King and Mrs. Kong

by Mike Resnick

  King and Mrs. Kong:

  A Lucifer Jones Story

  by

  Mike Resnick

  Subterranean Press Magazine: Winter 2011

  I used to think blue was a pretty nice color. Eleven days out from Caruso’s island, where I had my previous adventure which I’m sure you’ve all read a few dozen times by now and maybe memorized as well, I decided that blue was the most boring color in the universe and points west. And of all the blues there were, the blue of the Pacific Ocean was the boringest.

  I’d left the island atop a wooden door, which at least didn’t take in no water, since it didn’t have no sides to it. It didn’t take in no sharks neither, but not for lack of trying. There was one big one that I named Basil, who must have been tired of swimming, because he kept trying to hop onto the door, and didn’t seem to pay me no never-mind when I kept hitting him across the nose with my paddle. Finally he just kind of fell into step or whatever legless killer fish fall into and paced the door for a couple of days.

  Eventually I spotted an island that had a bunch of canoes on the beach, so I headed toward shore, and Basil came in right alongside of me, and I could see a bunch of men staring at me, and when I got to within ten yards of shore they all cleared out, yelling and screaming, which I figured meant they hadn’t been staring at me after all, but were staring at Basil.

  The door hit the beach, and I got up and walked straight ahead until I was standing firmly on the sand. Basil wriggled onto the door, guv me a grateful look—well, as grateful as a shark with an IQ in single digits can muster—and didn’t even try to bite my leg off when I walked over, put my foot on the edge of the door, and shoved it out to sea. Last I saw of Basil, he was sunning himself and looking like he was no more interested in hopping into the water than I was.

  I was going to ask one of the natives if I could borrow a canoe, but none of ‘em would come near me, so I finally I just hollered out a thanks which sent most of ‘em scurrying inland, pushed a canoe off the beach and into the water, jumped in, and began paddling for all I was worth, just in case they changed their minds.

  No one threw any spears nor shot any arrows at me, and finally I slowed my pace and just started drifting. After a week I was getting mighty sick of blue again, and I actually found myself missing Basil, who wasn’t much of a conversationalist but was a mighty good listener. Now and then some fish what wasn’t sharks would get a little too close, and I’d grab ‘em and toss ‘em into the far end of the canoe until they’d breathed their last. It didn’t take me long to decide that all this talk I’d heard in Japan about sushi was either malarky, or the reason the Japanese were such little folks, because take it from me, when you’ve et raw fish for two weeks running, even fried grasshoppers start looking mighty good to you.

  Then one day I saw a patch of fog off in the distance, which wasn’t unusual, since the Pacific is loaded with fog. But this here patch didn’t move, and if there’s one thing the Pacific’s good at, it’s hurling fog and fishes and boats all the hell over, so I headed toward it just to see what made it different, and when I got there a few hours later what I found was a great big island hiding out in the middle of the fog. It had a mountain or two, and some rivers, and a ton of trees and bushes and other green stuff, and I figgered that maybe I wouldn’t have to settle for grasshoppers and sand crabs, that maybe I might actually find some meat on the island. I didn’t see no canoes nor any other boats, but that wasn’t surprising. I mean, hell, if you grew up on an island surrounded by fog, you’d probably think you were on the only land mass in the world.

  I went ashore and pulled the canoe onto the sand, then dragged it over to some bushes and hid it under the branches. For a minute I thought I heard a river roaring, but it stopped right away and I figgered I was mistook, because rivers hardly ever roar just once on a whim and then shut up.

  I decided to go inland and see what there was to see, which would hopefully include a bunch of four-legged critters with a death wish, since I didn’t figure to kill too much meat for the pot armed only with a canoe paddle. The further I walked the thicker the vegetation got, and then I thought I saw something moving in the distance, and I started walking toward it, and suddenly I wasn’t walking toward nothing so much as falling through space. I wondered if I’d discovered some tunnel that would take me all the way back to Moline, Illinois, which was where I grew up, or maybe smack dab in the middle of the Follies Bergere in Paris, but I only fell about thirty feet and landed with a thud.

