Ben sips and holds the paper cup over.
Bubba stares at the offering, suddenly realizing it held a far deeper significance; one only drinks from the cup of a friend. He reaches for the cup and downs it in one gulp, as Nancy runs back into the bedroom and climbs onto the bed, one bottle of champagne in each hand. Bubba’s nose tickles.
“Where was I? Oh yeah,” Ben clears his throat. “I entered a building full of large crates. I ran between two endless lines of containers and jumped into the shadow of one of the hulking crates as flashes of blue and red ignited the space between them.
“You in there!” An amplified voice crackled. “You are surrounded, come out with your hands above your head or SWAT will close in.”
I glanced around; a flash of red illuminated a crate labeled “European Cargo.” I thought, “What the hell.” In pitch black, I was met with the familiar and intoxicating scent of manure. A breath huffed in my ear. I jumped and spun, finding myself inches from a giant nose. I relaxed; it was a horse.
I must have fallen asleep. I jolted awake when the crate shifted and ascended. I stretched out on the hay. “Europe, here I come,” I whispered as I closed my eyes.
“Despierta, cabrón!” A voice woke me the instant a foot connected with my ribs. Outside the crate was bright daylight, and the horse had disappeared. A large man lowered his head and entered the crate. When I peered up, a hand dove into my back pocket and closed around my billfold. Screw the billfold, on all fours I scurried between the man’s legs and bolted out of the crate.
I ran wildly, casting desperate glances around, aghast at the sight of mist and a haze of green. Trees? I tripped on a raised root and fell heavily on the ground. Europe? I stumbled to my feet, heart hammering, and crashed into the jungle. I looked about seeing only more green—vines, veils of leaves, towering tree trunks. A monkey screamed overhead. If this is Europe, I’m the Pope. In minutes, I was drenched in sweat as the damp jungle heat pressed about me like a warm wet sponge. I thrashed forward into the underbrush; the monkey screaming again... only it wasn’t a monkey. Hands seized me, and I only had time to see a horde of painted faces before a rock struck my temple and I passed out.
Bubba lowers his Lupara; he could always bring it up if the need arose and his arm’s tiring. He darts a glance at Nancy as she expertly uncorks one of the bottles. A horde of painted faces, eh? It doesn’t look good. Bubba licks his lower lip and nods to Ben.
“When I woke up, I was curled inside a vast kettle…”
My ear bled from where some greedy fingers had torn my earring away. My face felt wet. More blood? I licked my lips to taste olive oil, spices—maybe rosemary? I had been basted head to toe. I eyed the jungle canopy. It couldn’t be Africa, could it? To one side of the clearing, several women rocked their hips. Samba? Brazil? I wondered how cannibals in the Amazon could get hold of olive oil. Then I felt a pleasing warmth under the soles of my feet; the bottom of the kettle was heating up. I like a hot bath, but this was too much.
The cannibals crowded around the kettle, looking uncertain. An old woman pushed through their masked ranks, peered toward the base of the kettle and launched into a string of something that sounded like abuse. The cannibals lowered their gaze. Apparently she was telling them off; I would never boil fast enough with the tiny fire they had made, and dinner would be late. After another tirade of even grosser-sounding words the cannibals scampered into the jungle to gather more wood.
As soon as the last one disappeared beyond the greenery, I climbed over the side of the cauldron, careful to avoid resting my tender parts against the hot iron.
I landed in a heap on the ground and lay there for a moment to make sure they didn’t notice my escape. When no sound came from the trees on the other side of the clearing, I jumped to my feet and ran into the jungle.
Branches scratched my face, mosquitoes the size of Chihuahuas swarmed my head, invading my mouth. Spitting and cursing, I ran. Behind me, I heard thrashing and men yelling. They sounded too close.
Coming out of the trees, I skid to a halt on a muddy riverbank. I had nowhere to run. If I went back, I was dinner. That only left the river.
A gaggle of cannibals burst from under the tree cover, only ten feet away, spears held high. “Screw it,” I mumbled and dove into the water. The cannibals gasped and pointed. Uncertain why they didn’t come in after me, I swam toward the other side, probably they couldn’t swim.
