–Season 3 Episode 31— “Fight or Flight”
What an odd sort…. Rusty, Tawny, Cos, Ellie…. Sitting about the campfire ring in broad daylight staring into an empty firepit with their hands and legs bound by black UV nylon zip ties from Canadian Tire. No sense gagging their ability to cry like a lake gull, howl like a timber wolf, or wail a compilation of loon calls—these four amigos were under close range gunpoint on a remote island in the Canadian Wilderness with no one within miles of earshot.
Their opportunity for “Fight or Flight” had passed. Now it was time to listen.
“Pay attention,” said Shorty Short with his finger near the trigger, “We’re here for those Kraken eggs, and to find out which one of you killed our mother. Now the sooner we get answers, the less painful it’s going to be for each of you.”
With that bit of shared instruction, he then pointed his Glock 17 directly at Tawny’s shinbone as they sat directly opposite each other and queried, “Now how about you Ms. First Nations Lady? You seem to have no good will toward Sally Squatswithfishes based on what I was seeing earlier in that wrestling stand-off, maybe you know something about what’s been going on in these islands?”
“Dude, first it’s Squatsnfishes… And you’re five foot nothing… With a gun from a pawn shop… Here’s what I can tell you…. Go piss up a rope…. And if you don’t turn me loose there’s gonna be a whole band of Ojibwe looking to hang you like a piece of venison over a smoldering fire,” she growled.
The Glock 17 sounded off with a loud CRACK and the bullet pierced the sand between her feet. Tawny did not flinch. It was Rusty who called out, “Hey—Whoa—Let’s Talk This Out!” while trying to compute if Shorty Short was aiming at her shinbone and missed or purposefully was volleying a warning shot for all to witness.
“Done talking,” smirked Shorty Short. “Maybe it’s you Flathers who wants a bullet in the guts?!”
Rusty was most definitely not interested…. Not even faintly—remotely—marginally…. Heck, he didn’t even like to play “FLINCH” when sitting on the pine bench back in his Babe Ruth Baseball playing days.
This was decades before Big League Chew bubble gum. A misfit crowd of 13- to 15-year-olds would sit in the dugout chewing grown up tobacco products and blast each other’s shoes. Rules of FLINCH:
(A) Each player sits shoulder to shoulder on the bench facing the playing field, as to show that you are paying attention to the game, when you are not.
(B) Next, you swish a jaw breaking amount of chaw around in your mouth—CAREFUL—you don’t want that going down the gullet.
(C) Then, you are allowed one free spit toward your teammate’s shoe (player allowed to spit first is based on prior game of Rock-Paper-Scissors (again performed facing the field of play, as if you are interested in what’s happening on the diamond).
(D) If your opponent moves their feet, or “FLINCH” at any time during the dropping of drool, then you get a FREE spit of which you may take full advantage of that leaf tobacco—conjure up a massive amount of liquid—spray the bejesus out of his white Adidas cleats.
(E) If you hit your opponent with the mouthful of spraying juices and they do not “FLINCH”, then your opponent is allowed one FREE spit toward your shoes (in which case you must remain frozen)—Or you may choose a second option of letting them slug you in the shoulder with a closed fist (again, your call as the original spitter, not the choice of the spittee).
(F) Somedays you win—somedays you lose—somedays it rains. Regardless of the outcome of “FLINCH” please continue to view the playing field from your splintered seat inside the blazingly hot dugout, and for god’s sake listen to your coach (generally someone’s Uncle Bob) and “QUIT THROWING THE ROCKS from the gravely floor onto the field!”
Rusty once believed that if you lost three straight games of FLINCH, you would die within the month. This was a falsity bestowed upon him by cousins Skip and Scoop. Of which Scoop did vanish for a period of seven days after losing three straight games but turned up later confessing to having a second successful outbreak of chickenpox.
“Now, how about those Kraken eggs?” continued Shorty Short. “Are they where we think, under the boathouse? Who wants to talk, or who wants a bullet.
This made Rusty’s stomach churn—He couldn’t recall if he’d had breakfast that morning, and he certainly didn’t know a thing about Kraken eggs.
His initial thought was, “This short dude with the hair trigger…. Is he speaking metaphorically about the eggs? Or were they something you could scramble? Omega-3’s? Why am I so hungry right now?”
“Alright,” continued Shorty Short, “Ya’ll have TEN seconds to start talking, or the old man (Professor Scale) takes a bullet!”
Tawny instantly spouted off like a teapot to stall for more time. “Cool, that gives me nine seconds to decide if you’re a prick, because you’re vertically challenged, or if it’s the fact that you have one eyebrow. You do know there’s such a thing as an esthetician.”
With the group hogtied around the firepit…. Hazel Brown and Too Tall busied themselves inside the boathouse pulling boards from the floor. Earlier, when he and Shorty Short came in under the darkness of scuba gear, they had identified what appeared to be a molded brick structure, about the size of a chimney, that stretched from the bottom of the lake up to the floor of the building.
As boards were pried and popped loose, Hazel’s head spun with “What next!” thoughts.
“Should I pull my Glock and blow his brains out right now…. No, that would alert Shorty Short…. What if this isn’t where the Kraken eggs are hidden…. Stay alive, keep searching…. Why did he have to shoot Sally…. She’s EAGLE ONE, not me…. Am I a double-agent or a triple-agent…. Yes, definitely a double.”
Understandably, this was not a Fight or Flight moment for Hazel. At least not yet. Her time for FIGHT would come.
When the last board was removed, her order of operation suddenly became crystal clear, considering all previous happenings since the float plane had landed: secure the eggs—kill Too Tall—rescue the troops—recover Sally’s dead body.
–To Be Continued—