Dining Games

A friend of mine who is currently deployed in Iraq named Derick asked me to write him a story. I story about a turtle and a salamander who are in a battle to the death over a chocolate muffin. Catch is...well I wont say the catch.

I will post a 'real' blog within a week...if I don't end up spending the entire time with a certain someone.


May I please first warn you, there is blood, and gore, and at parts it contains some mildly grafic scenes that are not for everyone. However, all that aside I would like to add that it is not all like that...just parts.


Dining Games
Amanda Stone


Chapter One

In the reeds of a mighty river, there sat a turtle, basking in the mid-day sun. As the rays hit his shell and warmed his body, he had one thing on his mind. That one thing would be how lovely this little spot was. Hardly anybody or anything knew it existed. (Surprising, seeing how beautiful it was.) The wind blew softly, causing the reeds to dance and sway. Daylight shimmered off the water in a sparkly disarray. Crickets hummed somewhere in the distance, and over head were the calming sounds of doves cooing. A noise began to drift into the scene then. A noise that did not belong. It came from somewhere unknown. Harm, or innocence? It was a sound of motion. Motion in the water. Something was drifting downstream. And that something was being throttled by something pushing it along. Like an oar. This sound had been heard before many times by the turtle, so that in itself was not what was so alarming. The fact which made everything just a little bit scary and startling was the fact that whatever was floating down the river at that time was twenty times smaller than anything else which had done so prior to this day. Maybe even thirty times smaller.

Alarmed, the small four legged, hard shelled reptile lifted his head and peered around to see what was to be seen. And what was to be seen was so shocking, indeed, that the turtle fainted right where he was sitting, on the log in the water hidden in the reeds. For what was floating down that river on a well carved piece of wood was another four legged reptile. However, this reptile had no shell. This reptile didn’t even belong anywhere around this river. And it indeed did not at all belong in the carefully crafted wooden canoe in which it sat. Its tongue flicked out its mouth and back in, as it stood on its hind legs, holding a wooden oar in its frontal most legs. Puzzling even more was the hat which was on its head. A nice woolen, grey beret. Maybe even more puzzling, however, was the fact that he was whistling that famous Italian Pizza-Pie song. As the new reptile entered the scene, dinner filled its sights.

Carefully now, the reptile sat down on a seat in his canoe, tying down his little oar after he had done so. In one swift movement he jumped over the side of the boat, tipping it upside-down as he did so. Each of his frontal most extremities took a hold on either side of the boat. With his back legs he paddled the boat forward. Head in the dome of the boat, and lungs recycling the air that was trapped within said dome. There was a clear paneling on the front of the boat, allowing him to see where he was going. The bottom of said canoe was painted in a camouflagery blue that reflected the light from the sun in the same manner in which the water would. When the canoe was next to the turtle’s log, the salamander, taking care to remain unheard, navigated it into the reeds where it would be unseen.

This whole time the salamander was being a sneaky little reptile, the turtle remained unconscious and completely unaware of the attack that was about to be made on his little shell. His legs were all limply spread out as far as they could go, as was his head. A tongue extended from his beak-like mouth, acting as a slide for saliva. And while the turtle was unconscious, he had dreams of his favorite dish. A dish he had not had in a long time. One that his mother would make for him on cold, dreary days where the sun would not shine, for the clouds and rain refused to let an ounce of happiness into the sky. What else is a nice momma reptile to do for her child on such a day but bake some joy, bringing stomach filling, warm, gooey chocolate muffins? In this dream, or reminiscing state he was in, something was shining through more than anything. The melting sensation of chocolate heaven being churned slowly in his mouth. A taste like none other. And while the turtle was unconscious, it was quite clear there was a smile on his small, hard, beaky face.

Meanwhile in the brush was a prowling salamander. Knife cuffed between his teeth, and a snarl piercing out his lungs. Dinner would be slaughtered in a matter of minutes. Served within the hour. The turtle was unconscious even. The job would be easy. Less fun. But easier none the less. Sweat wouldn’t drip into dinner tonight. Though, sweat cooks out anyways. It does add a bit of flavor to some dishes, but the gross stuff cooks out. Plan was simple. Sneak through the brush, jump on top of the shell, and slice off the turtle’s head before he could even open his eyes from that ever peaceful slumber he so haphazardly fell into. The slithery four legged being was in mid-air about to lunge forward onto the back of the snoozer, when unexpectedly the dozing turtle came out of his dreamy state and rolled onto his shell.

The sight which the turtle beheld filled him with great fear, nevertheless, he jumped at once onto his rear feet. Eyes wide with horror. The two legs held in the air rolled up in what would appear to be a turtley form of fists.

Falling from his leap, onto solid ground, the salamander pulled the knife out of his jaws and into his hand. Crouching, waiting to spring, he hissed in a threatening way.

“Now listen here sir,” the turtle interjected. “I don’t like to fight, not one little bit. But…but, if you’re wanting a fight, a fight you’ll get. Can we just be reasonable though and talk things through maybe? I’m but a humble reptilian turtle. Enjoying the sun. I don’t like fighting, not one little bit…” The turtle continued to ramble in circles, repeating things he’d already said.

The salamander slapped his forehead, exasperated. “SHUT UP ALREADY!”