After a few feet, I felt a pinch on my wrist. Figuring my watch was too tight—perhaps the leather strap had shrunk in the stew pot—I tugged it off and held it up. Then I felt another nip, and another. My stomach tightened, and I’m pretty sure I emptied my bladder. Piranhas. Great.
I dropped the watch and swam as a fast as I could toward a jetty sticking out into the river. Attached to it was a small, flatbottomed boat. Still smarting from piranha bites, I hauled onto the rotting wood of the jetty. Oars waited in the well of the boat. Here was escape.
I lost one paddle in my haste, but after freeing the boat, I paddled like a madman until I came to a swamp.
I thought I’d made it to safety until an arrow whizzed passed my ear, and then another. The third was so close it took my baseball cap with it, flew across the swamp and buried itself into a tree dripping with moss, my baseball cap hanging like a demented bat. Moments later a small monkey scuttled down the tree, retrieved the hat, and donned it before jeering at me.
Without thinking, I gripped a vine and swung across a narrow channel of greenish water.
Over the next two hours I waded, sometimes crotch-deep through brackish waters carpeted over with a layer of bright green stuff. Twice, I spotted things scuttling across the water like miniature submarines and ran like hell, curtains of water rising in all directions.
Exhausted, I reached what seemed to be the edge of the swamp. I gripped an overhanging branch and let go at once after feeling its soft texture. A huge boa constrictor fell into the water and swiftly made for my pursuing crocodiles. I dragged myself onto solid ground as the swamp erupted in a bedlam of sharp snaps and thrashes.
Crazed, I tore through the jungle and, suddenly, I was out on a beach of golden sands, the bluest ocean you’ve ever seen stretching across the horizon. Narrowly missing the sharp thorns of a squat bush, I staggered toward a clump of palm trees and collapsed on the sand.
Nancy refills the cups and passes the chocolates around. Bubba decants for a Caramel Rod this time.
“When I came around…”
I sat huddled in a corner of a crowded fishing vessel, shivering from the breeze that swept over the deck. After a while, I changed my mind. The gear I could see from where I lay was a far cry from fishing tackle; Stinger missiles, fragmentation grenades and a Gatling gun. I was aboard a modern day pirate ship.
One guy came nearer and stood by a coil of rope. He wasn’t big, maybe five two at the most but the Convertible G36 assault rifle resting in his arms and the Fairbairn-Sykes combat knife hidden in a leather sheath and hanging off his thigh made up for his short stature. Naturally, the rest of crew, two-score men armed to the teeth and running up and down the gunwales were a good reason for not putting up a fight.
I looked over the railing and spotted a mid-sized cargo ship. I thought of risking a signal to the cargo ship, but I noticed movement to the other end of the pirate craft. A few men lowered two speedboats into the blue waters. I realized waving my arms would be futile. Looking back to the commotion on the pirate boat, I spotted one of the men hauling an honest-to-God Jolly Roger flag up a flag pole.
Back over the railing, I watched as the two speedboats sailed through choppy waters toward the cargo ship. Four men per boat, all decked out with assorted weapons ranging from assault rifles, shotguns, pistols and grenade launchers. About fifty yards from the cargo ship, the pirates started firing.
The man by the coiled rope stepped over and pulled me to my feet. He then shoved me along the slick deck, barking out orders in a language I couldn’t identify. The only word I
could make out was ‘landsman,’ which I supposed meant me. Other men on board fired RPG’s at the cargo ship.
I turned and came face to barrel with a Walther P99. I stepped to the side, swept my arms up and out and knocked the pirate off balance, making him lose his grip on the pistol. I took my chance and ran toward the stern. A deafening explosion reverberated through the air, but I kept going, leaping over another pirate reloading a missile launcher. When I reached the stern, I dove out far and shallow, swimming hard as soon as I hit the water.
The cargo ship was in flames, and the pirate ship blocked my way back to firm land. So I swam away from the ships and parallel to the coastline.
Twenty minutes later, I felt a powerful tug. An irresistible force hauled me out of the water. Frantic, I looked around me as I climbed ever higher.
Soon I realized my belt was entangled with the periscope of an Akula II nuclear-powered submarine. A man with a funny cap yelled at me in Russian. I unbuckled and jerked free of my belt, only to fall hard onto the hull.