  I checked my arms and legs one by one and found they were all still working, and I was just about to open my eyes and try to figure out what the hell had happened when I heard a familiar voice saying, “Goddammit, Lucifer, what the hell are you doing in my trap?”

  I looked up, and standing there at the edge of this great big hole in the ground, wearing his familiar khaki shorts and shirt and his monogrammed pith helmet, was Capturin’ Clyde Calhoun.

  “Just what are you planning to trap?” I groaned. “A skyscraper with legs?”

  “That’s closer than you think,” he said. “Here!” He tossed one end of a rope down to me. “Grab ahold of it, or maybe tie it around your waist, and we’ll pull you up.”

  I latched onto it, and a minute later I started ascending, and in another half minute I was standing on solid ground again.

  “Okay, boys,” said Clyde to four natives who were with him and had done all the pulling. “Cover the top of the damned thing again.”

  They fell to work, and Clyde turned to me. “What in blazes are you doing here in the middle of the Pacific, Lucifer?” he said. “Last time I saw you we was dealing with the Jaguar Men in the Motto Grasso end of Brazil.”

  I told him about my adventures in Uruguay and Bolivia and Colombia and Peru and Chile, adding only a few poetic flourishes, and when I was done he just sighed deeply.

  “So you got thrown off another continent,” he said.

  “I chose to leave of my own free will,” I answered with all the dignity I could muster.

  “What was the alternative?” said Clyde.

  “Death by slow torture.”

  “Sounds about right,” he allowed.

  “Anyway, what are you doing here, Clyde?”

  “Same as always,” he replied. “Bringing ‘em back.”

  “Bringing ‘em back alive,” I said, completing his slogan for him.

  “Well, them few what survive certainly gets brung back alive,” he agreed.

  “What are you after that requires a thirty-foot-deep hole in the ground?” I asked.

  “Kong,” he said.

  “You want to repeat that?” I said.

  “Kong.”

  “I must have busted an eardrum when I fell,” I said. “It sounds for all the world like you keep saying kong.”

  “That’s what I am saying.”

  “I don’t want to seem overly critical, Clyde,” I said, “but I’ve been all the hell over five continents and a handful of islands, and I ain’t never run into a critter called a kong, and certainly not one that needs a hole in the ground the likes of this here one to hold it.”

  “Kong ain’t a definition,” said Clyde. “It’s a name. Though I suppose it’s a definition, too, since as far as I can tell there’s only one of it.”

  “So what is a Kong?” I asked.

  “Kind of a monkey.” He spread his arms straight out. “A mighty big monkey.”

  “Big enough to fill that hole you dug?”

  “So I’ve been told,” he said.

  “Told?” I repeated.

  “Truth to tell, I been on this island for two weeks now, give or take a day, and I ain’t seen hide nor hair of it.”

  “That’s an awful lot of hide and hair not to see,” I
said. “Are you sure this here monkey really exists?”

  “Absolutely,” said Clyde. “There’s a native village down the road a spell—or it would be, if there were any roads on this godforsaken island—and they’ve got walls thirty feet high to protect them from Kong. That’s why I made the pit thirty feet deep.”

  “What does something that big eat?” I asked.

  “I’m inclined to say: anything he wants,” answered Clyde. “But since he’s a monkey, he’s probably addicted to bananas.” He paused and frowned. “Once I capture him, I’ll probably need two ships to get him back to the states—one for him, and one for the bananas.”

  “Maybe you should try baiting your pit with bananas,” I suggested.

  Clyde shook his head. “There’s bananas all over the island,” he said. “We’re going to bait him with something he can’t get nowhere else.”

  “What might that be?” I asked.

  “Come on back to camp with me and I’ll show you,” he said, heading off into the bush. I fell into step behind him, and it wasn’t too long before we came to a clearing with a couple of tents and the remains of a big log fire.