“But I don’t want no trouble…no trouble indeed. I don’t like to fight, I’m but a humble little turtle who doesn’t care to harm anything. I don’t want to fight. I like peace. I like happy things. I like-” He was cut off by the backhand of the salamander.

“I said, SHUT UP!” He declared, yelling as loud as his voice would allow. To loud even. So loud he coughed and hacked.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to annoy you, I was just trying to let you see who I am…get a little taste of my personality, to see I don’t even like to hurt the little ants who to try to bite me or make homes in mine. I’m a gentle turtle.” More words would have been uttered if not once more he was cut off by that rascally salamander who was now pacing back and forth. Steam coming from between his scaly gills.

“You know I was going to behead you. I was going to cook you slowly over a fire with a few spices, and make myself a nice turtle taco. I was going to enjoy you, and savor you. Save you for leftovers to enjoy for a few more days until your meat rotted. Now, though, now I don’t even think I can eat you. You’re so rancid. You’re annoying and chatty and some peace loving hippy. You know they say you are what you eat-”

“From your head to your feet!” The salamander had his turn of being cut off. “Uh-huh-hu-HUH!” the turtle laughed giddily.

“SEE! That’s EXACTLY what I mean!”

“Again with the yelling! Dude, seriously, calm down. We can be peaceful fun loving people together, I want no harm to come, we can be friends in the end. I don’t like to fight, not…”

“Not one bit. I know. I get the point.” The salamander snapped. His beady little hand-like appendage was clutching his knife so tightly that his knuckles were about to burst open and bleed all over the place.

“See, we can be friends. A yup!”

“Why would you say that when I still haven’t made up my mind as to whether or not I’m willing to put you in my stomach or not?”

“Because, we know each others thoughts. Uh-huh-hu-HUH! We can finish each other’s sentences, you see? Only I like peace, I don’t like to fight…”

“Not one bit! UGH! Would you please, for the love of mother geese, shut up? You like your hippie peace and I like hunting stupid pathetic creatures like you, to eat for breakfast, lunch AND dinner.”

“You see right there, right there you finished my sentence. Not in the same words I had in this head of mine, but you finished my sentence. I don’t like fighting.” The turtle by this time, dropped his upper extremities to his sides and was trying to explain how rational he was.

“Okay, look, I’ll leave you be. I could easily slice off your head and eat you. Cook you till you’re nice and zesty. I don’t want that retarded laugh, though. And the mere thought of having a creature like you in my body makes me want to barf. So here, right now, I am going to leave you. I am going to go far, far away, and leave you be. You and your stupid pathetic,-” cut off, once again.

“In my peace loving hippie ways, uh-huh-hu-HUH! Yupyup.” He rubbed his belly and looked off into the skies. Daydreaming again or something.

“Exactly.” The salamanders head was throbbing.

It was as if his head was a bass drum, and inside that head of his was a metal drummer, pounding the double bass pedals for all they were worth. And while the drum player was running rampant in the salamander’s head, the guitar player was in the turtle’s, playing a melodic remedy which was being improvised on the spot. Such as the music of Pat Metheny. Only, it was more in the style that stoners would listen to when they were high. It not only made the turtles eyes go a little frenzic, as they bounced around in their sockets and his eyelids flutter in between open and closed, it made the turtle himself, begin to dance. Ballet. Some weird sort of messed up stoner ballet.

“Oh my God!” The salamander uttered. That was far to much. His innocent little eyes could not bear the sight any longer. Thus being so, the salamander happily dove into the reeds, and crawled back over to his camouflaged boat while the turtle fell onto his shell, and was lulled to sleep by the sun glimmering on the water. And suddenly, all was back to normal. Life was peaceful, and it was as if nothing had ever happened.

Chapter Two

A frog leapt through the air, from lily pad to lily pad, with his tongue darting in and out of his mouth. It was a game of tag between the fly and the frog. The two were friends of sorts. Not the kind of friends you know forever, or even the kind that come and go, but the kind you meet at the play ground when you’re, say, fourish. When you walk up to a stranger and ask if they can be your friend and play with you. An innocent friendship which will only last the few moments of your life when your right there with them in that instance. That innocent friendship right there, that indeed was the bond that held this frog to the fly. Both innocent, and unknowing of the real world. Of what their true intentions are. And of what the consequences of bullying are. All at once, however, the frog learned his lesson on life. On what innocent games can lead to. The silly game became reality, and life got real. For, you see, the frog’s tongue made contact with the fly. In an instant, the fly was stuck to the tongue, and the tongue rammed back into the frog’s mouth. Perhaps the frog was a bad guy, and he put super glue on his tongue and was misleading him, thought the little fly as he whizzed through the air and into the black hole.

Hacking and wheezing, the frog’s clampers released, spitting the fly out as soon as possible. In a tuffy the fly flew out, shaking saliva off his wings and body, looking horrified at the frog. Disappointment clouded the frogs eyes. The disappointment was in none other than this frog himself. He almost ate his friend. And that alone was the worst feeling the frog had ever felt. Walls of water were being built in the frog’s eyes. Ashamed of thinking wrongly of the frog, the fly smiled and flew around the frog’s head in an attempt to get him to play tag again. Apathy and self-distrust was all that was in the frog’s thoughts. He did not feel like playing anymore. He sat moping. Trying not to cry.

