Wild Meat

by Newton, Nero

  Less eye rolling than before.

  “My proposal is that, before this attack goes any further, we

  have a green image already in place to head off the bad stuff. We can start with infomercials and press releases. They’ll tell all about the free educational eco-tours the company’s conducting in Equateur and Cameroon and Gabon. We can talk all about the sanctuary we’ll be funding for orphan chimpanzees—”

  “Orphan WHAT?” had been someone’s reaction, causing sparkles of laughter around the room.

  “I’m dead serious.” Gimble’s voice had cracked slightly. “They actually call them orphanages, so that’s what we’ll call them. This is not a major expense I’m talking about. Just a few hours of video production, a couple of free trips into the forest for some eco-tourists, and a few thousand dollars donated to one of these monkey farms. We’ll have interviews with people on the tours saying how much respect they’ve developed for Mother Nature, all because of Sanderson Tropical Timber. Clips of the wildlife we’re helping, maybe some pictures of sick animals being tended—”

  Then a delighted cry:

  “Baby animals!”

  Everyone had turned to see the speaker, a bulky, bald, pink-faced ex-football player from Accounting, staring into his imagination and smiling with a maternal glow.

  “Baby animals drinking from baby bottles. Leeeetle teeny cubs with broken legs in casts….” He made a cradle with his arms, then shifted one hand to hold an imaginary bottle. “Like newborn baby giraffes shaking on those big, skinny legs….”

  Hugh had known, just known, that they were going to ask him to be the public face of this campaign. For over ten years, he’d gotten the Equateurian government to grant the company virtually limitless logging rights. Now his brother and that little pixie would want him to make the greenies grin.

  Barely a week after that meeting, demonstrations had been held simultaneously outside furniture retailers in three major U.S. cities, with “Sanderson Tropical Timber” scrawled on at least half the hand-drawn signs. None of the action had made network news, but local TV stations had picked it up, and the environmentalists’ mass emails to their supporters were roaring with triumph.

  William and the board had quickly agreed to buy out two small, ailing chimp sanctuaries, one in southern California and another in Venezuela. They would insert ‘Sanderson’ into the sanctuaries’ names, and open them for public tours almost immediately.

  “Your part of the script goes like this,” Gimble had explained to Hugh. “It all started when you met some tourists and decided to show them the real Africa. After all, the reason you asked to be transferred to Equateur in the first place is that you wanted to experience the last unspoiled rainforest, see the greater kudu running free before it’s too late. And when you realized that poachers were using our logging roads to get deeper into the forest, and that they were living in our camps, it broke your heart.”

  And more practical instructions from William, regarding evidence of logging outside of official concessions: “Any logs lying out there where they’re not supposed to be, ones with our concession numbers stenciled on, get them out right away or grind the numbers off. And have people check for old machinery that might have our logo on it. Otherwise, these greenies go out there with hand-held GPS units and document where they find our stuff.”

  “And get the hunters out of all our camps,” Gimble had said. “All the hunters. Pay them off, put them all on a cruise boat for a couple of months, whatever. Lean on the foremen and keep the poachers out.”

  “How about I have the hunters run the eco-tours?” Hugh had said. “They know where the animals are.”

  Gimble had turned to William and said, “You see? Absolutely no one in the world could pull this off better than Hugh?”

  For the next couple of weeks, Gimble had studied everything Hugh would need to know about botany, geology, meteorology and tropical ecosystems, and about the principles of sustainable logging. Then he’d condensed it all for Hugh in an easy little primer.

  Hugh had gotten it. He’d learned the meaning of all the important-sounding phrases: nitrogen tracing, plant respiration, carbon cycle. The animals didn’t live in the jungle, they lived in the tropical, wet, broadleaf, evergreen forest. The gibbons over in Southeast Asia weren’t monkeys, they were lesser apes. He’d spoken to the press and the environmentalists, promised to set an example for the rest of business, and gotten everyone smiling.

