25.2
Rupert woke up with a headache and a dry mouth next to a dead alligator with tubes and plastic bottlenecks sticking out of its back. His sight was still a bit blurry from the blow, but he heard chanting nearby, and soon, he saw the man he’d been following. Efunibi was performing some sort of ritual over the gator lab carcass.
Please don’t fuck it, Rupert thought, unwanted dream images floating fuzzy somewhere in the muddle of his mind.
He tried to stand, using a tall palm for support. He didn’t feel in any condition to run away. Efunibi finished his prayer and, without looking at Rupert, adjusted the tubing, loosened and tightened bottle caps, then finally acknowledged Rupert’s presence and gestured gently for him to sit down. Rupert didn’t feel like he had much choice. With the headache compounded by the dehydration, he plopped back down to the ground.
Efunibi slid a plastic gallon jug full of water over to Rupert, who drank from it like Geddy Lee drank the Milk of Paradise. This, however, was not Xanadu. At least, he hoped not, or his image of Rush was completely blown.
After a moment of reflection on the timeless lyrics of a young Neil Peart—presumably an aftereffect to getting cracked in the head, but, let’s face it, probably not—Rupert wiped his mouth and looked at his host.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Efunibi put a finger to his own lips and his other hand cupped his ear, as if to say, Listen, can you hear that?
Rupert listened. He heard nothing. Nothing new, at least.
He shook his head no, but Efunibi nodded yes and smiled as if Rupert had heard whatever is was, then he closed his eyes and inhaled deep and loud through his nostrils.
This guy’s a crackpot. Thanks, plant.
The gator lab wasn’t exactly the most pleasant smell in the immediate vicinity. Finally, Efunibi opened his eyes and looked at Rupert in that forceful, yet comical way cartoon hypnotists look at you when they say, “You are now under my command.”
Rupert wiped his forehead and took another drink of water.
Finally, the guy spoke.
“I am Efunibi.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Efunibi was unfazed.
“What the hell happened?” Rupert continued. “How did I get here, and where the hell am I?”
Efunibi ignored Rupert and launched into a mystical sermon.
“You here to learn of Great Gift from Nature, Methamphetamine.”
“There is nothing natural about meth,” Rupert said, still replenishing his fluids and a little bothered that Efunibi spoke like Tonto, the 1930s radio sidekick to the Lone Ranger. This was a significant step down from Osceola and his dream catcher tattoo.
Efunibi frowned and looked at Rupert.
“Holy Nagai Nagayoshi isolate ephedrine compound in crystallized form from ancient Asian medicine plant, evergreen ma huang.” He pronounced ma huang with an exaggerated Japanese accent, which Rupert couldn’t tell if it was offensive or actually attempted cultural sensitivity, apart from what was already flagrant racism. This man was deeply triggering.
Rupert said nothing. Efunibi’s smile returned.
“When we enter nature, into Body of Holy Nagai Nagayoshi, who permeate All, something miraculous happen. We given heap big gift, we humble to accept.”
Rupert only thought of getting his system in order so that he could start walking out of wherever he was and getting away from this guy. What was he thinking, following him because of an idiot plant-gas-induced dream?
“Spirit of Holy Nagai Nagayoshi,” Efunibi continued, “live in body of animal.”
“Not plants?” Rupert interrupted. It threw Efunibi off a little.
“No, not so much plant. Plant something else.”
“Oh.”
“Each creature must be honored in traditional way,” Efunibi went on.
Somehow, Rupert didn’t think the traditional Japanese way of honoring a late-19th-early 20thth-century chemist was to build small meth labs into every animal that kicked it.
“Not like atrocity at marina, poor Holy manatee. Manatee heap Holy in Nagai Nagayoshi tradition.”
“Is that right?’ Rupert asked.
“That right, Kemo Sabe.”
Rupert closed his eyes and pretended he didn’t hear that. Rupert suffered from such a complete overdose of outrage, he didn’t think he could take much more, and this was impressive, considering he’d been in Florida for some time now. Not only was he shaking off the still-nauseating memory of the Bucket-exploded manatee lab, not only was he haunted by necro-bestiality dream fragments, not only was this guy calling him Kemo Sabe and talking like Tonto, but Rupert saw, now that he was up close, that Efunibi, like Osceola, was without a shred of doubt a white guy. A very tanned and leathery white man.
Rupert stared hard at Efunibi, whose real name he suspected was something like Paul, or Steve. Rupert bet he was a Steve. He opened his mouth to speak a few times, but stopped, trying to keep the angry shitstorm in his brain from spilling out onto the ground, next to the dead gator.