All apathy and moping were put aside in a matter of minutes, and before long the two were back at their games. The game was quickly ended, sadly. An arrow found itself in the frog’s eyeball, sending him straight to the lily pad beneath him. A gooey black substance began to run from his eye. The frog tried blinking away the arrow but to no avail. It only increased the level of goo spillage. It was the fly’s turn to cry now. He sat on the frogs nose and tried to comfort his play ground friend. It was not long before something stabbed through the fly, and then devoured it. That something would be a finely cut needle crafted by none other than the salamander.

An emotion which had never been felt before now filled the frog. An emotion of pure anger. Rage. Despair. The frog attempted to stick his tongue out and catch the salamander with it, like he had learned to do with the fly. The salamander, having watched the entire ordeal happen between the two playground buddies knew that the frog may try to use his new found sticky tongue. Wrapping the tongue around his wrist, the salamander pulled his knife from between his own teeth and sliced the tongue off. Using it as a whip now, the salamander thrashed the back of the frog’s back with it. The lily pad and surrounding water turned a bright, happy red color. It wasn’t long before the frog just died altogether. Loss of blood, shock, heart attack, who knows the cause. The salamander quickly tugged on a string which pulled over his upside down canoe. With a kick of the foot it was flipped the right way, without getting any water in it. The hunk of dinner meat was tossed into the canoe, followed by the salamander as he rowed off to shore to cook his dinner.

A fire was built, sending warmth through the flames and into the sky of the setting sun, warming the surroundings. The salamander had a nice contraption above the fire on which he hoisted frog meat, which was roasting to a nice crisp. The canoe was flipped over, so that the arch of the bottom was up in the air. Leaning against the boat was the reptile, with his hand folded behind his head. Life was good. Real good. There was an occasional stir at this camp site, but it was just for the purpose to rotate the meat a little bit so that it cooked evenly. An unnatural sound was stirring in the water. At the fist sound of it the salamander leapt to the ground, on all fours, and walked slowly and stealthily towards the water front. A new sound was added on top of it all.

“All you need is love, love, love is all you need. Uh-huh-hu-HUH!” was being sang, over, and over, and over. The salamader all but flipped out. It was that wretched, peace loving hippie turtle. It was quite apparent that there was no need to keep his position, crouched in the sand. Hoping onto his two hind legs, the reptile began to meander back to his frog-roast. The stupid singing had subsided, and the world went back to being silent and peaceful. For a few seconds that is.

“Oh hey, it’s you!” declared the turtle. “I didn’t expect to see you again! What are you up to, buddy? Uh-huh.” A large splash was made and the turtle sloppily rolled over in the water and collapsed on the shore. The water bounded from the river and onto the island. Some of which, being brave, landed in the fire. The turtle didn’t seem to notice, however. He didn’t even notice how fuming the salamander was. To carefree to notice, and to carefree to tone down his personality.

“Smells good, what cha makin’, buddy?” the turtle pried.

“I’m making myself dinner.” Extra emphasis was added on the word myself, in a quite excluding manor. The Salamander positioned himself so his back was towards the turtle. It was easier to put up with the idiocracy of the thing when it was not in view.

“Smells good, what cha makin’?” the thing repeated itself. Surely, it could not know quite possibly how many buttons it was managing to push just by repeating itself.

“Well,” the salamander snapped, turning quickly and shoving his balled fist into the turtle’s face, “I was going to have me some fresh turtle, but that didn’t quite work out because I don’t eat retards!”

“Uh-huh-hu-HUH, because you are what you eat, from your head to your feet!”

That was it. The dragger was drawn and raised high.

“Don’t make me kill you! I wouldn’t be able to enjoy eating you, no matter how stupid you are! I think at this point I’d rather cook you and eat you just so that I never have to deal with you and your stupidity!”

“But I don’t like to fight, no I don’t. I think all you need is love, love and peace, Uh-huh-” the turtle was cut off by a knife being stabbed through his throat. From top to bottom the knife went in, and down the side it sliced. Blood oozed and gushed into the air, splatter painting both reptiles, and forming a nice puddle on the ground. The turtle’s eyes rolled up into their sockets, showing death. Out of nowhere they rolled back down and looked quite horrified at the executioner.

“Heeeeey, that’s not very nice!” the turtle exclaimed, looking horrified at the thing that just tried to behead him. The salamander’s knife dropped from his shaking hand as he stared wide-eyed at the thing that survived the knife. How was that possible? The knife was back in hand in an instant and drilled back through the neck, only in the other direction so that it would be sawn completely off. The neck had resealed together, however, where it was previously cut, making it so that a full circle would be necessary. Not a problem. It would only make death a few more seconds delayed for the turtle. A few seconds of delay, and then out of its misery completely. However, by time the knife got all the way back around to where it first punctured, the cut had already healed. A mean circle, a vicious cycle of knifing the neck began. The salamander’s arms going round and round in a spherical pattern, gaining momentum with each pass. During the whole thing the turtle sat appalled at the behavior of this wild beast.