I sat dazed until one man, in boots with thick rubber soles, climbed down from the conning tower, pointed to me and yelled. Four sailors darted over, grabbed me like a sack of potatoes and dropped me unceremoniously down an open hatch.
In the gloom of the submarine, my eyes adjusted slowly. I sat on a bench, by a long and narrow corridor, guarded by two linebackers. To my right, was a big door with a round handle— ladder ran up the wall to my left, ending at the roof and what appeared to be another hatch.
A thundering roar erupted below and the sub shuddered violently, tossing me off the bench. First one shout, then a chorus, then the shouts grew louder, alarmed.
My guards rushed through a side door. I had to escape, and this would be my only chance.
Scrambling to my feet, I ran to the ladder and climbed up. Trying not to think of what might happen, I fumbled with the latch and pushed it open causing an alarm to sound.
I climbed up and over, my shirt catching on the latch. Men yelled. I heaved myself inside a tiny metal chamber, my pants slipping, the buttons flying off my shirt, pinging off the metal of the pod. Seeing the first of many feet running toward me, I slammed the hatch, locking it.
Fists pounded against the metal, yelling in Russian. I scrambled back against a console, my hand bumping several levers. I felt a rumble, and then the tiny room around me moved, accelerating. This was no more room, but an escape pod. I could only hold on and pray as it burst to the surface.
Bubba lets out a long breath. His feet ache. He slides his back against the wall and sits on his haunches. Nancy refills the cups with what was left of the bottle and circulates the box of chocolates. Bubba dives for a Creamy Shell. Luscious.
“As I bobbed in the churning waters of the Atlantic,” Ben says, “I discovered four balloons I must have stowed away in my pants pockets last weekend at my niece’s birthday party…”
I blew one up while I kicked furiously with my legs to keep nose and mouth above water. I managed to knot it and started on the second balloon, this one pink. Finishing the second, I tied them together and shoved the pair under one of my armpits as a makeshift flotation device. Breathing heavily, spitting saltwater from my mouth, I rested for a minute before repeating this procedure.
Floating more easily, I assessed my remaining possessions; shoes, socks, pants and t-shirt. Oh, and my I-Pod, not that reception was very likely out here in the middle of who knows where. Still, I lifted it towards the sky and turned it on.
“The sucker’s probably waterlogged anyway...” I mused, treading water.
“Beep!” warbled the I-Pod, unexpectedly.
“Holy crap! I’ve got a signal out here?
Not one to question my good luck, I immediately keyed in the e-mail address for Fred, my best mate, although I had no idea how to explain my position or what I needed.
“Merhaba,” squeaked the I-pod.
“This isn’t Fred, is it?” I looked at the screen. It was blank.
I turned in the water to find a rubber dinghy crewed by a questionable looking group of fellows in turbans and djellabas, machine guns pointed at my balloons.
I chuckled and waved my I-Pod. “You got here pretty fast.”
Two of the turbaned fellows grinned, displaying cruddy, yellowing teeth, as they hauled me over the side of the dinghy. I fell back into the water as my favorite and much laundered ACDC T-shirt tore under the strain. I was instantly gripped by the hair, which was almost as painful as watching the remains of my beloved T-shirt float away.
Bubba nods. An AC-DC T-shirt? Ripped? A tragedy. “One hour later…”
The rubber dinghy met with a much larger vessel, this one manned by Turk mercenaries. Bound, gagged and balloons burst, I was exhausted enough to fall asleep as soon as they dropped me on the deck.
Hours later, I was slapped awake by a hideous woman with a body like Raquel Welch in her heyday. The irony of her smoking body trapped beneath her unbecoming face made me wonder if she ever wore a veil. The idea had merit. My smile must have caused offense. She slapped me again. Fully awake, I realized the ground was solid. No movement. I was on dry land. The room was clad with crimson velvet and the air reeked of incense and Chinese Chanel 5.
“I know what you’re thinking you little vermin!” she hissed. “You’ll have plenty to smile about using your “tools.” But not with me! In this house, I provide entertainment for all the women of Turkey who have been shunned because of their misfortune. You will be the newest dancer for my sisters!”
A group of women entered the room. I noticed lots of missing teeth in their smiles. They must be in mourning, judging by the black material under their fingernails. I looked round at a sea of ugliness; my “tools” shriveling to nothingness. I would need more than four balloons to get me out of this mess.
