A Fearsome Predicament

A Fearsome Predicament (1)

It’s funny, most people, thinking themselves light years away from death, actually continue to fear it in a wide capacity. Yet, when the beast looks you straight in the eye, you might hardly shrug it off as a minor annoyance and continue on until it has you in the vice of it’s jaws. And even then, acceptance of your revealed fate takes but a fraction of the time and thought seen in the pondering of your destiny. It is to this, the acceptance, that which I now write. Not merely to proclaim it, you see, but actually to give it an outlet, a means to breath, and of a way of spending my last , maddening hours , in this subterranean Earth!I won’t bore you with the petty details, as they are both laborious for me and irrelevant to you. I will tell you that my name is Finster Powell, and I have come to the jungles of South America to look for the famous caves of Buddahinta. I’m sure you’ve heard the reports, the stories, the news snippets about the mysterious caverns that adorn the country side. Many a man has ventured in, looking for a small piece of its illuminating character, in the form of a precious jewel not known anywhere else in this, such a mysterious World as is ours. I love good mystery, as you know.My arrival was met with both parts disdain and reverence. The locals, lovely little brown people that laugh at most everything I say, welcomed me with open arms and odd tasting foods the likes of which any man would usually keel over in disgust, had he not the composure of such an educated and quite frankly, international man. It seemed that the ones who saw my expedition as nothing less than a "rich man, raping the poor villagers" (as one chap proclaimed) were likewise the same that had journeyed with me in years past, my jealous constituents, bitter about longstanding feuds over money and

A Fearsome Predicament (2)

other trivial matters. So if not money, to which I risk my life in such a way, why then? I tell you, the three P’s account for my action: Power. Prestige. Pride.You would have congratulated me upon my arrival back on the isle. You would have approached me at the party, held in my honor and at none other than the esteemed Sir Langston’s Manor. You, the one with a smirk of adulation and two glasses of a fine vintage (both for me), would have struck me adoringly on the back and shout aloud "Good Job, old Boy!" and I would say " very much, I thank you, but my work has just begun." Then you would laugh, and order two crisp martini’s (you, for some reason, aren’t thirsty as I proceed to extinguish both). Oh yes, I can see it now, but how wonderful the atmosphere and culture of the tiny village I stayed in was. The trip to the mouth of the predominant cave was breathtaking. The bright sun shone down, through the leaves of the forest jungle, and the rays danced among the critters that raced through my vision. The mist from the nearby waterfall splashed over my dry face, producing a sense of euphoria as I scanned what was supposed to be my home for the next five days. Oh, how plans are so crudely fashioned, leaving too much room for difference. The guano stunk like a million deaths, yet it welcomed me like it’s fellow natives; silent but loudly.