Carl Hiaasen - Chomp

With a yelp, the cameraman wheeled and took off running for the campsite, crashing out of the tree line at full speed.

“Something big’s out there!” he hollered to the other crew members. “I heard it!”

A wave of laughter followed, for the frightened fellow had neglected in retreat to pull up his zipper.

Tuna said, “That was seriously rude. He almost peed on our heads!”

Wahoo was on edge. “Let’s get outta here.”

“Wait a minute-he dropped something.”

“Come on, Lucille! Before one of the others needs a potty break.”

“I said hold on.”

She darted up to the bay tree and snatched an object off the ground. Wahoo, who was already slipping away, heard twigs cracking as she hurried to catch up. Only when they were safely out of sight, deep in the trees, did he turn on the flashlight to see what the cameraman had left behind.

“What is this?” Tuna asked, riffling the pages. “Some sort of book?”

Wahoo took it from her and held the cover sheet up in the narrow beam of light. He said, “It’s not a book. It’s a script.”

The title, printed on the first page, was Expedition Survival! Episode 103-Florida Everglades.

Tuna gave Wahoo an inquiring glance. “Guess we oughta give it back, huh?”

“For sure,” he said. “First thing tomorrow.”

She chuckled. “But tonight you’re gonna read it, aren’t you? Don’t lie to me, Lance.”

“I’m absolutely gonna read it,” he said.

What better way to prepare for another Derek Badger fiasco?

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.