“What is happening?” questioned Rusty
“Just sit still,” replied Ellie. “I’m almost finished.”
Overnight, the burns that torched Rusty’s eyebrows had scabbed over enough so that Ellie could apply one band-aid per brow. Underneath, she subbed out Celine’s homemade ointment concoction and replaced it with some Dr. Maggie Skin Care she had found in the boat house. This was the recommended treatment for wounds on dogs—close enough in Ellie’s estimation.
Then, she painted on some eyebrows before Rusty exposed himself to the camp clientele. This proved a tad bit trickier, but as luck would have it, Ellie scored big in the boat house and located a used king-sized permanent marker. This would suffice to paint on some stylish eyebrows… albeit the color was a rich-deep royal blue.
“No,” said Rusty. “I’m not talking about the band-aids or whatever it is you’re doing—I’m talking about what’s going on between you and me.”
“Well, I’m certainly not interested in a friend with benefits sort of relationship, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Ellie. “I’ve already told you—I’m willing to see where things go. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, honestly?”
“Ok,” countered Rusty, “but what about…” And before he could finish Link came prancing into the bunkhouse. Normally, being British, he was quite polite and accommodating. But today was different. Today the casualness of Ellie, taking over Sally’s space, had pushed his Labrador buttons. Link was going to have a Dog Day Morning.
Speaking of mornings, flight exhaustion had officially set in with Team Eagle; each member of the party had been in the air so long they no longer knew if it was day or night. That being said, they slept.
Except for Hazel. She was keen on finding out what the insignia on Win’s ankle read. So, with minutes remaining before they touched down in Harare (HRE) she made her move.
Win did not appear to be getting REM sleep. No one can get that comfortable while flying, even on a private charter. But the fact that she had not twitched her reclined head in more than thirty minutes was enough of a green light for Hazel to go.
First, she stood from her seat and then quickly and quietly glided over and knelt in the aisle close enough to smell Win’s fragrance. It was a pungent—but oddly—romantically luring perfume.
Damn, not sexy like the beach, thought Hazel as she sniffed. It’s more like a heavily stained reservoir filled with algae, but seductive. Nice.
Win’s legs were crossed at the ankles which made for a nearly impossible viewing. Hazel’s option was to gently reach out, clasp behind the calf of one leg with her left hand and hoist the forefront of the ankle with her right. She lifted ever so slightly to successfully unhinge the locked legs. Or so she thought…
Eight seconds after hiking the pant leg she heard a click that released the safety on a Glock 19, and then the coolness of a barrel rested very near her temple. Regardless of being busted, it made no difference—the insignia was unidentifiable. Possibly some sort of tribal dialect, but Hazel now had a fight or flight train of thought.
“Hello,” whispered an awakened Win with a grim voice. And then mechanically—cool as a cucumber with the steadiness of the firearm— “Is there something I might help you with down there, Hazel Brown?”
At that point Hazel’s only option was to look up and shrug her shoulders. Then a voice from the past—her mother’s—spoke to her: Honesty is always the best policy. And then being the rebel that she was, Hazel lied through her perfectly polished teeth.
“Um, yeah—I think my contact popped out of my eye while I was sleeping. I thought it may have landed somewhere back here,” stated Hazel.
“Weird,” replied Win with a doubtful sideways glance. “Three rows back and across the aisle. That’s quite a launch.” Then she placed her handgun back in its shoulder holster under her sweater vest and oddly apologized for drawing on Hazel.
“Sorry, you know I’m not used to having someone massage my feet, if that’s what you intended,” she said with a sarcastic chuckle. “And I’m also sorry for the jerk reaction with the gun. Just trained reflex, I guess. But if it’s the tattoo you’re interested in, it would have been easier to ask me about it.”
“Ok, I will—what gives with the insignia?” asked Hazel. “I get the part with the river dragon, but what’s with the writing?”
“His flesh is ours,” replied Win in a serious tone. “A sacred belief from the region in which I was raised.”
“So, all this about the Nyami Nyami—the Zambezi River God—you’re a believer?”
“As I told Eagle One,” said Win, “you must be willing to do anything if I am to be your fishing guide. And then we will have a chance to win this tournament.”
“Well, for me, winning’s not always everything,” countered Hazel.
“But dying is… Just ask Sage Golden.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?” asked Hazel.
“I’m talking about an individual who is on a top-secret list that is known by very few. Did you know she comes from the darkest streets of Sicily? Or that her real name is actually Carmela Riptide Pescatore? That’s right, Hazel… she is THE daughter of mobster Biggy The Boat Pescatore. A name that I’m quite certain will resonate with Sally Squatsnfishes.”
“Win, why are you telling me this? Are you really talking about winning a fishing tournament, or are you threatening that someone on Team Eagle is going to die?”
Speaking of death… our camp mascot Link was currently showing his crooked teeth and producing his best version of a guttural growl, that a less than a year-old puppy could muster. Ellie had moved in on sacred territory… Sally was no longer sitting next to Rusty on his bed… and Link was not having it.
After his fourth bark, followed by a continuous growl, Rusty stood from the bed and pointed a stern index finger in the dog’s direction. “Ok… that’s quite enough, young man… you need to go outside,” instructed the master to his student.
But instead… Link misunderstood the command and took the physical gesture and the voice as a direct admission to proceed and attack Ellie at her bedside location.
The paws came up first… all four… and before you could say Celine don’t mix that muskrat meat in the chocolate pudding… he was imposing his doggy will by jumping up on the chest of Ms. Waylayer.
“Link, what the heck has gotten into you?” hissed Rusty. “Get down, right now,” and he grabbed Link’s collar with enough force to twist him to the floor. Unfortunately, Rusty went with him.
As the two tumbled to the turf… the fur flew… the band-aids were pushed to the temples… and somehow in the mix Link came out on top of the true to life doggy pile. Rusty then called uncle and returned Link’s aviators cap which had somehow inadvertently ended up spun backwards on his head.
“Now I remember why I faked that twisted ankle to get out of junior high wrestling,” Rusty muttered to himself while pulling up off the floor.
Then, with more bark than bite Link bolted for the door. “It’s ok, Rusty. Really, I get it. Let him go,” said Ellie. “I’m certainly walking a tight rope by being here. Unless like Link… you’d rather I be Sally.”
–To Be Continued–
Rusty Flathers 