New York! The Big Apple! The City that Never Sleeps!
Ha! Who could sleep in a place like this? A place where nature had been beaten into submission. Where the very earth herself had been wormed into with cold fingers of steel and clad in an icy shroud of concrete. Where the streets were choked with the anonymous hordes of the disinterested.
Where Nigel lived.
These were the thoughts that Jim brooded over as he slouched over the rail. The men stared nervously at his broad back. Ever since they had left Camp Discovery! Jungle Jim had been a different man. Usually he spent the evenings by the fire with the men, swapping stories, sharpening machete, darning khaki. Of course the captain of the cruise ship they had booked passage on was a bit upset when the men had lit a fire on the deck so that had put an end to that.... but even so! Jim could have at least joined them for the 1st class/3rd class shuffleboard competition! What a fiasco that had been.
No. Jim spent his time muttering to himself, wandering about the ship, glaring out at the ocean. If the men tried to approach him he would utter dark, incomprehensible declarations.* He was like AQ, except darker and infinately more capable of tearing you limb from limb. Now as they pulled into the Harbor and the men all posed for a picture as they passed the Statue of Liberty, Jim hunched over the rail, steely blue eyes riveted on the oncoming press of buildings.
The problem, of course, was Nigel.
Nigel was the Second-in-Command's brother. The two had once been thick as thieves but some trauma in the past had sundered their relationship forever. Whenever Nigel came up, Jim was sure to spend days sulking about the canopy, hacking away at whatever came in within machete's reach.** This mysterious rift between Jim and Nigel was at the heart of every harsh word in Jim's life. The men were just dying to meet him.
Once the ship had pulled into New York and the men were all assembled on the pier, Jim straightened his shoulders and turned to address his men.
"Men, I want you all to know that we're not in the Jungle anymore."
The men looked around at the urban sprawl all around them and felt pretty sure that this was true.
"I understand that some of you may never have left the jungle and seen the big city. So I've drawn up a list of things you might see here in the city and equated them to things we've seen on our travels. " With that, Jim distributed a stack of papers. They said:
taxi cab = vine
cabbie = native guide
manhole = scary doorway
streetwalker = panther woman
streetgangs, mafia = cannibals
junkies = zombies (note: do not behead, police will be angry)
and so on. It was bizarrely comprehensive.
All the men folded the lists carefully and put them into the quick-access shoulder-folder pockets they had, for quick access. They then set about unloading the cargo and getting themselves kitted. Not long into the process, an odd piebald car pulled up and a man dressed all in dark blue got out. The men looked critically at his attire. He had very functional boots, rough and ready cotton pants with cargo pockets on the thigh (though only two, I mean, what are you going to do with only two?), a really cool walkie-talking looking thing clipped to his shoulder and, as a piece de resistance an absolutely fantastic toolbet, with guns and mace and nightsticks and ammo. Almost as good as their toolbets. Which, as it turned out, was why the man was there.
"Excuse me gentlemen, NYPD. I'd like to talk to you about your equipment."
Jim looked confused (some of the men noted this with relief), "I'm sorry, in why pee dee?"
The man pulled up short and gave Jim a confused look.
"Yeah, the police."
The "police"man tried to keep talking but was drowned out by the distinctive noise of a large group of men extracting lists from quick-access shoulder-folder pockets.
Police = Soldiers of local British Garrison ( not the drunk womanizing ones, the good ones)
The men all turned helpful eyes on the policeman.
Jim said "How can we help you officer?"
The police man pointed at Jim's toolbelt.
"What's that?"
"Toolbelt."
"I see that. I meant that there on the toolbelt."
"You mean the compass?"
"No, that."
"Ah, my canteen."
"No. That."
"Voodoo fetish wanga?"
"Oh my god. No. That."
"Ah, blowtorch."
"WHAT? THAT! THE MACHETE!"
Jim looked irritated. Maybe this man was thick.
"Well, officer. It's a machete. But if you already knew what it was, why did you ask?"
The officer pursed his mouth. It wasn't a good look.
"I wanted to see if you knew what it was, lunchbox breath. You are aware that machetes are illegal to carry on the streets of New York, right?'
All the men looked shocked. Chopper Charlie spoke up.
"But what if you need to clear your way?"
This didn't seem to make the officer happy, he muttered something into his shoulder mic.
Some of the other men piped up.
"Well, Charlie, we can always blast our way through with these handy elephant guns."
"Or this dynamite!"
"OR WITH SCIENCE."
Jim sighed as more pinto cars pulled up. He knew they should have gotten a native guide.
*e.g. "You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?"
** A fact stumpy Stu knew all too well.
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