“I don’t like to fight, I don’t want no trouble. No trouble, just peace. Peace, please.” the turtle muttered over and over again. The salamander was showing no signs of stopping. And the knife was moving faster and faster in the neck. Finally, the peace loving turtle caved into an act of violence. It was self defense, though. His neck, which was only partially attached at any given time, extended forward like a bolt of lightning, and his jaws like thunder snapped at the salamander’s stomach, pulling at the flesh and ripping it open. Once more the salamander dropped his knife, only this time it was to catch the blood that was spewing from his belly, as if he could catch it and push it back in. There was a giant area of land that was bright red. Red from both the blood of the turtle and the salamander
.
Dropping to his knees in agony, the salamander crossed his arms over the hole and squeezed. He was fully aware that wouldn’t stop the bleeding, or help him live longer, but in the moment, it somehow eased the pain and made him feel as if he was accomplishing something and doing something to prolong death. It would not end, though. The sky would not turn black. The smell of finely roasted frog would not vanish. The sounds of the surrounding world would not vanquish. The blood flow from the salamander’s body began to slow. Not from loss of blood, but from his skin regenerating where it had been torn off. He, like the turtle, was re-healing where wounded. His eyes slowly pried open as his arms felt the odd happenings in his stomach regions. It was over. His stomach was completely back together, as if nothing happened. Funny sight it was, for the all the salamander’s front side was bright red from the blood spatter, except the regenerated stomach.

Looking to the turtle, in utter shock and awe, the salamander was completely disgusted to find that the piece of his flesh which was torn off was hanging in the turtle’s mouth, who happily gnawed at it. In pure repulsion he tore his flesh out of the turtle’s mouth, and picked up his dagger.

“You’re disgusting. Eating uncooked meat!” snapped the salamander, who then turned to tend his roasting frog.

“Self-defense it was. It was only self-defense. I don’t like violence. Fightings not for me. A-nope. It aint. I like peace you see.” The rambling began again.

“Would you shut up?!”

“If peace it brings. Oh, and maybe some food. Peace and food, all a man needs. A-huh-hu-HUH!”

“Fine, but then you had better get lost, and never come into my life again. I swear on my gramma Betty Susan Ulysses’s grave if you ever run into me again, be it on accident or purposefully, I will kill you. I will find a way to kill you.”

“Harsh, violent words man. I don’t like violence. I’m a peaceful…”

“What did I say about speaking?!” the salamander shouted. The loud, mean words matched with the glare that was shot from his eyes put a seal on the turtle’s jaws, and the only time they opened again was when it came time to eat. And even then it was only for the sole purpose of putting food in so he could eat it. Even though he did not speak, hum, whistle or sing, he found a way to annoy the salamander almost to the breaking point again. Only one thing kept him from the breaking point, and that was the fact that he only said if the turtle didn’t speak again, which did not effect what the turtle was doing. For, the turtle was smacking his food loudly. Not just chewing with his mouth open and smacking his food. No. He was smacking his food to the tune of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’. With all the food devoured, and the sun finding its resting place below the earth’s crest, the turtle went on his way. Without a sound from his mouth he exited. His goodbye consisted of a smile and a wink. It would appear impossible for the turtle to be without some form of sound. Even though he was not making sound with his mouth, or humming through his nose, somehow the tune of the song continued. Through his rear end. Farts from dinner exited the body in high pitched squeaky sounds, somehow carrying the same tune he smacked during the entire course of the meal.

With the major annoyance finally out of his hair, the salamander took a breath of fresh, relaxing night air. His lungs inflated slowly, and then just as slowly as the air went in, it went out. The fire was diminished, revealing more stars then before. At peace, the salamander began to seek sleep. One thing was on his mind, and it kept him up for longer then he would like. How in the world did he and that annoying peace loving hippie regenerate? Surely, the turtle should have died there. And then just as surely as the turtle should have died, so should’ve he. If the turtle would have died though when he was supposed to, then the salamander wouldn’t have even had the close encounter with death himself. So maybe, the turtle was some sort of whack job who had special powers instead of brains, and then because technically he died, he had no power to actually inflict death or hurt into something else. How could something dead kill another? Even if the thing which was to be dead was somehow freakishly still alive. Everything was confusing and getting lumped in the salamander’s head. He could not figure anything out, and the night ended with him deciding that it was a freak of nature and he would not try to figure it out anymore because he was making no sense at all. With that, he found the rest he desired. Eyes closing as he did a slow dance with sleep before it took him over and he was out.


Chapter Three

A tarp of black smothered the sky. Twinkling blue diamonds decorated the tarp and assisted in shedding a fraction of light to the dark earth below. A slight breeze blew and the grass and reeds danced along to the sound of the rivers constant music. The crickets chirping aided in the river’s song of the night. Lulled to sleep was the salamander, by the entrancing song that filled the sky. A flipped canoe served as a sort of bed, and crossed arms under the head substituted for a pillow. The precious dagger was hidden in the sand, yet accessible enough in case it was needed. After the turtle left, camp had been quite peaceful. Quiet, calm, relaxing. The occasional crackles of the fire and the warmth it shed added a homely feeling that warmed the salamander to the bone. Memories of his childhood replayed in his head over and over. The fire kicked them in like a record being dropped onto a hi-fi player.