  Two months later, subscribers to environmentalist email alerts had received a triumphant message from the Unmask-the-Loggers Coalition:

  Kudos to Sanderson Tropical Timber!

  Sanderson is the first U.S. logging company to get our message and really respond to it.

  Among other positive measures, they have agreed to allow observers from ULC member organizations to camp out at several of their logging sites and assess the impact of their operations. This is rare and highly laudable.

  Click on the Sanderson logo at right to read what other measures they have taken to minimize their impact on tropical forests, and to help heal some of the planet’s most serious wounds.

  And click here to say thanks to this responsible company and let them know you applaud them for taking the time and effort to adjust their approach to the forests. Finally, click here to let other corporations know you’ll be holding them up to this example. You’ll find a list of logging companies that operate in environmentally sensitive areas around the globe. Please take the time to ask them to do their part.

  Hugh had called William the next day and said, “Now that I’ve gotten the ball rolling, why not let Gimble take over as the front man for this campaign, since he thought this whole thing up in the first place.”

  William had refused to budge on the matter. “It works better if it’s family, Hugh. It ought to be someone named Sanderson who does this thing.”

  For Hugh, the green campaign had been his worst experience since he started working for the company right after college.

  * * *

  And now Hugh was back at company headquarters, but this time, instead of slowly filling with dread at what was to come, he felt buoyed by the knowledge that he would soon be liberated both from his brother’s command and from his days of pretending to be a green crusader. Free from having to be nice to Gimble. From having to look at him, at his nearly translucent skin stretched over impossibly delicate facial bones and positively girlish jaw line, at his wide eyes that were always so desperate to receive the Sanderson brothers’ approval.

  Hugh thought of a psychotic little snake named Eloy who worked for one of Lou Burr’s subsidiaries. Eloy was even smaller than Gimble, with a dopey little pointed beard that made him look like a cartoon, but one glance at him told you he was as lethal as they came. Before Hugh could even think about controlling himself, he began laughing aloud at the image that came to him next.

  “Everything okay, Huey?” William said, his tone suddenly sharp.

  “Yeah, sorry. It’s just that…I…well, I’ve just recently met the perfect date for Wes here. A very dashing individual, much like yourself, Wes.”

  William frowned with irritation. Gimble did a bit of nervous gazing around the room, then announced he was going back to his own office. He needed to make some calls and find a good makeup artist for Hugh’s photo-op later in the day.

  “Can’t you lay off him just once?” William snapped when the door shut behind Gimble. “He’s been invaluable to us, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Hey, remember this one?” Hugh said, and recited:

  “I’m Gimble-him! I’m Gimble-she!

  Happy, harmless and penis free!

  No patriarchal earth-raper me;

  I’m Gimble-her! I’m Gimble-he!”

  Hugh chuckled again. Couldn’t help it.

  William gave an exasperated exhalation. “Yeah, I remember it, and it was slightly funny the first time, a year and a half ago. But there’s no need to spit in his face.”

  “Li
ghten up, Willie. What’s he going to do? Quit?”

  William stared for a long moment, seeming to struggle not to react after that last provocation. At the age of twelve, having recently learned that the word had an anatomical connotation, he had complained to their father about Hugh calling him “Willie.” The younger boy had been forbidden to use the name again. Hugh had teased his big brother about running to Daddy, but had seldom broken the rule, and never at all since they were teenagers.

  “You don’t look well,” William finally said.

  “The malaria,” Hugh explained. “Takes a while to get all the way back to a hundred percent.” Time to give a little ground, he thought. “And sorry, I…sometime during the initial fever, I threw my back out, and they’ve given me these supersonic painkillers for it. I get a little too floaty sometimes. I don’t really have any problem with Gimble; he’s just such an easy target that sometimes….”

  “Alright, just please don’t drop the ball on me now. Not after all these months of everything going perfectly.”

