by Carl Hiaasen
NOON-ANGLE FROM HELICOPTER-high above the Everglades.
A dark speck is moving ant-like through the endless, shimmering marsh. Gradually the aerial camera ZOOMS CLOSER AND CLOSER on our lone figure, sloshing and slashing through the dense grass.
It’s DEREK BADGER. He is plainly exhausted from his hike, dripping sweat. His cargo pants are filthy and torn, and his shirt is unbuttoned to the waist.
CUT TO CLOSE-UP with a Steadicam, moving side by side with DB.
DEREK: I’ve been fighting my way through this swamp for four, possibly five hours straight-I’ve lost track of the time. The heat is virtually unbearable, and the mosquitoes are so thick that I have to stop every few minutes to cough them out of my lungs!
You can see why they call this place a river of grass. But it’s not the same soft green grass that’s growing in your backyard. Check this out-
Derek bends down and breaks off a piece of saw grass, which he holds up for the camera.
CUT TO CLOSE-UP of Derek’s forefinger as he slides the edge of the grass blade across his skin, drawing blood.
DEREK: See? Like a barber’s razor! They don’t call it saw grass for nothing.
He licks the droplet from his finger and continues his lonely trek…
DEREK: Time is running out. It’s absolutely essential that I locate a safe place to build a small fire and dry out these soggy clothes, hopefully before the sun goes down. That’s when the predators come out-alligators, panthers, bears and pythons big enough to devour a full-grown man!
As always, I’ve brought no food or water on this expedition. Everything I eat and drink-and, believe me, I’m bloody famished-will come from the natural bounty of this savage but magnificent wilderness.
CUT TO MEDIUM SHOT: Derek digs into a pocket and pulls out a Swiss army knife and a plastic straw.
DEREK: See? This is all I brought-my trusty Swiss knife and a clean straw. Two simple-but essential-tools of survival.
DB marches on.
CUT TO STEADICAM SHOT from Derek’s point of view, the saw grass flattening ahead of him as he trudges forward.
DEREK’S VOICE (surprised and hushed): Whoa! What was that?
CUT BACK TO MEDIUM SHOT OF DEREK, as still as a statue. He’s peering with great intensity into the brown, shin-deep water.
DEREK (whispering): I just felt something slither between my ankles! It was either an eel or a snake, hopefully not a poisonous one. The Everglades is literally crawling with deadly cottonmouth moccasins. One bite, even from a baby, and I could be a dead man.
Ah! There it goes again!
Derek drops to his knees with a splash. He stabs both arms into the murky water, probing and groping until…
DEREK: Gotcha!!!
He pops to his feet, holding up a very confused, very angry.
DEREK: Crikey, what a feisty little bugger.
CUT TO CLOSE-UP OF THE …
, writhing and snapping.
DEREK: I’m afraid it’s not your lucky day, mate.
Dangling the, he turns to look into the camera.
DEREK (triumphantly): Dinner!
CUT TO MEDIUM SHOT OF DEREK, turning a shoulder to the camera as he twists the neck of the, killing it instantly.
He coils its limp body and places it in a pocket of his cargo pants. Then he resumes his journey.
DEREK (somberly): I get no pleasure from taking the life of any wild creature, but if I don’t eat, I won’t have the strength to keep going. When you’re in a desperate survival situation, you must do whatever it takes to stay alive.
Hovering above, the helicopter-mounted CAMERA pulls back its focus until once again Derek is a speck on the savanna, which unfolds in all directions as far as the eye can see. He is completely alone…
Wahoo slapped the script closed. “I can’t show this to Pop. He’ll go ballistic.”
Tuna looked bothered. “What kind of animal is the blankety-blank supposed to be?”
“Whatever’s handy. A snake, a frog, a turtle-you’ve seen the show. Derek always fries up something.”
They were hunkered by the dwindling campfire and using the flashlight for reading. Mickey Cray snored in his tent.
“I watch his show every week,” said Tuna, “and I never knew the whole thing was written out beforehand. I thought all that stuff just, you know, happened.”