At FFG, they’d be deep-fryin’ this fucker, he thought, then squinted his eyes to keep the stray thoughts from wriggling their way into his cortex. How many gater sandwiches have I eaten since I got here? The dead gator stench assaulted him.
“So,” he said to get the ball rolling. “You seem to have meth labs all over the—”
“Honored Ones,” Efunibi corrected.
“Honored Ones . . . all over the city, or the county. That’s a lot of meth. Where do you sell it? How?”
Efunibi laughed longer than warranted.
“No sell, Kemo Sabe.”
He’s going to keep doing that. “Well then, what do you do with it?”
“Efunibi feed back into system, into soil, plant grow, animal eat. Circle of Life.”
Should have seen “Circle of Life” coming. Rupert didn’t want to keep talking about this, but moreover, he didn’t want to sit in an uncomfortable silence with this person. Though, he doubted Efunibi could abide by silence, since he had a somewhat captive audience. Where the hell am I?
Efunibi went on.
“Great Blue Herring—”
“Heron.”
“—eat Holy swamp grass, have heap big Holy experience. Die. Become Honored One.”
He was poisoning and killing the wildlife with meth. Fuck me.
Then, Efunibi’s offensive and remarkably screwed up discourse stopped on a dime. He looked around apprehensively and Rupert felt unsafe.
Rupert couldn’t hydrate as rapidly as needed, no matter how much he drank. He zoned out from the heat and fluid loss. Perhaps also from the stupidity overload, but then he believed he heard a buzzing sound. Then again.
Efunibi pulled out his cell phone from an inside jacket pocket to answer. The buzzing stopped.
“Hello . . . ?”
Rupert heard Joe’s small voice say “sorry,” and hang up.
Efunibi, confused, also hung up and looked at Rupert as he returned his cell from whence it came. “Wrong number.”
Rupert concluded he had hallucinated it. Maybe everything. He hoped he wasn’t in another plant-fart-induced dream state.
Efunibi had his hand cupped to his ear again. This time, Rupert thought maybe he did hear something. Something moving, maybe coming their way.
“Necropoachers,” Efunibi said, inscrutable and annoying at once.
“What?” Rupert perked up a little. “What the fuck is that?”
“Heap big wildlife in Myakka State Park,” Efunibi explained.
At least Rupert now knew where he was, narrowed down to almost sixty square miles of environmental and wildlife preservation. He also realized he was about twenty-five miles from Spanish Point.
“Fuck.”
Assuming it was this crazy Caucasian turd that knocked him out and dragged him here, that’s a little much. Rupert weighed 235 pounds. This guy was absolutely hopped up on something. As if he should wonder.
Efunibi responded to Rupert’s poignant expletive and continued.
“Yes. Necropoacher think they have true way to worship Honored One. Necropoacher wander land, search for fallen animal, defile—how you say, fuck—divine holy creature before Efunibi can honor in true way.”
Rupert was speechless.
“When Efunibi not honor fallen one, Efunibi spend day hunting Necropoacher.”
“Hunting?” He didn’t even want to know what that meant, but couldn’t help himself. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
Efunibi picked up a wooden cudgel—a piece of tree root—but then put it down again, looking to have regretted exposing Rupert to his propensity for knocking people over the head.
Rupert glared at Efunibi.
“You son of a bitch,” he said. “You thought I was going to fuck this alligator, didn’t you . . . ?”
Efunibi looked away and changed the subject.
The barking of dogs again—Rupert wondered if they were still somewhere near Spanish Point, or were these different dogs? And why didn’t Efunibi hear that? Perhaps because the dogs were still living, what with his preoccupation with carcasses.
“So, Kemo Sabe,” he said predictably. “You want be Big Chief. You want modern Nagai Nagayoshi Honor tradition, heap big.”
“How do you know about that?”
Efunibi smiled, which began to irritate Rupert.
“Plant tell Efunibi,” he said.
The Plant with No Name. That bastard.
“Yeah, so, I was supposed to come here and meet you. What great words of wisdom do you have to tell me about all that?” Rupert wanted to get out of here, sit in some air conditioning, and drink Superades for the rest of the day.
“Beneath love mound,” Efunibi said.
“What?” Rupert said, exasperated. His thoughts went to Leenda and his face grew redder, hotter. He couldn’t tell if he felt affronted by Efunibi referring to her mound, or if he was embarrassed that anyone knew how he felt about her or his aborted wet dream.
“Cave,” Efunibi went on.
