The Showdown

There swam the croc, his head bobbing like a granny smith apple in a barrel of cold water. His teeth, bed-linen-white and gleaming in the sun, curled round his lower lip. The eyes were glazed. I remembered the documentary my dad and I had watched about the most dangerous killers in the wild. The one that said you shouldn’t get too close. The one that said those eyes, the eyes that stared at me, had special lids. Lids that made it so that croc could get me. Made it so I couldn’t just splash water in his face and run like hell.

But, that was my only plan. I had never fought a wild animal. Not a croc at least. Once, when I was young, my family and I went camping near Mammoth Cave. That night, there were bats flying everywhere. I thought they were after me. I still feel guilty for smashing that bat’s head wide open. I crushed him with the broad side of an iron skillet. He flew through the air when I hit him. Landed dead-smack in the center of a giant tree trunk.

I didn’t have an iron skillet now. I didn’t have anything except a Clark bar, dental floss, and a camera. And, I was no MacGyver. There was no way I could jury-rig up some cannon using the stuff in my pockets. Movies do that. The croc wasn’t in any movie.

He inched a little closer. My heart beat a little faster. All I could see were those scales. All those dark, slick scales that made the croc look like he wasn’t even real. He looked plastic. Until that moment, I didn’t know that plastic could make you feel your guts clinch.

I didn’t know if I should stay still or run. That was the one damn thing I couldn’t remember from that documentary. For a second, I thought that maybe the croc was like the dinosaurs on Jurassic Park. Maybe, I should just act like a tree. But, I wouldn’t have been a very still tree. I was so scared my leaves would have shaken like a maraca.

What happened next, was all grainy like a TV that gets bad reception. I remember there were three loud bangs, and I remember hearing a panicked sob. Then, everything was dark.

It didn’t hit me until later, but that sob was from me. When I woke up I was laying on an old, primrose-printed couch. Some music, I think Frank Sinatra, but I’m not sure, was playing low on a dusty record player. Off to the side, I could see a couple kitchen chairs. That’s where I first saw her. She was short and built like a coal miner. In front of her, rested an assortment of knives.

She looked up, and I saw her eyes were a piercing blue. Smiling, she asked, “Ever had croc for supper?”

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UPDATE: Because I have been asked twice now, I never really killed a bat at Mommoth Cave. The whole story is fiction.