On the back of an older, yellow and black salamander, sat a youthful offspring. They moved along the earth’s surface in an almost slithering manner. Hunting for dinner was the agenda. Dinner that was unlike other salamander’s dinner. These salamanders did not indeed hunt insects like all others, but small rodents or any small source of meat. Protein was a must have in their diet. Why you may ask? It’s simple, really. They carried on a family line which was fierce and always in fights and looking for adventure. They killed animals that, in their opinion or other’s, should not have been granted life. Protein helped them stay strong. Off in the distance, grass moved out of natural position before quickly returning to its natural stance, while the spot in front of it took its turn to move. It could only mean one thing. A salamander which did not have a youngster on its back took the front, and hastily moved forward to investigate what was moving the grass. Dinner worthy, or not. That was the question. After sniffing the ground and studying any trace of tracks, it waved a tendrilled appendage, causing the one bearing a miniature to follow suit and move behind the first. In a single file manner they gained on the baby ground squirrel, soundlessly. With one leap into the air, the first was on top of the furry creature, digging a dagger into its hair covered flesh. The passenger leapt off the larger’s back and onto the ground, so it too could get into the killing madness its parents began. Death came quickly for the helpless squirrel. The child salamander licked up all blood that had oozed from the neck and began to lick the flesh wounds. Blood made the child stronger, and it was quite a tasty treat. The meal was dragged back to the small camp that was set up, hiding in the surrounding bushes. After being skinned and cooked, the salamanders enjoyed their dinner, and then the mother held her young beside the fire until his small eyes closed and sleep fell upon him. That was the daily routine of the small family. They raised their child hunting his entire life, so he would know how to fend for himself and catch himself proper food.

With that memory sweeping around his brain from his childhood, the salamander fell into his peaceful slumber. He slept well, and had completely forgotten the annoying night with the turtle. The only thing encompassing him was the blissful days of youth. Out of nowhere though his surreal, wondrous dream turned sour, and he could not awake.

One night while the child was asleep there was a struggle. Sounds of grunting, growling, slicing and anguish filled the night, awakening the youngster from his dream filled state of mind. When he opened his eyes and looked around, the sight which filled his line of vision struck him with utter terror. A large, unknown creature was charging him, right at that moment, with his father’s dagger in his hand. Immediately, the child leapt to his hind feet, preparing to deal with the oncoming attack. All at once the dark figure dove through the air, stolen knife above his head. The salamander was considerably smaller in size and he hardly knew what to do. In fear, he dropped down as low as he could go and began to roll in the direction of the flying largish object. Unintentionally his tail swung up as he rolled, and hit the attacker square on, breaking the attacker’s fall. The dark figure fell to the ground and left-over momentum rolled him forward and into the fire. His hairy limbs stuck out of the fire as he wailed in utter pain. The young salamander, unsatisfied with that ending, ripped his father’s stolen dagger out of the hand of the now burning attacker. Without even thinking of the consequences, he tightened his grip around the dagger handle and then drove his arms into the fire, and into the attacker’s chest, dragging the knife up and down along the body. When his own arms began to burn and he could not take the pain of the heat anymore he pulled them out of the fire and looked at what had become of himself. Flesh burned and stung. The smell of the cooking meat added to the sight of the salamander’s burnt arms only served to make the young thing nauseous. The dagger fell to the dirt, landing next to the fire. And there it was left.

Forgetting his arms, the smell, and the adrenaline rush, the child began to survey the surroundings, in hopes of finding his parents who had not come to his aid. It must have been a test to see if he was ready to hunt, yes! That must have been it! His parents were hiding in the brush, watching with smiles because their son had done good and protected himself in the face of danger. The question as to how the attacker had his father’s knife didn’t even pass through his mental membrane. On the cold, damp dirt floor of their little encampment lay his parents. Strewn into pieces, and laying across the ground. Utter rage and horror filled the boy, and for the first time in his life, he felt weak. He felt like he could not go on. He curled up next to the fire, where the carcass still lay, being burnt to a fine crisp. Cuddling his tail he pretended it was his mother holding him like she had every night. The weakness began to consume him. He lay there for hours, crying and feeling alone. The world was a cold and cruel ruthless place. It was not the fairy tale the child once thought it to be. Life wasn’t the most amazing thing. It was not the greatest thing. If anything it was the worst and slowest torture in all existence. The horror of that realization only added to the frustration and pain felt in the mourning figure crying in front of the fire. All he wanted to do was grow stronger and loose that feeling of worthlessness. The feeling that life had no meaning. The feeling that there is some sort of purpose in life, other than to be slowly tortured. He began to remember words of his father, coaxing him to drink their fresh kill’s blood, and eat their flesh. And the thought crossed his mind, that maybe if he drank his parent’s blood, he would grow stronger. And have them living in him for the rest of his life. It would bring him so much closer to them. He refused, however, to eat them. If the carcass of the burnt intruder had not already been mostly bones he would have eaten that. The leftovers from the dinner his father cooked earlier would have to suffice.