  “What do you think?” he said proudly. “All the comforts of home.”

  Truth to tell, it was missing a couple of major comforts, like running water and electricity, but on the other hand it didn’t have no landlord demanding the overdue rent, so I figgered he was ahead on points.

  “So what are you baiting this Kong with?” I asked, looking around.

  “I ain’t actually seen the ceremony, but word has it that Kong is attracted to helpless naked islanders what gets strung up atop that thirty-foot wall,” said Clyde. “The village doubtless got its own bait, but I figured we can make our bait even more attractive to him by supplying it with a monkey mask.”

  “Ain’t you gonna have to build a thirty-foot wall to stick it on?” I asked.

  “I rented a stretch of their wall,” explained Clyde. “Okay, now you know the plan. Let me go get the bait.”

  He walked over to the farther tent, stuck his nose up against the flap, and said, “Come on out, honey, and bring the mask with you.”

  A minute later a beautiful lady emerged from the tent, stark naked except for a g-string and the gorilla mask she was wearing.

  I took one look at her and said, “Hi, Rosepetal. I ain’t seen you since Cairo maybe a dozen years ago.”

  “You know her?” said Clyde, surprised.

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s Rosepetal Schultz.”

  “How could you tell?” he persisted.

  “I never forget a face,” I answered.

  “Hello, Lucifer,” she said, removing the mask. “What are you doing in the Pacific?”

  “Same as always,” I said.

  “You’ve got that many armies after you?” she said.

  “I meant that I’m bringing the Word of the Lord to all these illiterate heathen,” I told her. “Sounds like I’m just in time to give you a final blessing or two before you’re sacrificed to this here monkey.”

  “Bless me some other time,” she said.

  “You could die tonight at Kong’s hands or from some hideous tropical disease,” I pointed out. “You need a blessing now.”

  She looked me right in the eye and said, “I’ve got a headache.” I was about to explain how you could overcome headaches, and especially that kind of headache, with will power, but her expression said that she was better equipped with won’t power. “Besides,” she added, “I’m not being sacrificed. I’m just attracting Kong until he falls into the pit or gets within range of Clyde’s rifle.”

  “How did you hook up with Clyde?” I asked. “Last I saw of you, you and Friday were man and almost-wife and living happily ever after.”

  “That was before he sent for his four other wives,” she said bitterly. “I went back to the States, one thing led to another, and finally I met Clyde, who was kind enough to pay my bail.”

  “So what’s the plan?” I said.

  “I figger we’ll tie Rosepetal up atop the wall,” said Clyde, “and Kong won’t be able to keep away from a luscious morsel like her, so he’ll amble on over, and I’ll graze his skull with a couple of shots from Old Betsy here”—he held up his .550 Nitro Express—“and one way or another we’ll bring him back to civilization.”

  “One way or another?” I repeated.

  “Depends how thick a skull he’s got,” said Clyde.

  “What if it’s so thick you can’t even knock him out?” I asked.

  Clyde frowned. “Lucifer, don’t ask awkward hypotheticals like that in front of the bait here,” he said, nodding toward Rosepetal.

  I could see his point, so I asked him what he’d been doing since we’d parted ways in the Motto Grasso.

  “I took a quick trip to Africa, where I collected the most endangered antelope species in the world—the okapi.”

  “I didn’t even know they were endangered,” I said.

  “Well, they weren’t until I got there,” he said with more than a touch of pride. “Then I started hearing stories about Kong, so I talked the Bronx Zoo into commissioning his capture.”

  “So you’re working for a zoo?” I said.

  “For the moment,” answered Clyde.

  “I don’t quite follow you,” I said.

  “I got every confidence in my abilities—I’m Capturin’ Clyde, after all—but just in case this here oversized monkey don’t cotton to being captured, I also got a standing order for him, stuffed and mounted, from the Smithsonian.”

  “Sounds like you got all the bases covered,” I said.

  “He’s got everything covered but me,” complained Rosepetal. “I don’t know why I have to be 98 percent naked.”

