While paddling my custom made, streamlined four-seater canoe up the New Nile River, just inside the war-torn borders separating Buffalo from Toronto, a sudden movement within the tree line on the left bank caught my attention.
Slowly drifting to a stop, I quietly set the hand break and sat back, focusing intently on the forest. Waiting. Watching. That’s when I noticed the eerie silence – no buzzing monkeys, no howling mosquitoes – which was disconcerting, being the middle of the lunch rush and all.
Bubbles burbled a few feet from my boat – like a melodic hippo fart in the night – momentarily distracting me. This nearly caused me to miss the long, sleek form that launched from the vibrant green treetops like those German engineered Tomahawk missiles favored by the Uto-Aztecan Ground Patrol during the Battle of 1492, when they fought bravely against the Texican Republican Army deep within the Himalayan Mountain ranges of Northeastern Greenland.
Raising my arms and bracing myself for impact, the unidentified ballistic projectile instead hit the water – hard – like a fat dude doing a belly flop. KER-SPLAT!!!
Seconds later, the dingy water muddied and began roiling like a pot of Grandfather’s Five Alarm chili left on the stove (or in your gut!) for too long.
Seconds later a long, green snout broke the surface but was quickly replaced by a large orange head. Over and over the two shapely appendages exchanged positions, until at last, they submerged a final time.
After what felt like hours – but was merely minutes – a huge, nappy-furred Bengal tiger with leathery black wings crawled from the water and up the riverbank. In its jaws dangled the bloody, limp body of an archosaurian aerialis – more commonly known as the flying alligator – an indigenous species often found inhabiting the snowcapped peaks of the North Indies, and distant cousin to the recently extinct, emu poaching winged crocodile last found in the Napa Valley region, on the uninhabited island of Detroit.
That’s when it hit me: The flying gator had actually protected me from the flying tiger, who, unbeknownst to me, had been stalking me from beneath the waves. That ugly, sickly green, cracked leathery hided creature was a hero. A hero who’d nobly sacrificed its precious life to save mine, its mortal enemy. Well, one of many, many mortal enemies. I mean, nobody likes those ferocious things, what with their massive jaws, huge sharp teeth, and cold, lifeless eyes. My body gave an involuntary shiver, shaking me from my momentary mental digression.
Taking advantage of the tiger’s distraction with its newly acquired meal, I kicked the canoe into gear and continued paddling upstream.
Several clicks later, I hung a left into the Colorado River, took an immediate right into the Mid-Atlantic Tributary, before turning off into Lake Cattywompus, where our humble suburban village is discretely located.
While I offloaded the canned goods and artichokes I’d pilfered during my journey, Donny Ten Beers informed me that one of the four neighboring tribes (he couldn’t remember which one) was hosting a potluck shindig on Saturday to welcome back the full moon, and invited me to speak on the current state of our Earth Mother, as I did the most traveling of all the People.
I was torn on this offer as a month earlier, while dating one of the local Chief’s eldest granddaughters, Anita Goodlay, I somehow found myself alone in a sweat house with her younger sister, Baited Hook. Only I didn’t have any pants on.
Nothing happened, I swear! But try explaining that to a drunk, jealous girlfriend who’d provided some disturbingly graphic details about how she was gonna emasculate me the next time we crossed paths. Not only that, her little sister has been blowing up my phone ever since.
Yeah, probably a good idea to take a raincheck – especially for a late-night powwow being held during a full moon!
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