The salamander awoke to a feeling that was all too real to be a dream. Surely that was the case because there was that dastardly turtle, with a saw, trying to slice him in half. The saw was half way into the salamander’s body, and the turtle was working like a mad man trying to make it go deeper to break the connection of the two halves. However, by the same weird force that was at work earlier that evening, the saw made no deeper incision then it was already, and death was not coming upon the salamander at all. Disregarding the sawn upper half and the saw still moving back and forth, he sat up and put all his force and momentum into his hand as it backhanded the turtle’s face. At once the turtle lost his grip on the saw and reeled backwards. The wound had already began to re-heal and the salamander did not wait for it to finish completely before seizing his dagger, tackling the turtle and pinning him down. It’s an easy task, pinning a turtle down. All you have to do is sit on his shell. Why in the world would the turtle try to kill him? If he loved peace so much and everything. After having the turtle upside down, the salamander noticed a peace sign painted in a rainbow of colors. What a freak!

“Why were you trying to kill me?!” He demanded holding the dagger, ready to attempt once again to behead the turtle.

“Well I don’t like to fight, A-huh-hu-HUH! But you see,” he started talking a little slower and panting as he talked, he still sounded like some high hippie or something though. “I just liked the way you tasted when I bit you earlier…Huh, that sounded creepy, A-huuuuuh.” sighing, a disturbingly contented and happy smile plastered onto his face.

“So, what? You try to kill me in my sleep, so you can eat me? You fat lard of a creature! You think you could kill me?” The salamander laughed a genuine, heart felt laugh. The laughing was so intense he wrapped his arms around his once slit stomach and fell off the turtle. The turtle flipped back so he could stand on all fours. Humor was not found in what was said and he found the salamander’s laughing fit to be quite uncalled for. He spoke up in a very matter-of-factly tone. One which he did not use often.

“Yes sir, kill you I could! A-huh-hu-HUH! I bet I coul’ kill you better then you could kill me.”
That snapped the seriousness back into the Salamander, who hopped to his hind feet at once.

“Do you honestly think that? You, an out of shape, peace loving hippie turtle? Take on me an extremely fit, well built, weapon trained and stealthily better than anything? Right. I think what ever you’re on makes you delusional. I will take you up on that bet. The winner, gets to eat his opponent.”

“And he gets one of my mom’s chocolate muffins!” pipped in the turtle. As soon as the muffins came up he began to salivate.

“Deal. Now, lets get this started by both going our separate ways. We cannot begin to hunt for the other, nor make a move until the sun has risen twice. It will rise in a few hours now, so really after it rises tomorrow, we may begin. Got it?”

“Yessirie! A-huh-hu-HUH!”


Chapter Four

The turtle walked off on his own, away from the camp of the salamander, while the salamander walked back over to his canoe. Pretending to go back to sleep in the same position he had been so gruesomely awaken in, he listened intently and tracked the turtle with his ears until the soft clumping of the padded feet faded into the night. With the general direction and area of the foe figured out, the salamander fell back asleep. Not on purpose. There just comes a time when one is so exhausted sleep just happens. The thought swarming his mind was a perplexing one. How was he to kill the turtle? And could he himself be killed either? By the show of the day, it would appear the answer to be no. Ways to get around this re-healing issue bounced off the walls of his skull until he passed out.

The turtle knew that the sneaky salamander would be tracking his every step. Though, the question of admiralty stood. Would his foe hold up to his own rules? Or would he, being the sneaky little thing he was, be following the turtle’s footsteps at this very second? Turtle chuckled to himself. Thinking the best of everyone again. Nope that salamander seemed like a fair playing dude. If he broke his rules tomorrow he would most likely wait till morning to start. However, he himself did not have to follow the rules. He wouldn’t necessarily break them, he would just get a bit of a head start. There was more to the ‘peace loving hippie’ that the salamander did not know. That was the exact way he liked to keep it though. He may not have been the brightest turtle in the turtle pond, in the slightest. But he had a sense of logic and a set of skills that made up for his mental lacking at times.

The salamander awoke, half surprised that he was not attacked again throughout the night. There was still some time before he would begin his hunt. First, a delicately reheated frog turned into a fine breakfast dish. While the meat was reheating he found himself some berries and leaves. Some of the things he considered edible berries most would deem inedible, therefore, making the supply even greater for himself. Once the meat was nice and warm again it was cut into fine strips, laid in the center of the leaf, snuggled by berries and a variety of other leaves and seasonings and turned into a nice little burrito. Food was one of his favorite things in the world. His father taught him to cook when he was young. Hunting was up there with food though. Another thing his parents taught him. After eating, the salamander buried the remaining meat so it wouldn’t attract flies or stink up the whole place.

Knowing his foot prints would be traced, the turtle stayed in more grass covered areas while he worked and wandered in circles to confuse the prints. There was a large human sized boat floating in the river with a few occupants. It seemed as if they forgot their tackle box, however, because the turtle found it on shore. It was opened, and a roll of string lay on the sand before it. A few hooks hung from the edge of the box, and a little jar full of wrestling worms was beside the string. Surely they wouldn’t miss a bit of their string. It would work just perfectly for one of his plans. Slowly but surely the string unraveled off the spool and into a nice loop around on of the turtle’s appendages until there was inches upon inches of it. To cut it from the other end he simply bit it. Having a sharp beaky mouth came in handy most of the time. With the fishing wire came an elaborate scheme. The turtle surrounded the salamander’s entire campsite, many feet away that is. He buried every part in a shallow layer of sand, and tied ends to a nearby bush. If the salamander stepped on or hit the cord at all, it would pull the plants in a little bit, alerting the turtle as to where the salamander crossed. And in figuring that out, he would know the way in which the salamander was headed, and follow carefully. The turtle went immediately after setting his line trap to a far edge of the little island of land they were on. Careful to not leave slide marks, he stood on his hind legs and dove into the water. There was a tunnel dug into the mass of land, just big enough for him to fit through. Using that, he swam to his secret home in the middle of the island. Nobody knew it existed. And nobody knew the turtle could swim underwater as well as he did. In his home, he had secret panels which allowed him entrance and exit from his home. He was going to try however to not use those entrances as to avoid foot prints leading his soon to be dinner right to his door step.