Wahoo had to remind himself that most people had no idea how nature programs were produced. Lots of time and money were spent making every animal encounter appear spontaneous and real, even though the scenes were carefully planned in advance.
“Derek’s probably piggin’ out on a big juicy steak at the hotel tonight,” Tuna said morosely.
“And a humongous slice of Key lime pie.”
“Then why does the script say he’s gotta go kill a blankety-blank for food?”
“Because,” Wahoo said, “that’s one of the things he’s famous for.”
Tuna planted her chin in her hands. “All those times on TV when he swallowed some little mouse or salamander, I thought he was really starving. Am I stupid or what?”
“You’re not stupid. They don’t exactly advertise what goes on behind the scenes.”
Wahoo stood up to stretch. He was still stuffed from their modest camp dinner of hot dogs, black beans and rolls. For dessert Mickey had handed out Chips Ahoy cookies.
Tuna said, “Your old man’s not gonna go along with this scam, is he? Trap some poor old snake or toad just so Derek can cook it up on the show?”
“Not Pop. No way.”
“Good!”
“It’s late. I’m going to bed,” Wahoo said.
“I might stay up and read some more.”
“Are you sure you want to?”
Tuna nodded. Her brown eyes were bright and intent in the amber glow of the fire.
He handed her the flashlight and the script. “Remember, it’s just show business.”
“Not to me,” she said.
When Derek Badger became agitated, he sometimes misplaced his fake Australian accent.
“You call this a lobster?” he snarled at the attendant who delivered his dinner to the hotel room. “I’ve eaten bloody shrimp that were bigger!”
The man mumbled an apology, covered the tray with a silver lid and rolled the cart out the door.
“And next time bring me a real one from Maine,” Derek barked after him.
The star of Expedition Survival! was marinating regally in the Jacuzzi, which had a grand window view of Biscayne Bay and the Miami skyline. All evening he’d been thinking about the Everglades show-specifically, how to make it the most thrilling, hair-raising episode in the history of reality TV.
Derek was highly motivated to do something spectacular. His contract with the Untamed Channel expired soon, and his agent was bargaining to get him a new three-year deal for a lot more money.
And he definitely needed it. During the off-season, he’d purchased a ninety-nine-foot yacht that was currently being refurbished at a boatyard in West Palm Beach. Among the additions were a billiard parlor, a mini-movie theater and a gymnasium that Derek probably would never use. It was an extremely expensive project, more expensive than he’d ever dreamed. Just painting a new name on the yacht’s transom-he was calling it the Sea Badger — cost eighteen hundred bucks.
Those cheap weasels at the network had offered to renew Derek’s contract with a 10 percent raise that he considered highly insulting, and well below what was necessary to maintain the proper lifestyle of an international television star (and now yachtsman). That’s why the Everglades episode had to be his best ever, a blockbuster. Then, fearing that another outdoor show might try to hire him away, the suits at the Untamed Channel would have no choice but to accept Derek’s extravagant demands.
The scene with Alice the alligator had turned out marvelously terrifying-by now Derek had replayed the clip at least twenty times-and he felt inspired to make the rest of the program equally memorable. Lolling in the Jacuzzi tub, watching the je
ts of water make his belly quiver like a bowl of vanilla pudding, he envisioned many future talk-show appearances for himself, captivating Jay Leno or Anderson Cooper with breathtaking tales from the Florida swamp.
Most people who were nearly drowned by a twelve-foot gator would feel grateful to be alive and not eager to repeat the foolhardy behavior that had gotten them into that situation. No such contemplations entered the mind of Derek Badger as he sipped French wine and admired through soapy toes the twinkling lights of downtown Miami. His reckless brush with death actually made him feel invincible.
Ironhearted.
Indestructible.
“Here’s to Alice,” he said, raising his glass in a private toast.
The decision not to use any more of Mickey Cray’s animals was risky, but risk was exactly what Derek desired. He knew that wild critters were more aggressive and unpredictable than captive ones. The disappointing python scene was a prime example-Cray’s lazy snake was about as fierce as a garden hose.