“Look, pal . . . ” Rupert had had about enough of the euphemisms.
Even Efunibi was getting flustered at Rupert’s lack of understanding. He sighed.
“Cave. Beneath mound. Spanish Point.”
Rupert finally got it—it was obvious—and nodded. Efunibi stood.
“Come. Walk.”
Rupert rose shaky and unsteady on his feet. His head pounded for a moment before subsiding a little. He carried the water jug, the little that was left in it, and was glad to at least get away from the rotting, meth-producing, unfucked, Holy dead alligator.
As they meandered around the immediate area, Efunibi, in his exasperating manner of speaking, explained that D.E.A.T.H. program caverns extended all the way to Spanish Point, and that he knew of an alternative entrance there, though it was small and Rupert was “heap big.” Once the D.E.A.T.H. program workers cleared the chamber of water, which would be soon, Efunibi proposed a plan to close off the main entrance and then Rupert could begin to construct the greatest super lab the world, or at least Florida, had ever seen.
Rupert’s entire attitude changed, despite the fact that he was talking to and concocting a scheme with an absolute nutter—perhaps the most far-gone he’d come across thus far. His desire to hit it big here amongst the Florida People overrode his reason, or what remained of it.
“Power!” Efunibi said. “Heap big aphrodisiac.”
“That right, Tonto.” Rupert rubbed his hands together.
“Who Tonto? Also, meant to say, nice purse.”
Before Rupert could react, there was Osceola.
Without having noticed, they had meandered onto a well-maintained hiking trail, and Osceola looked embarrassed to be caught with a field guide and applying sunscreen.
“Osceola,” Rupert almost shouted, suddenly remembering he’d been trying to get away from this guy for—he had no idea how much time had passed.
“Rupie,” Osceola said, self-conscious and slipping the guide and sunblock into what looked to Rupert to actually be a man purse. “What are you doing out here? Didn’t think this was your bag.”
“It’s not. Mine’s a cross-body bag . . . ” Rupert began.
“Who this?” asked Efunibi.
“What?” Osceola looked to the other white, red man.
“Efunibi think he see you before.”
“Rupie, what the fuck?”
“Osceola, how do I—?” Rupert started.
“Yes. This Osceola heap big familiar.”
“Whoa, dude,” Osceola said, then to Rupert. “Is he for real? Is he Injun talkin’ me?”
“Yes, he is, both.” Rupert answered. “Now, if I take this trail—”
“Hey, asshole,” Osceola said to Efunibi. “You have any idea how fucking offensive that is to me and my People . . . ?”
Rupert stopped. He realized he was about to watch two white guys argue over what was and was not offensive to Native Americans while both claimed to be Native American, and that thought overrode other, more important things, like hydration and avoiding heat stroke. He half-expected Elizabeth Warren to come out and settle this once and for all.
“Actually, Efu,” Rupert said, “it is pretty offensive. Not that I know, not being Native American and all.”
“Efu?” Osceola sounded both amused and infuriated.
Efunibi sensed that this wouldn’t end well, so he put his hands out and shhhhh’d everyone. He cupped his ear.
Rupert rolled his eyes.
Just as the mystery dogs started barking up a storm, a mammoth ostrich crashed out from the surrounding foliage and onto the trail, its long legs stepping high and its neck gesticulating, moving like a snake’s body. Rupert thought he saw a furrowed brow, but he didn’t know if ostriches had that capability. He also didn’t realize they got this big.
It made straight for Efunibi.
For the next minute and a half, an awkward and hilarious struggle ensued. Rupert and Osceola, realizing they were not the targets and feeling safe by comparison, could do nothing but watch. Perhaps they could have helped, but it was a rather large, threatening bird. Finally, the marauding creature took a few steps back, inflated its neck, and then let out a low, but loud booming sound that perplexed everyone, and then it turned and was gone as unexpectedly as it had come.
Osceola looked as if he’d just had a Bigfoot encounter. Efunibi was shaken, but angry. Rupert recalled an Attenborough program from which he’d learned that male ostriches made that sound for mating purposes, and then he eyed Efunibi with suspicion.
When Efunibi caught his breath and put one of his feathers back into place, he shook a clenched fist, livid, and shouted: “Devil bird!” Then he turned, ran from the trail in the opposite direction of his assailant, and leapt out of sight into the thick of the jungle.
Rupert and Osceola watched him do this, saying nothing, and as Efunibi’s not-nearly-so nimble escaping sounds became fainter, Osceola turned to Rupert and said: “Man, that guy’s a fuckin’ dick.”
Sock it to me...