The salamander was beginning to wonder just exactly how much brains the turtle actually had. Just from talking with the fellow you would think him to be an ill-educated creature who knew nothing but rubbish and knew nothing of anything but peace and happiness. The turtle had to be at least semi-smart. And the salamander had a hunch that there were far more brains in there than he once thought. A plan quickly came to mind while he was going about his morning. It was not what he had originally planned at all, but it was certainly a plan. He was going to just go fishing, hunt some food, cook it up all nice and good, and just wait. Wait for that sorry turtle to get one wiff of his amazing cooking, and realize that the hunt was not how the turtle had planned. All he had to do was relax at his home, set up a couple traps here and there along the outskirts and a couple in the actual camp site and just go about his day as if it was nothing at all. If that did not throw the turtle for a spin, there wasn’t a thing in the world that could. There was only one more thing to work out. How do you actually kill the darnn thing? If knifing didn’t work, would starvation? What if he could find a way to sever his limbs off fast enough that they could not grow back? They seemed to heal at a continual half rate of their injury. There was a lot of puzzling to be done, and plenty of time to puzzle in.

The turtle was only home for a couple of minutes. There was just a couple things he wanted to grab before heading out. A knife of his own, very thin wire that was perfect for strangling someone with because it cut off their head at the same time as it strangled them, a telescope, and a few other items were stored in his shell. The turtle had his own ways of beating the salamander. If there was a way to tie the string around his neck so tightly it would cut of air passage, and the knot so small it couldn’t be undone, that was probably one of the best ways to kill the thing. Re-healing or not, he’d be constantly choking and very short on breath quite often. If that did not work, perhaps he could plunge out the eyeballs. The turtle, too, had noticed the re-growth rate and had a similar thought of the enemy salamander. If he could go fast enough to get the eyes entirely out of the sockets, would they re-grow? New eyes would have to form in order for healing to be complete. If the salamander could not see it would be increasingly difficult for him to hunt. Food or foe. If he shoved something up the salamander’s nose, too, that may just work. If there was a way to make it get stuck so that it would not come out, theoretically, the salamander would not be able to regain its sense of smell because there was no physical harm done. Say, if you scooped out its entire breathing system off his head, then it would be able to re-heal, however, if you merely lodge something in the nostrils to the point they’re unlodgeable, no re-healing could be done to make the obstructions come out. Many clever ideas came to the turtle as he quietly and stealthily checked his trip line he placed, looking for any signs it was breached.

Chapter Five

Moving quickly the salamander dug ditches big enough for the turtle to fit in. He lined the entire interior with wood paneling because he knew something many didn’t. Turtles can dig. There was a certain awareness to him. An alertness. There was a chance he was being spied on the entire time he was digging trenches and setting traps. It was a risk he had to take though. If there was a time to set the traps it would be then. Actually, the more ideal time to do it would be at night and work by moonlight. It would have been harder for others to tell what he was doing. But he had no moonlight with which to hide his plot. Nor did he necessarily have the time to wait till that evening. You have to be prepared for anything to happen at any given moment. Especially when death is the cost of taking your time to wait for the perfectly ideal time. After each ditch was dug and lined, the salamander laid large palm leaves over the top. The edges of the palms he buried under the sand so they would stay in place. He then covered the leaves in a layer of sand that was so thick if any more sand was added to the top it would collapse the leaves. There were seven of the traps surrounding the camp, none of them touched, there was room just enough for the turtle to walk between two adjacent ones, but chances were that he would not manage to walk right between any. There was another trap directly beside the fire, one behind his canoe, and two placed randomly. If the turtle got lucky and avoided any of the traps whilst walking into the camp, it would be easy for the salamander to lure him into any given ditch. After everything was set, he walked down to the shore which was right beside his camp. Lining up a few thick heavy pieces of wood he had gathered originally for a new boat, he began to tie the pieces together with a rope. They were connected and bound at once with a rope he had lying around. It would hold well enough to do its job temporarily. Flooded to his shoulders in water, the salamander submerged completely and came back up bearing fistfuls of seaweed. These would be used to make a cement recipe that his parents showed him how to make when he was young. And with that recipe he would more securely keep the wood slab together which he had just made. The slab was to go over whatever ditch he managed to get the turtle into. Next to some of his cooking things was a nice bowl he used to cook the cement in; seaweed mixed with water and mud, then boiled till it turned into a thick wretched smelling paste.