To capture maximum drama on video, Derek wanted the real deal, wild and raw. The caution and common sense that would govern the actions of a clear-thinking person were in his case overpowered by a blinding hunger for more fame and wealth.
He was very much looking forward to being poked, stung, scratched, clawed, chewed and chomped by authentic denizens of the Everglades.
And he would get his wish.
THIRTEEN
Wahoo was accustomed to his father’s snoring, which sounded like a dump truck stripping its gears. That’s not what awakened him.
It was a dream about Tuna.
Her dad was furiously chasing her around the Walmart parking lot, and Wahoo was trying to tackle him so she could get away. In the dream, Tuna’s father had no face-only a slab of pocked gray flesh where his mouth, nose and eyes should have been. Wahoo’s imagination simply couldn’t picture a man who would try to harm his daughter that way.
Wahoo crawled from his sleeping bag and emerged from the tent he shared with his father. A light rain had fallen overnight, and the sky remained overcast. The sun had been up for an hour, but the air beneath the tree canopy was cool and funky-smelling from the exotic vegetation. In the distance, a great blue heron croaked defiantly.
Mickey Cray arose with a series of wolverine snuffles. Anticipating a demand for hot coffee, Wahoo restarted the campfire. There was no breeze, and the mosquitoes were delighted to see him. Tuna came out of her tent, mumbled a sleepy “G’morning” and sat down cross-legged on the ground.
Wahoo’s father noticed the script in her hands and asked, “What’re you readin’, hon?”
“Shakespeare,” she answered, casually flipping over the script to hide the title page. “I’m playing Ophelia in a summer production of Hamlet.”
Wahoo was impressed by her quick thinking and the classy-sounding fib.
“Shakespeare, huh?” said Mickey, with no shred of interest. He reached for the pot of coffee. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any more of those headache pills, would ya?”
Tuna said, “I’ll trade you two of ’em for a cup of that java.”
“Fair enough.”
“Pour one for me, too,” said Wahoo.
Mickey laughed. “Since when do you drink this stuff?”
“Take your pills, Pop.”
Tuna suggested that they go get breakfast at the main camp, from which tantalizing smells wafted through the bay trees. Wahoo’s father again insisted on cooking, a humble but tasty serving of bacon and powdered eggs. He said that dining with Derek Badger would ruin his appetite.
Soon they heard airboats, which meant that the crew of Expedition Survival! was preparing to load the gear and ride to the location of the opening scene. Tuna, Wahoo and Mickey hurried through the woods and joined up with the others, who were filling canteens with cold water from a fifty-gallon cooler and stuffing their pockets with granola bars. Raven Stark was there, though Derek had not yet arrived.
It took a while to pack the equipment and get everybody seated. Tuna, Wahoo and his dad were assigned to ride with Link, who wasn’t exactly overjoyed to see them.
“Not you,” he growled from the driver’s platform.
Tuna gave a friendly little wave. “Play nice,” she said, and wedged herself safely between Wahoo and Mickey.
Link poked Wahoo’s father in the back. “I keep my eye on you. We clear?”
Mickey ignored him. Wahoo looked up and said, “We are absolutely clear.”
“Clear as a church bell,” Tuna added.
The ride lasted longer than Wahoo had expected, the three airboats flattening pathways through a prairie of tall saw grass that hadn’t been crossed in a long time-at least not by humans. After almost an hour, the lead boat carrying the show’s director halted at the edge of a wide-open pond that was teeming with dragonflies and wading birds called purple gallinules. The other boats stopped in the same place, and all the passengers removed their earmuffs.
A walkie-talkie attached to Link’s belt began to crackle with instructions. Wahoo recognized the director’s voice.
“Four minutes,” he announced. “Be ready.”
In the first boat, a cameraman scrambled to position himself on the bow. At the front of the second boat stood Raven, wearing a flamingo-pink sun hat as wide as a sombrero. Derek Badger was nowhere to be seen.
“Where the heck is he?” whispered Tuna.
Mickey snickered. Wahoo pointed to an object in the sky. It was a helicopter approaching rapidly from the east, the thwock-a-thwock of its rotors growing louder.
