Carl Hiaasen - Chomp

And even when half blinded by light, they are able at close range to recognize the presence of predators, particularly if such a predator has a shiny chin, a big oval mouth and vivid, orange-tinted hair.

“There are probably only fifteen grams of meat on this fellow’s bones. But when you’re as hungry as I am, this little bugger looks as juicy as a T-bone steak!

“Unfortunately, the rain has soaked all the tinder, so I can’t make a fire for cooking. That leaves me only one choice, I guess.

“Now, please don’t try this yourself-wild bats can be vicious, and their teeth are needle sharp. Remember, I’m an experienced survivalist. I know how to handle these unpredictable rascals…”

The mastiff bat that Derek Badger slowly lowered toward his gaping maw wasn’t vicious. She simply didn’t want to be eaten.

And so she reacted defensively and without hesitation. She chomped down on the first chompable target that came within reach, which happened to be Derek’s plump, purple-blotched tongue.

“Aaaieeeeeegh! Aaaieeeeeegh! Aaaieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeegh!”

The shrieks were not part of the script that he’d hastily composed on a paper napkin following the bat’s unexpected arrival. The shrieks were totally spontaneous.

“Don’t move! Don’t move!” Raven Stark cried, but Derek did move. He tipped backward into a wet patch of ferns, the flapping mammal still attached to his bloody face.

“Cut!” barked the director. “Somebody go get Cray!”

Wahoo’s father stood over the fallen TV star, who lay rigid and goggle-eyed. The front of his safari shirt was dappled with wet crimson splotches, and the bat dangled from his mouth like a bizarre holiday ornament.

“Unbelievable,” Mickey said.

“Do something!” Raven pleaded.

Mickey turned to his son. “I’ll need my serious gloves.”

While Wahoo ran back to the other camp, Tuna stepped closer to take a look. “What kind of bat is that?” she asked. “It’s a freetail, I know, but what species?”

Wahoo’s father shrugged. He directed the crew to re-aim their bright lights toward the spot where Derek Badger had fallen, illuminating the scene like a hospital operating room. As soon as Wahoo returned with the heavy gloves, Mickey fitted them on and told everybody to stand back.

“Is he still breathing?” Raven said. “Please tell me he’s still breathing.”

“They’re both breathing.” Mickey knelt beside Derek and pondered how to remove the frightened creature without also removing the tip of Derek’s tongue.

Wahoo happened to know his father wasn’t fond of handling bats. They were tricky to wrangle and, like other mammals, they sometimes carried diseases. However, this was an emergency, and nobody else at the campsite was qualified to deal with it.

Mickey leaned in to whisper in one of Derek’s ears: “Blink twice if you can hear me.”

Derek blinked two times. The director clapped in relief, and some of the other crew members cheered.

“Hush!” Mickey snapped over his shoulder. Then, to Derek: “Don’t worry, we’ll get your dumb butt out of this mess. The trick is to not make your furry little friend any madder than it already is. So you’ve gotta stay still, mate, no matter how much this hurts. Blink once if you understand.”

Again Derek blinked. Mickey instructed Wahoo to strip the leaves off a fern, which left only the soft green stem. Wahoo handed it to his father, who said, “Perfect.”

“What are you going to do?” Raven asked skeptically.

“Tickle it,” said Wahoo’s father.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I believe he is,” said Tuna.

Wahoo observed that the crew was preparing to videotape the delicate procedure. Normally Derek would have protested indignantly, not wanting his TV audience to see their super-masculine hero disabled by a creature weighing two ounces. On this occasion, though, he remained mute.

Mickey got down on the ground so that he was level with the bat, which regarded him unpleasantly with moist black eyes. It didn’t appear to Wahoo and Tuna that the bewildered animal was enjoying the flavor of Derek Badger.

Using the flexible stem of the fern, Wahoo’s father went to work on the bat’s belly, lightly prodding and stroking. Very soon the mastiff began to twitch and squeak.

“Zoom in for a close-up! Hurry!” the director ordered the cameraman.

Wahoo waved his arms and motioned for everyone to remain still. He feared that the agitated bat would let go of Derek and then glom on to his father.

In fact, the critter had only one item on its agenda: escape.

There are no scientific studies that address the question of whether or not bats can experience the sensation of being tickled, the way people do. But whatever Mickey was doing with the fern stem, it worked. With a shudder, the bat unhooked its fangs from Derek’s swelling tongue.

“Now kill it! Kill it quick!” Raven cried.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Wahoo’s father.

The animal made a spitting noise and repositioned itself on Derek’s spray-tanned forehead, where it stretched its bony wings. Unlike most other bats, mastiffs can lift off from a flat surface, and that’s what this one did. On the next gust of wind it took flight, zigzagging through the hot beams of the TV lights until it disappeared into the dark canopy of the hardwoods.

Wahoo and Tuna high-fived each other, while the director called out, “Bravo, Mr. Cray. Well done!”

Raven rushed anxiously to Derek’s side, babbling something about rabies and distemper. Wahoo’s father assured her that the bat wasn’t sick. “She bit Mr. Beaver out of self-defense, pure and simple.”

Derek showed no reaction to being called Beaver, another indication that he might have been in shock. Several crew members gathered around and carried him to his tent. Raven followed gravely, carrying a first-aid kit.

To Wahoo and Tuna, Mickey said, “Come on. Let’s get some sleep.”

A slashing rain chased them back to their camp. It poured all night long on the tree island, and no living thing stirred.

Except one.

The airboat awoke Wahoo. He figured it was coming to get Derek Badger and take him away for medical treatment.

Emerging from the tent, Wahoo saw Tuna reading a green book. It was a field guide to Florida mammals. She kept it in her canvas tote bag with several other books, journals and sketch pads. Tuna never let the bag out of her sight.

“Here’s our prime suspect,” she announced. “It’s called a mastiff bat. Eumops glaucinus floridanus.”

She showed the photograph in the field guide to Wahoo. “Yeah, that’s the one,” he agreed.

“I’m gonna learn the Latin names of all tropical bats, starting today.”

“You seen my dad?”

“He went for a hunt.” Tuna was eating a lame breakfast-trail mix and Mountain Dew. “I bet they’re taking Derek to Miami for rabies shots,” she said.

“Which way did Pop go?”

“Relax, Lance. He said his head feels fine.”

Their campsite was a mud pit because of the overnight rain. Wahoo didn’t bother trying to start the fire and cook some food. He settled for two snack bars and a lukewarm lime Gatorade.

“So, what happens now?” Tuna asked.

After seeing Derek’s trance-like condition the night before, Wahoo assumed that the Everglades episode of Expedition Survival! would be canceled and that his father’s wrangling job was over.

“I guess we pack up and go home,” he said.

“Home, sweet home.” Tuna chuckled bitterly. “I can’t wait.”

Wahoo noticed that the bruise beneath her eye had faded a bit, taking on a yellowish tinge. “Maybe you can stay with us for a while,” he suggested.