should tell you,” the man said.
“Many people have,” Owen replied. “I can’t help the way I look.”
“It would help if you didn’t keep your mouth hanging open,” the man observed.
“At least I don’t wear a hat with my picture on it,” said Owen.
“Wear one with mine,” the man suggested. “Give people something nicer to look at than your gaping pie-hole.”
“Fuck off,” barked Owen.
“There’s no call to be rude,” the man observed.
“Fuck off,” repeated Owen, but his interlocutor had already sunk again into the shrubbery. Owen kicked aside the bleached bones of his predecessors, and began his ascent…