“He’s gonna do the Jump!” Tuna exclaimed. “Sweet.”
Parachuting into the wilderness was one of Derek’s signature moves, although other TV survivalists occasionally used the same stunt. The difference was that Derek insisted on jumping from the aircraft while blindfolded. This was not only dumb but also pointless, as Wahoo’s father remarked whenever they watched the program.
The chopper slowed down until it froze in a hover high above the fleet of airboats. A familiar-looking figure could be seen at the open door, his boots braced on the skid. Poised beside him was another man aiming a video camera.
“Five,” said the voice coming over Link’s handheld radio, “four, three, two, one… and action!”
The figure let go of the helicopter and dropped free, spreading his limbs like a spider. A moment later the chute opened, a green-striped starburst against the drab background of gray clouds. Mickey cupped his hands over his forehead to better follow the path of the glide.
“I told ya!” Tuna said excitedly. “Look at him fly!”
Wahoo anticipated a clumsy landing, but the parachute came in softly and right on target, fluttering to rest in the center of the pond.
“Cut!” the director shouted into his walkie-talkie. “That was brilliant! Now let’s go get him.”
All three airboats blasted off in unison; nobody had time to fit on their earmuffs. Link was the first to get there. He cut the engine and coasted on a line toward the billow of silk. Wahoo could see that Derek had successfully detached himself from the parachute and was treading water.
Link stepped past the other passengers and poised himself for the retrieve. Once he was within reach, he grabbed the straps of Derek’s skydiving pack and hoisted him aboard. Everybody applauded except Wahoo and his father.
Because it wasn’t really Derek. It was a professional stuntman whose safari shirt had been padded with foam and whose hair had been dyed orange-blond to match that of the TV star.
As soon as the stuntman peeled off his blindfold, Tuna stopped clapping and her face fell.
The director called out, “Nice job, Ricky!”
“Easy ride,” said the stuntman.
He was at least ten years younger and thirty pounds lighter than Derek, and his tan looked real-not sprayed on.
“Did you know about this?” Tuna demanded of Wahoo. “Did you know the Jump was bogus?”
Wahoo said, “I swear I didn’t.” But he
wasn’t all that surprised.
“Okay, people, heads up!” The director raised both hands clasped together, as if aiming a gun.
The helicopter had looped back around and was slowly descending toward the airboats gathered in the pond. A large metal basket with a man inside was being lowered on a cable. The man was dressed the very same way as the parachutist, and his pudgy bare legs dangled through the canvas webbing of the basket.
“Pathetic,” Tuna said.
As the chopper dropped lower, the gusts from its whirling blades churned the surface of the pond and made the lily pads flutter and shimmy. When the dangling basket was almost touching the water, the real Derek Badger stood up, tied on his blindfold and hopped out.
The helicopter shot straight up, dragging the basket out of the scene.
“Action!” barked the director, and the cameraman in the front of his boat resumed taping, zooming in on the now-swimming figure.
On cue, Derek began grunting dramatically with each stroke. Within seconds he’d managed to tangle himself in the cords of the waterlogged parachute.
“Help!” he gasped.
The director responded with an enthusiastic, upraised thumb.
“No, I’m bloody serious,” Derek bleated. “Somebody help me before I drown!”
“Cut!” Raven Stark shouted. “Cut! Cut!”
“Okay,” the director said impatiently. “Let’s cut.”
Mickey Cray looked quite amused when he turned to Wahoo and Tuna.
“His Phoniness has arrived,” he said.***
The director called a short break before the big scene in which Derek would trek alone across the saw grass plain. Having seen the script, Wahoo knew what was coming. His father didn’t.
“Yo, Mr. Cray!” the director shouted. “Can we have a word?”
The other airboat drew closer, and Mickey stepped aboard. The meeting was brief. Mickey slipped into the waist-deep water and motioned for Wahoo to do the same.
As they waded through the lily pads, Wahoo said, “They need a snake, right?”
“In fifteen minutes. How’d you know?”
“What else did they tell you?”
