Image from clipartpig.com, https://img.clipartpig.com/936419049-cartoon-snakes-19.jpg, accessed 08/23/17.
~o~~o~~o~
Five stories up in the green canopy, a bearded, long-haired man in a photographer's vest was hanging by his knees precariously from a tree limb, lens-to-eye with a python twenty yards long and not a bit shy. The man was Galen Randall. The best natural history magazines paid top money for his pictures. No other photographer was dedicated enough — or, some said, crazy enough — to do what Galen Randall was willing to do in order to capture a shot people would remember for decades.
While Galen hung there, focusing on the flicking tongue of the python and forgetting about simple things such as gravity or carnivorous reptiles, another man balanced on a higher limb, holding Randall's ankles and straining to keep them both aloft. This was Ushti, Randall's guide, whose eyes were wide with awareness of all the simple things. The deadly simple things.
"Hurry!" hissed Ushti in his native Swahili.
"Shhhh!" said Randall.
"Ssssss!" said the python.
The snake inched closer and closer to Randall. Its exploring tongue brushed his camera lens. Any second now Randall would get either (a) an unforgettable picture looking down a hungry python's gullet or (b) eaten.
Randall perspired, only partly because of the steamy jungle heat.
Ushti trembled, only partly because of the strain he exerted holding up Randall's weight.
The snake undulated closer and closer. Then —
BEEEEP! An electronic screech shattered the silence.
Randall cli-cli-cli-clicked the shutter desperately, trying to salvage a picture of the panicked python as it crashed downward, escaping to lower — and quieter —branches.
Ushti screamed curses in Swahili and nearly lost his grip on both Randall and the tree, because Randall was twisting his body wildly, trying to keep the retreating snake in focus.
BEEEEP sounded again. Having lost all hope of a Pulitzer-winning python portrait, Randall gradually went still. Furious at missing his shot, With a sigh, he jammed the now-useless camera inside his multi-pocketed safari vest and, with his freed hands, took hold of the tnearest ree branches. He said to Ushti, in Swahili, "Unless you want to talk to the She-Devil, yourself, you'd better pull me up."
With one super-human effort, the guide hauled Randall into a sitting position on a stout branch.
BEEEEP. The guide and Randall exchanged a look — the look of men about to be guillotined.
"She's trying to kill me," said Randall, in Swahili. Then, resigned to his fate, he held out his hand. The guide fished a mobile phone the size of a bread loaf out of his clothing (BEEEEP) and handed it to Randall, who answered it.
"Hello, Meriweather," he crooned with exaggerated sweetness, "so good of you to call, but there was really no need. I promised I would be there, and I will be there."
He listened to the caller briefly, then responded, "Well, I don't actually have an exact arrival time yet." He looked down fifty feet to the ground. "Everything's up in the air right now, but I'll be there. Don't worry, there's still plenty of time. I have to go now. The rhino is charging." He hung up before Meriweather could respond. He handed the phone back to his guide.
Ushti said, "If she truly wanted to kill you, Bwana, you would already be dead."
"Hmh," Randall agreed.
The two men began their long climb down the massivetree.
~o~~o~~o~
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Next Wednesday Chapter 2 will introduce the tattoo parlor and some of its regulars. Leave your comments below, and don't forget to punch that little gold star with your vote. I've missed you.
Iris