  “I ain’t never seen a naked woman that couldn’t attract everything alive and breathing for miles around,” responded Clyde.

  “Right now all I’m attracting are some bugs,” she said, slapping at them.

  “You see?” said Clyde. “And you’ll do the same to Kong.”

  “He’s a monkey!” she said. “He won’t care if I’m wearing a blouse and some shorts.”

  “The headman of the village tells me all his sacrifices are strung up naked,” said Clyde. “I ain’t one to break a run of luck.”

  “For who?” she demanded. “The bait or the monkey?”

  “Come on now, Rosepetal,” said Clyde. “We been through all this before. I’ll be right there hidden behind some bushes, sharing the danger with you.”

  “Dressed or naked?” she asked.

  “Leave us not be ridiculous,” said Clyde with dignity. “Anyway, once he’s captured and shipped back to the States, you’ll be famous as the woman what captured his savage heart.”

  “That isn’t the kind of fame I’ve always envisioned for myself,” said Rosepetal.

  Clyde frowned. “Why are women so fussy? Fame is fame. And if I have to put him out of his misery as he’s trying to carry you off into the jungle, we’ll be able to say that it was beauty that killed the beast.”

  “Stupidest line I ever heard!” snapped Rosepetal.

  “What do you think, Lucifer?” he asked.

  “Maybe you should call your gun Beauty,” I suggested.

  “How can such a small, out-of-the-way, fog-enshrouded island be populated by so many ingrates?” he muttered.

  “To say nothing of unpaid ones,” said Rosepetal.

  “I guv you a contract,” said Clyde irritably. “Everyone knows Capturin’ Clyde is a man of his word.”

  “What if Kong shows up tonight and kills me before you get a chance to pay me?”

  “Then I’ll take the money I would have paid you and buy you a funeral for the very same amount, minus shipping and handling costs,” said Clyde. “It’ll be one hell of a sendoff.”

  “What good will that do me?” demanded Rosepetal.

  “Well, when you get right down to it, what good will that money do you if I pay you now and Kong eats you tonight?”
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  “I thought he was a vegetarian,” said Rosepetal.

  “Leave his religion out of it,” said Clyde.

  She glared at him for a minute. “Friday’s looking better and better, four wives or not,” she said, and went back into her tent.

  “She was such a friendly thing when I met her,” said Clyde. “If I live to be twenty-five, I ain’t ever gonna understand women.”

  “Clyde,” I said, “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but you’ve damned near lapped twenty-five.”

  “The hunting life keeps me young and vigorous,” he said. “And matching wits with fierce beasts of prey keep the brain sharp.”

  “You really think so?” I asked.

  “Absogoddamlutely,” he said with conviction. “You don’t see me being dumb enough to act as bait for a monkey that may or may not eat people and is only a couple of inches shorter than the Eiffel Tower.”

  “I just wish there was some other way to do this,” I said, “something that didn’t endanger Rosepetal.”

  “You ever see a woman as good-looking at Rosepetal?” he said.

  I thunk back over my varied experiences around the globe with such world-class females as the Scorpion Lady and a few assorted high priestesses and white goddesses, and had to admit that I’d seen women every bit as beautiful as Rosepetal.

  “You ever see anything remotely as awesome as Kong?” he asked.

  “No, I suppose not,” I said.

  “Well, there you have it,” said Clyde in conclusion. “Now let’s get some grub.”

  “Suits me fine,” I said, “just so long as it didn’t begin life covered with scales and has at least a nodding acquaintance with a frying pan.”

  Just then a couple of natives wearing naught but loincloths broke into the clearing and raced up to Clyde.

  “He comes! He comes!” shouted one of them.

  “Finally!” said Clyde excitedly. “How soon?”

  The second native looked at his wristwatch. “It will take him twenty minutes to get down the rest of the mountain.”

  “We’ll be there in ten,” said Clyde.

  He tossed ‘em each a quarter, and they then retreated back into the bush.

  “Did I see right?” I asked.