She knew one man, Goodman Parker, who had traveled into the jungle leaving his family an economic ruin behind him, with the hope that he might discover gold, or the fountain of youth or something to buy himself out of debt, into fortune and fame. Cutting through the rainforest of Central America, in the mist, bug-ridden and bitten, he felt himself a warrior against nature—trying to conquer Her and bring Her under control. He was, however, not much of a warrior, and spent much of the time wandering lost in circles and weeping out of shear terror. A mosquito bite cast malaria upon him, and he spent time in states of hallucination (states more profound, Mabel added, than your druggy philosophers could possibly understand). He stumbled across the Fer de Lance, one morning. A lovely morning, for the snake curled, camouflaged amid the leaves, was just starting to warm, readying to stretch herself out into hunting mode. Goodman Parker tread on her tail and she struck. He had been searching for signs of gold rather than watching for sleeping and venomous beasts. He cursed her lovely form as she strode away from him on undulating skin. A moment later, his pulmonary, capillary and venous tissues began to dissolve.
Goodman Parker and the Terciopelo (or, no matter what is on your mind watch where you step)18 07 2010