ou swallow, hard and dry. Why not get a drink? Plus, Pierce might need to seek medical attention for this excessive sweating. You head back through the gloom, guided by a growing chorus of hoots, chirps, and ululations of all the creatures of the jungle.
As you step out into the muted light, you realize that something is wrong. Everything is hushed. Like it’s holding its breath.
“What are you wai–” inquires Pierce, his sentence cut short by the evil-looking arrow birthed from his neck.
Above Pierce’s sputters and gurgles you hear myriad grunts from all directions. From behind ferns and up from under the tortured roots of mangroves appears a tribe of savage men, shirtless, their abs twitching in grotesque synchronicity. Their hair stands straight up, bewitched by dark magick–or at least hair gel with extra strong hold. They have you surrounded. There is nowhere to run.
A leader emerges. He points a cell phone at himself and clicks a picture of his shirtless body. Turning towards you, he utters words which chill you:
“Sup girl? You look sexxyyyy lol”
You have no choice but to go out on dates with them for all eternity. You sit and meet a procession of their “bros,” each one a better, closer, and more important bro than the last. You scream but no one pays you any attention.