Strong arms dragged me to my feet. A phonograph blared exotic music. The madam beckoned and wiggled provocatively toward the only visible exit.
Bubba slides further down and sits on the floor while Nancy busies herself opening the remaining bottle.
“A male brothel might sound exciting,” Ben says, “but let me enlighten you. Most customers to such an establishment are not comely females who wish to pleasure you all night long…”
I waited in this room until the door opened and a woman entered. If not for the mustache, she might have been cute. She advanced, stroking her hairy lip suggestively. Shuddering I moved until I felt the wall against my back. My hands touched the window ledge. I felt empty space above it. The window was open. I risked a glance behind me to determine that there was a three story drop to the ground below. Did I dare?
The woman laughed at my predicament. Her robe must have been secured with Velcro strips. With a lightning movement, she tore off the robe she wore. My eyes will never recover from the sight. I had to get out of there.
I dove through the window. Expecting to freefall, I was surprised by my sudden stop and narrowly avoided kissing the wall. The woman, hairy as a Borneo orangutan, held my left foot. I wriggled and kicked until my shoe slipped off and I plummeted to a cart full of rugs. Without pausing to check for injury, I jumped from the cart and ran.
Soon I left behind the last of the town’s huts and continued running into the desert, anything beat the mass of lank hair I had left behind.
Hours later, close to the end of my endurance, I staggered over to a clump of rocks and a cave. Exhausted, I ran inside, hoping to get some rest.
The cave was occupied. An anchorite, tall, lanky and emaciated sat next to a small fire, sipping from a tin cup. He looked up and grinned. No teeth. The country must suffer a shortage of dentists. Something about his eyes wasn’t right, but I smiled back anyway.
He motioned for me to sit, and I did. Then he poured some of the liquid into another cup, and sprinkled powder over the top.
“Vitamins,” he croaked. I was thirsty and anchorites are trustworthy types, so I drank.
His face loomed over me, my eyes blurred and my hea
d spun and then everything went dark.
Ben pauses, drinks a little champagne and munches a Sugar Kiss. Bubba helps himself to a Cinnamon Stick and waits. When my head started to clear a band of gunrunners overwhelmed the reclusive anchorite and delivered me to a group of waiting eunuchs. They quickly ushered me into a massive enclosed garden with an ornamental pond covered with water lilies. I’m a writer, and I don’t mind admitting that I was rather inspired by the beauty of the scenery even though I was also scared out of my mind. About fifty veiled women with bodacious bodies pointed and whispered at me. Three dejected eunuchs wearing skimpy loincloths looked envious. My God, wouldn’t you be jealous if you were a eunuch? One of the women who seemed to be in command, made a scissor-like movement with her fingers and the other women giggled. I relaxed a little because I was obviously the man of the hour.
The woman repeated the gesture. “Geld him.”
The eunuchs converged upon me with rope, a razor-sharp scimitar, and an ominous looking curved knife. I ran and fell into the shallow pond, losing my left sock. Things weren’t looking good. The biggest eunuch in the place yanked me from the water and trussed me up like a fowl. As you can imagine, I was mortified. Suddenly, a sheik that looked like a dead ringer for Lawrence of Arabia crashed through a window wielding a whip. The women shrieked and swooned while he gallantly untied me. We sprinted out the window and mounted a waiting camel. The outraged eunuchs chased behind us as we raced back toward the desert. I felt enormous relief and gratitude, but only momentarily. The sheik shouted, “I’ve waited for you all my life, ducky. Now you’re mine!”
I bumped along behind the sheik, my teeth rattling. The damn camel churned up so much sand that, try as I might, I couldn’t see two feet in front of me. A shrill scream echoed through the dusty haze, reverberating down my spine. The sheik wrenched the reins, causing the camel to lurch sharply to the right. I held on, certain I’d fall off the stinking beast and be trampled under its enormous hooves.
The camel halted and I scrambled to right myself. In front of me, the sheik screamed as a dark figure yanked him off the camel and carried him away. Fear seized my gut as more figures emerged and surrounded me. When the dust settled, I found myself staring into the hard faces of a troupe of gypsies.
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