  William stepped over to his desk and picked up a glossy round cardboard tag the size of a saucer. He handed it to Hugh. “I think we emailed you a scan of this, didn’t we?” he said.

  “No, actually I haven’t seen it before.”

  The tag was printed in two shades of green and had a loop of green yarn attached. In the middle was the face of a chimpanzee, eyes slightly downcast so that it appeared lost in thought. Lettering around the top edge read: “MADE WITH SANDERSON TROPICAL TIMBER” and on the bottom: “PROTECTING OUR WILD BRETHREN.”

  In smaller print under that: “Two percent of the purchase price of products made with Sanderson Tropical Timber goes toward maintaining wildlife sanctuaries.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think two percent of the purchase price is a lot of money.” Hugh said, trying to sound as though he still gave a baboon’s fart about the company’s finances.

  “After about a year, the caption will change to ‘proceeds from the sale of,’ without specifying the percentage. Plus the wildlife sanctuaries should actually make us money as they turn into tourist attractions. People will pay to ride around on the trams and look at the animals, and it won’t be cheap. Visitors will also shell out for snacks and souvenirs. We should eventually pull in plenty more than our operating costs.”

  “Will the initial setup cost us much?”

  “Not really,” William said. “Look at the one in California. We bought it out a year ago, but now we’re changing its name and promoting a grand opening of the visitors’ program. It’s a place in the desert called the ‘Imperial Rainforest’ but it’s about to become ‘Sanderson Wild Adventure Land.’”

  Gimble had just returned with the makeup artist, an anemic-looking young woman that might have been his twin, or maybe what Gimble would have looked like as a female zombie.

  “I guess the name ‘Imperial Rainforest’ is supposed to be a joke,” Gimble said, “because it’s in the Imperial Desert, inland from San Diego. ‘Wild Adventure Land’ sounds a lot snappier.”

  “It’s been an easy setup so far,” William continued. “The place’s usual donors are still contributing. We don’t have to worry about learning the ins and outs of running a sanctuary because the present staff and the previous owners are staying around on our payroll. We’re letting them hire the people they need to handle the additional animals we’re going to bring in.”

  “I guess I’ll be spending some time in California,” Hugh said. He’d already been spending plenty of time there for entirely different reasons; no need to mention that.

  “And here…,” William said. He shuffled through some folders on his desk and produced a colorful cartoon. “This’ll be part of the promo for the made-over sanctuary.”

  It was a caricature drawing of Hugh Sanderson surrounded by an assortment of smiling animals with big friendly eyes. He could tell the females by their lavender fur and long eyelashes. The cartoon Hugh was smiling, too, and his eyelids had the idiotic droopiness of the hero in a Disney cartoon. He held a purple baby chimp at his side like a human child, and the little ape had the same facial expression as Hugh; it also wore a diaper. Hugh wore boots, khakis, and a hat that suggested both Indiana Jones and the late crocodile guy from Australia.

  Hugh stretched his face into a smile. “Hey, maybe I can help Cap’n Crunch stop that nasty pirate from harpooning whales or something.”

  He was really thinking of finding Francine Whelk, or Caroline Yi, or whoever the hell she was, and firing a harpoon straight through her ribcage at close range.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Rita had become obsessed with the idea of traveling to Africa. She’d wanted to go there for years, and now Amy’s stories had amped up the urge. She stood behind Amy’s chair, rubbing her shoulders as Amy clicked on links related to trekking and camping in countries south of the Sahara.

  Amy had gotten home from Arizona a few hours earlier. She was relaxed and upbeat after seeing her parents in good spirits, still active and independent. The Red Rock area clearly agreed with them, and it was still gorgeous terrain despite the obscene overdevelopment underway in some areas.

  It was late afternoon, and Rita would have to head off to work soon, but she’d insisted on first cutting Amy’s hair, which had become quite the unruly haystack.

