Bub forged on steadily through the scrublands of the north, the fabled lands of the fierce man-eating Chaca chickens, allowing himself to reach the steady loping gait he would need to sustain for weeks to reach Panama. Three days parallelling the Rio Paraguay had finally brought him to the empty wastelands of the Bolivian/Brazilian border. From there he could make his way through the swamps of the Madeira source of the Amazon, by foot and dugout canoe (he could dig out a mean canoe), and along the eastern slopes of Peru's Cordillera to Colombia. The only passable way to Bolivia would have to be through the thinly guarded Bahia Negra border crossing area.
Bub stowed his gear in the trees, ever watchful for chicken attacks. He would clandestinely cross the border tomorrow morning before dawn. The brief rain season had doused everything, and he began stripping the bark from branches to make a wet weather fire. He would dry off by the fire before securing himself in the trees to protect himself from the roving bands of nocturnal chickens that were known to strip a cow to its bones in less than an hour. An ugly sight.
Suddenly, from four sides, several platoons of very disagreeable-looking brown-uniformed border guards descended on him, howling and gesticulating. He found himself looking down the barrels of a score of thoroughly rusty but nonetheless potentially lethal M-16's. "Hmmm," he intoned to himself. "Lookin' lahk resistance be just a bit futile this go-round."
A particularly rotund and disreputable-looking official, with a footlong handlebar moustache greased by the sweat that left dinner plate sized stains under his armpits, stepped forward and clicked his heels. "Pasaporte!" he commanded crisply. A much smaller and scrawnier aide de camp, to Bub's eye the absolute spit and image of Juan F. Gonzales Quiros Guillermo Hourquescos Saldiver, nodded insolently at Bub, and snorted, equally crisply, "Passport!" Bub narrowed his eyes and gestured with his head to the Casull next to the unstarted fire, and said, "That, good buddy, is mah passport." The aide looked wideyed for a moment, turned obsequiously to the comandante, and said, "se, buen amigo, es mi pasaporte." The comandante turned contemptuously to the aide, slapped him several times, and said, "Stupid fool! I know what he said! Don't you know I speak English?? What the hell ever possessed me to let your uncle Juan yadayada put you here??"
He turned slowly to Bub. "Ahhh, yes." You must indeed be the "Bub" we are seeking then. It seems that you cause no end of tribulation and dyspepsia in our little land. One moment, let us see the charges." He eyed the aide, and snapped, "The charges." The red-cheeked aide whipped out an inch thick binder and handed it to the comandante . He began leafing through it. "Ahhh, let us see. First, homicide. Chicken. Unfortunately for you, it appears that the chicken expired on the operating table. How very unfortunate for you. Very serious. Second. Sabotage. Destruction of the entire Paraguayan Air National Guard. Big no-no. Third. Impersonating an alien lover...hmmm?" He turned to the aide. "Do we really have a regulation on that?" "Oh, Yes sir! Regulation number--" "Never mind. Oh, very well. Impersonating an alien lover. Fourth. Entering Paraguay without a visa. Fifth. Littering. Sixth. All of the above."
"Therefore, by the authority vested in me by the great Democratic Republic of Paraguay, you are hereby remanded to the custody of the district of Paratour for judgment. Sr. Juan F. Gonzales Quiros Guillermo Hourquescos Saldiver presiding. You will be transported without further delay to such location. And may god rest your soul. Have a nice day."
With that, six stout gendarmes hustled the indignant Bub and his Casull into the awaiting dull brown border guard van, and it drove off squealing tires and flinging mud all over the flustered aide. Destination -- once again -- Paratour. |
