Carl Hiaasen - Chomp

“That’s real funny.”

Wahoo’s dad unbuttoned the last three buttons of his shirt so that Tuna could see where he was stowing the pretty rust-and-tan-colored reptile, which was now curled up peacefully.

“Nerodia fasciata,” she said. “But that’s not from Linnaeus. He called it Coluber fasciatus.”

“I like Fang better.”

“You would.”

Wahoo slid closer. “So, what’s the plan, Pop?” Hoping he had one.

“Heat,” Mickey replied with a wink.

Tuna made a puzzled face. “What?”

Mickey jerked his chin toward the snake, which was resting against his bare belly. “Heat is good,” he said.

Tuna shrugged. “Whatever.”

But Wahoo understood what his father had in mind. Maybe it’ll work, he thought, and maybe it won’t.

The director ordered all the airboats to move behind a nearby tree island so that they wouldn’t be visible to the camera up in the hovering chopper. For Derek’s adventure to be believable, the Everglades had to appear empty and never-ending.

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.

Taping that part of the scene proved easy, thanks to the steady hands of the helicopter pilot and cameraman. The director had supervised from behind the island, using a portable video monitor and a two-way radio.

To the pilot, he said, “Another masterpiece, Louie!”

“Thanks, buddy. We’ve got some weather moving in, so we’re gonna head home and refuel.”

“Be back here at six to pick up the boss and Ms. Stark.”

“That’s a roger.”

The director holstered his radio and turned to the airboat drivers. “Okay, let’s hurry up and roll!”

Derek was in a grouchy mood when they got to the spot where he was waiting, truly a lone figure on the horizon. “What took you so bloody long?” he whined. “There’s a whole flock of buzzards waiting for me to keel over.”

The cameraman in the director’s airboat eased carefully into the water. He was toting an expensive Steadicam that allowed him to wade beside Derek while shooting, with very little motion or bumpiness in the picture.

“Everybody ready?” the director hollered. “And… action!”

Derek said, “Wait! What’s my line?”

Raven stood ready with a copy of the script. “Your line is: I’ve been fighting my way through this swamp for four, possibly five hours straight-I’ve lost track of the time.”

“Right,” said Derek. “Let’s do it.”

“Take two. Action!”

“I’ve been fighting my way through this swamp for hours and hours-I’ve lost all track of time…”

When he got to the part where he was supposed to feel something swim between his legs, Derek stopped. The director brusquely motioned for Mickey to get in the water.

“Where’s your scaly little pal, Mr. Cray?”

“Right here. What’s my cue?”

“The line is: Ah! There it goes again! That’s when you release the snake near Derek.”

“No problem.”

“And be sure to keep your paws out of the shot!” Derek interjected.

Wahoo thought: Uh-oh. Here we go.

Yet somehow his father remained calm. “All due respect, Mr. Beaver, this ain’t my first rodeo,” he said mildly.

“It’s Badger, not Beaver!”

Gently Mickey removed the newly named Fang from inside his shirt. Its reddish tongue flicked inquisitively as the snake coiled around Mickey’s forearm.

Hearing a distant rumble of thunder, Wahoo and Tuna glanced up at the darkening sky.

The director looked, too. He clapped and said, “Okay, ready? Three, two, one and… action!”

Derek continued:

“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-ha! There it goes again!”

Reptiles are cold-blooded, which means their energy and alertness vary greatly depending on the temperature. During periods of chilly weather, a snake’s metabolism slows down, and it becomes sluggish and sleepy. The warmer the air, the more active and lively it becomes.

By letting the banded water snake rest for so long against his skin, a comfortable 98.6 degrees, Mickey Cray had made sure the creature would be wide awake and full of attitude by the time he released it back into the pond. He also knew it would not take kindly to being grabbed again.

“Gotcha!” Derek crowed, carelessly snatching the snake by its middle.

From that moment on, the script was in tatters.

As Mickey had anticipated, Fang went nuts. First it bit Derek on one arm, then it bit him on the other. It bit him on a knuckle. It bit him on a wrist. It even bit him on the chin.

“Crikey!” he whimpered over and over, but he wouldn’t let go of it.

Tuna pressed against Wahoo’s shoulder. “Wow” was all she said.

The director was so stunned by what he saw that he forgot to yell “Cut!” Sitting behind him in the airboat, Raven Stark hunched down and covered her eyes.

Meanwhile, the cameraman toting the Steadicam dutifully zoomed in on the bloodbath. Derek struggled in vain to gain control of the twisting, squirming, snapping reptile while at the same time he tried to recite his lines:

“Looks like it’s not-ouch! — your lucky day, mate.”

His determination to kill and eat his supercharged captive was fading with each new puncture wound. Still, he labored to keep a brave face for his TV fans.

“Dinner!” Derek squeaked unconvincingly. Then: “Aaaggghhh!”

Nerodia fasciata had found one of his thumbs and begun to chew.

Derek flapped his wounded hand and toppled backward, producing a barrel-sized splash. By the time three guys from the crew had fished him out, he was spitting up pond water and the snake was long gone.

“Good Fang,” Mickey said quietly.

Tuna looked at Wahoo, and Wahoo looked away, trying hard not to laugh.

Derek Badger was rushed back to the camp, where his bite marks-tiny but numerous-were slathered with antibiotic cream. He was so shaken by his battle with the feisty water snake that he declared he was finished for the day.

“Call the chopper,” he said to Raven. “I’m going back to the hotel.”

She informed him that the helicopter was grounded in Miami due to bad weather.

“That’s ridiculous,” Derek said just as a wave of thunder grumbled ominously in the western sky.

“They can’t fly in lightning. It’s too dangerous,” said Raven.

“Dangerous? Ha! Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

When Mickey Cray approached, Derek held out his arms to display the result of the reptile’s attack.

Mickey said, “That’s what happens when you go raw.”

“But you’re the wrangler! We’re paying you big bucks to control these animals.”

“Look, Mr. Beaver-”

“Stop calling me that!”

“There’s no such thing as a snake whisperer,” said Mickey. “I have some fat, sleepy ones back home that wouldn’t nip even if you tied them in a knot. But you wanted wild, and wild is what you got.”

Derek jutted his chin to reveal yet another U-shaped series of dot-sized punctures, which glistened from the medicine cream. “This is all your fault, Cray!”

Mickey felt no urge to apologize. He turned his attention to Raven.

“So what’s next? You want me to trap a raccoon? Or maybe a skunk?”

“We’re taking a break,” she said.

“Good plan. There’s some heavy-duty weather moving in.”