  “Don’t bother going anywhere in Africa unless you have a lot of time,” Amy told her. “Otherwise it’s just a tease.”

  “Five more months and I’ll have tons of time,” Rita said. She had resolved to quit her job at the beauty salon when her bank account reached a certain dollar figure, and had calculated that it would happen within six months. After that, and before starting up her own salon, she planned to do a lot of traveling. “I want to camp in the forest if I can,” she said.

  “There are plenty of places to do that. In fact, let’s see….” Amy did a search and clicked on a link for camping in West Africa. A small image on the search page full sidetracked her. “Hey, see that bird? I think it’s a turaco.” She clicked on the thumbnail. “Yeah, it is. It lives in the highlands, and I’m sure I’ve seen at least one.” She returned to the page full of search results. “And look at those climbing vines – the ones with the bright red—” She stopped. “Just a sec.”

  She clicked another image that had caught her eye – two ‘T’s interlocked with an ‘S,’ the logo of Sanderson Tropical Timber. A new page appeared and Rita, peering over Amy’s shoulder, read aloud: “ ‘Sanderson Free Forest Campground. Free for those who love the planet and love adventure.’ Well, there’s one place I know to stay away from.” Then she abruptly began giggling.

  “What?”

  “That just reminded me….” Rita squatted down next to Amy so she could reach the keyboard. “Something I came across in a search this morning.” She typed quickly into the search bar and scrolled through the links that appeared.

  In a moment they were looking at several rows of comics that showed a cartoon Hugh Sanderson in various stages of undress. In at least half the pictures, he was engaged in sexual acts with drawings of real-life celebrities as well as fictional cartoon characters, including the entire cast of Scooby-doo.

  The drawings were surprisingly detailed. The backgrounds were full of beds, sofas, sex toys, additional twosomes and threesomes in action and, in one, a wall full of mounted, medieval-looking weapons. Sanderson’s facial expressions were most often absurd accompaniments to the words “OOOHH” and “WOWWW” that appeared in explosive red letters inside dialogue balloons. In some pictures, however, his face appeared relaxed, the eyes softly closed in concentration or rapture, his body posed like a marble Greek statue, as though someone seriously meant the image to be erotic.

  “Can you believe that?” Rita said. “It looks like he’s enough of a celebrity to get somebody all heated up.”

  “Looks like somebody has a ton of time on his hands. You see the detail in some of these? That’s real obsession.”

&nbs
p; “We can go back to the campgrounds now, darling,” Rita said. “I just thought the pictures were a hoot.” She reached for the mouse and backtracked to the list of campgrounds, then stood and resumed massaging Amy’s shoulders.

  “Maybe there are some more freaky pictures on the review of Sanderson’s campground,” Amy said. She followed the link with the company logo, but there were no images, just comments.

  Rita leaned closer and said, “What’s that mean: ‘Best ruby is always at Sanderson’s?’”

  “Don’t know.” Amy opened up the thread.

  _____________________________________________

  Wish I could bring home some Free Forest ruby, but the airport dogs would find that stuff even if their nostrils were stuffed with Vaseline and menthol.

  _____________________________________________

  >Someone got a few vials all the way to Texas without getting busted.

  _____________________________________________

  >>I heard someone got stopped at an airport and didn’t get busted, but didn’t get to keep it either. They couldn’t bust her with it because it’s not illegal (yet), because most governments probably don’t even know about it. But in the story I heard, U.S. customs kept the ruby ’cause they said it was a potential biohazard. _____________________________________________

  >>>If I was a customs official, I’d arrest anyone carrying something that smelled like that. But right now I’d pay 300 euro for a finger-bottle full!

  _____________________________________________

  >I heard you can get it in Amsterdam, but I bet it’s bullshit.

  _____________________________________________

  >Ruby will kill you.

  _____________________________________________

  >>Ruby doesn’t kill people. Cops do. _____________________________________________

  >>>Fuck you.