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Chapter 13 - Adventure book

Chapter 13 - Adventure book

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Published by The Cowboy Wiseman
Fun stories about the Fat Cowboy.
Fun stories about the Fat Cowboy.

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Categories:Types, Comics
Published by: The Cowboy Wiseman on Sep 20, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Chapter 13
A half-day or so before we finally arrived at San Miguel, I called a halt in a small clearing inthe jungle, and assessed my team. Lars had already stripped down to khaki shorts and jungleboots. He carried the M-60 machine gun across his shoulders like it was a toy; bandoleers of ammunition were slung across his bronze chest, and he looked like God's avenging Teuton comesouth to kick some darky ass. Steve Reeves with surfer hair he was, and he scanned the thick wallof the jungle with a 101st Airborne slit-eyed, gunslinger stare. Him I didn't worry about. He was inhis element.Tyrone had scored some kind of local dope from the porters, and had started hallucinatingright after we left the river. Each time he chewed a plug of coca, he seemed to peak anew and, fromtime to time along the trail, he would drop into his knife fighter crouch and hack off a vine like itwas a Trey Eight Rollin' Crip's hand come to put the touch on him. Nevertheless he lookedcomfortable. The streets of south Central L.A., the dark alleys of Tijuana, the souks of Morocco,they are all the same to a con man. And all Tyrone needed to figure out was a con for the jungle,and he would be fine.Destri was all big-eyed little girl enthusiasm for the jungle. She
couldn’t keep her hands off 
the shrubbery, pinching this leaf, sniffing that one. She wrote almost constantly in a little leather-bound field notebook which was decorated with Celtic knots, and kept up a running commentary on
the “extraordinary diversity
of life in the Amazon drainage”. I could picture her holding forth in
front of 300 freshman in Biology 101. A real-life Amazonian of a prof, ticking off phyla and generafrom memory. The nineteen year-old boys in class and, a good share of the girls as well, would be
having a hard time keeping their minds on the lecture, rather than teacher’s bod. Professor O’Riordan would describe this rainforest through which we now slogged as the source for about
fifth of the world’s fresh water. These tall, th
ick trees and their underlings were the high-risecondos in which lived one of the most diverse collections of living, breathing things on the planet.We were hacking our way through the lung tissue of Earth.The clearing where we had stopped to take a breather was little more than a wide spot in the
trail. Thick cascades of green veggie life rose above us in canopy after canopy, and the light,although the sun was almost directly overhead, was green and dense. It felt like light that had beentrapped between the earth and the jungle eons ago. The air buzzed in the heat, and was likesomething solid when I took a breath, thick and viscous. Smells rose up from the undergrowthalong the trail, smells like bleach, saltwater marshes and honeymoon sheets hung in a hothouse toferment.
Destri said, “Potty break. Boys to the left side of the trail, girls to the right.” The jungle
swallowed her whole. When she came back, she had her hair down and a flush on her cheeks.
“Wow, guys! It smells like endome
trium in there. I have
felt so much fertility in all my life”,she said breathlessly. “Its like the whole jungle is a concentrated form of life. If I was ovulatingright now, I bet I could have gotten pregnant in there just from taking a pee.” A
s we got ready tostart back up the trail, I stole a glance at her, and she had a hand lightly on her tummy, checking forany new roundness, and probably wondering at the strange new genetics such a union wouldproduce.We reached Saint Mike in late afternoon, just at the end of siesta, and the town still hadsleep in its eyes. A knot of brown, potbellied little urchins stood around a sleeping pig in the townplaza, taking turns pissing on it. A crumbling stone mission building stood to one side of the littlesquare, and chickens wandered in and out of the doorless entry. The remainder of the dozen or sohouses in Saint Mike were low, mudwalled affairs, either roofed with broad jungle leaves for thatch,or left open to the air save for the cantina, the only two-storied building in town. We tethered ourpack burros to a rotten wood rail beside the cantina, and went inside to escape the sun, fierce eventhis late in the day. Lars was the last inside, backing in, and scanning the street and rooftops forpossible sniper positions, for enfilading fields of fire and avenues of escape.Inside the cantina, the air was marginally cooler, but had been fouled by an old dog that layat the end of the bar farting regularly. A half dozen tables had been fashioned from oil drums andammunition crates, and were arranged on the wooden floor. The flooring planks had been worn

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