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Corporate Jungle (Chapter 1) Generalisimo

February 14, 2011


                                                 CORPORATE JUNGLE

                                                        A Novella


                                                          Yoly Solis

            Sunshine glistens over dense foliage…suffocating humidity, thick
             enough to slice through, saturates the air. Exotic birds, creatures
             of the jungle cry out…occasional rustle of leaves breathes life into the
             It’s beautiful…from a distance.
             At the base of a hill sits a make-shift camp.
             A middle-aged Americano sits strapped to a chair. His white
             linen shirt torn, stained by mud, blood…his left eye
             swollen shut.
             He moans.
             Ring, ring…
             A Guerrillero, sporting a scraggly beard, olive-green
             fatigues, snatches a satellite phone.
                                Si.  Se lo dire.
             He hangs up, approaches…
             Generalisimo, a beast of a man, sits on a be-jeweled,
             gold-lathered, Luis XV knock-off throne. He wears fatigues,
             medals from a secret war pinned to his wide chest. Above an
             impeccably trimmed beard, shine emerald-green eyes. Above
             his forehead…a mirror-shiny, Elvis quiff ’do.
             A black Spider Monkey squeals, dances for Generalisimo. He
             reaches over, pets it gently.
             Guerrillero salutes…
                           Generalisimo, llego el dinero.
             Generalisimo nods…stands…
             A crowd of Guerrilleros gather around the tied-up
             Americano. Hushed silence.
             Generalisimo towers over the captive; his shadow drapes
             over the man’s brutalized body.
             Americano lifts his head with effort, peeks through his one
             good eye.
                           The ransom money has arrived.

             Americano blows out a long breath…a tear races down his
             cheek. He parts parched lips…
                           Will you…release me?
             Generalisimo nods to guerrilleros…they untie him. He
             falls off the chair,rolls in the mud…slowly, painfully,
             lifts himself up.
                           Can I get a ride to the
                           airport…por favor?
                           We are nothing if not gracious
                           hosts.  May I offer you a glass
                           of cognac while we await
             A Native, wearing Prince Valiant hair, bone-threaded
             necklace and not much else, shoves potato-like chunks into
             his mouth…
             He chews, spits out a gooey mouthful into a cognac
             snifter…saliva saturated white guck oozes down the
             snifter’s glass side. He holds out the glass.
             Americano reaches for the saliva cocktail…his hand shakes.
                           Salud, señor Yankee Doodle.
             Americano closes his eyes, downs the spit elixir on one
             gulp… A painful swallow.
             Americano rocks side to side; eyes drop to his crotch.
                           Uh…may I use the facilities?
             Generalisimo nods.
             Americano stumbles towards a tent–inside sits a gold-
             lathered toilet…
             Guerrilleros block the entrance. Americano looks back at
             Generalisimo…lumbers to the river bank…

             Reaches for his zipper…
                           We do not care to see Señor
                           Yankee’s doodle.
             Americano nods, wades waist-deep inside river’s murky
             waters…prepares to relieve himself.
             Generalisimo nods to Native. Native grabs a jar–inside
             slithers a dozen two-inch, semi-transparant, eel-like
             Guerrilleros cringe.
             Americano begins to relieve himself. Native tosses open jar
             into the water. PLOP!
             Americano looks back…soldiers cover their eyes, coil in
             UNDERWATER: Urine saturates the river…slimy creatures
             race into the urine stained fog…right into his…
             AHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHH!
             The jungle screams back at Americano’s deafening cries.
             Americano leaps out of the water, grabs his genitals, rolls
             on the ground in agony…
                           I see you have met the Candiru.
                           Some call it the vampire fish.
                           Some call it…nightmare death.
             Americano opens his mouth, but can only gasp…
                           They are attracted to the scent
                           of ammonia. In the jungle, no
                           one pees in the mighty river.
             Guerrilleros mumble, shake their heads…Hell no!
                           Once inside the walls of your
                           urethra, they dig in with sharp
                           prongs, and eat…voraciously.

             Soldiers grab their crotches…
             So does monkey…ECH!
             Generalisimo towers over Americano’s writhing body…
                           It will be a slow, painful
                           death. May take days, possibly
                           weeks…but it will feel like
                           a century.
                           Since I am a gracious host, I
                           will give you a choice…
             Generalisimo slides out his side-arm…detaches its
             magazine, discards the bullets, save for one. He tosses
             Beretta to the ground, next to Americano.
             Through the fog of pain, Americano’s mind races…one
             Soldiers firmly grasp their crotches, nod in fervent
             agreement–do it!
             Americano slides a trembling hand towards the gun, the
             other fixed on his agonizing genitals…shaky, gun-
             clutching hand rises…meets Generalisimo’s gaze.
             Generalisimo doesn’t flinch.
                           A century, Señor Yankee Doodle.
             Americano struggles to stand, gun wavers, but still points
             at Generalisimo’s head. Generalisimo smiles.
             BLAM! Gun fires…
             Bullet hole sits dead center on Americano’s forehead…
             He drops to the ground…
             Blood trickles out…drips down his face, head…jungle mud
             sucks up its sticky remnants.

            To be continued…

*No part of this novella may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author.    


2 Comments leave one →
  1. February 14, 2011 10:39 pm

    wow….. what an ending… and just when its getting good… to be continued… asi sabemos que somos mexicanos…. como las Novelas!! Hehehe Good One Corona… Congrats!

    • MEXICAN HEART...ATTACK! permalink*
      February 16, 2011 6:42 pm

      Gracias y gracias for reading, Cindy! This isn’t my story…this is Yoly’s…

      Corona : )

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