The turtle made his round and checked the wire. There was only one indication of it being tripped but the marks in the sand were clearly some sort of bird. There were talon marks. Not to mention bird poop. The salamander could have carefully covered his real tracks over and drawn the bird ones in, but the bird poop couldn’t have been placed. While he was checking the perimeter, a pungent smelled wafted into the air. It was horrible at first but the turtle just kind of adjusted to it and got used to it and after a few minutes he had mostly ignored it. Then it completely went away. As he was studying the bird droppings, trying to assess if those could have been in some way forged, a new smell began to fill the air. It was the complete opposite of the previous one. It smelled like some sort of fish, and whatever it was being cooked with just made his mouth water. The smell could only be coming from one place. Anybody who had been around the salamander when he cooked would know that the food he made was the most divine food in the world. The smell alone was enough to fill a starved child’s stomach. What on earth was the salamander doing cooking at this time? A few theorys came to mind on the matter. The salamander really did not seem to be the kind of guy who could stand missing a meal. Especially when he was so used to his fine cooking and nutrients.
Maybe he was tired of hunting and he wanted to fill that dark empty spot in his stomach. Or he was just trying to lure the turtle to him, waiting to ambush him. Whatever the case may have been, the turtle decided he should investigate. Hide in the brush and examine. Figure out what exactly was going on. Like a ninja the turtle went to the campsite. Not a sound was made the entire time. He lay hidden by bushes and plants. The salamander was not only sitting cross legged by his fire cooking, he was whistling as well. At first the turtle was nothing but offended. Whenever he was around he was yelled at for whistling but here the one who detested it so much was doing it himself. The thought lingered for a few moments before the turtle realized two things. The first being that the salamander whistled much better then he ever could muster. And the second was that he needed to get his head back to business and ponder what exactly was going on.

The salamander knew for a fact that the smell of his dinner was going to attract the turtle in one way or another. Whether or not the turtle was smart enough to figure everything out was to be questioned. If he was to trust his ears he would have believed that the turtle had not came around and was out doing who knew what. You cannot trust your ears though. That, in his book, was one of the worst things you can do. You have to go by knowledge, and most of all your gut instinct. Both of which told him that the turtle indeed was looming around somewhere and was probably spying on him. With this being the case, or at least the supposed case, he sat by his cooking food with perfect posture. One his mother would have been proud of. The way you sat helped you attack faster. If you have good posture it makes it easier to jump at any given moment. It also alerts the enemy less before you leap. If you’re sitting all hunched over your work, the sneaking enemy will be alerted of your attack as soon as your back straightens. Before you would even be able to sit up straight all the way, you would have a knife in your neck. Or at least be dead in one way or another. While he was seemingly paying full attention to cooking his delicate meal, he was really paying almost full attention to his surroundings. Trusting your ears is a good thing, sometimes. It depends on how stealthy one can be. In order to listen to the surroundings he had to tune out his perfectly pitched whistling. There was only faint rustling sounds, but then there was a slight breeze as well which caused a portion of the rustling sounds. There was one sound that was out of place, and that was the slight sound of sand shifting and falling down a small sand bank. Company had arrived. Just as fast as he turned to greet his guest he stopped whistling.

“Why, hello there! Come to join me for some dinner I see.”

The turtle was not in plain sight but he knew his gig was up. He had been caught. Time to come out and play the fool.

“Well, A-huh-hu, I figured maybe if I watched you cook I could learn how to do it myself. I mean I need to know how to cook you when I win, right? A-huh-hu-HUH!”

“Well, if you promise you wont try to kill me while I’m cooking, you can sit by the fire and I’ll give you a few pointers and tips.” The plan was going just as planned, if not much better. The turtle did not expect any of this to go down the way it was. He had no intentions of coming in contact with the salamander. All his plans went out the window, and he had to play it by ear.
“As long as you promise not to lay a hand on me till I’m gone…” the turtle retorted.

“Oh, absolutely promise!” what seemed to look like an innocent smile was actually a devious victorious smile. The turtle was so unsuspecting of what happened next. He went to the side of the fire opposite of the salamander, thinking that would be the safest place to sit. However he quickly fell into the trap and all attempts to escape proved impossible in the amount of time he had. He barely registered what happened before there was a plank dropped over the top of the pit and a thick layer of sane scooped along the edges. There was water poured on top of the sanded edges to weigh down the sand a bit. All the while a loud, thrilled and joyous laughter came flooding out the evildoer’s lungs.

“But you promised!” wailed the betrayed turtle.

“I promised I would not lay a hand on you or touch you. And I did not. I did nothing to you. You fell into the ditch yourself. All I did was place a cover on top. I broke no promise. I will, however, tell you how to cook like I said, but you wont be able to see. And then maybe if you behave later I will drop you down a few pieces as a final meal.”

In order to hear each other they had to use raised voices. The turtle was very pissed off, but the salamander did have a good point. He never did lie. And the turtle knew that was true. In his heart he knew he could not be mad. It was his own fault he trusted the salamander and did not watch his steps more carefully. The wood surrounding all his sides only showed how much more intelligent the slinky reptile was. The turtle was smart, but not as smart as the salamander. He had met his match.

Chapter Six

The turtle didn’t spend much time mourning his capture. No. He was far to good for that. Instead he began trying to find a way to move the planks so he could dig himself out. Judging by where the camp was, if he dug about ten to twenty feet he would run into one of his underground tunnels and be able to get into his house and plot a further idea. Or just manage to swim away, and never be seen again. That was what a pansy would do. And he was no pansy. The planks fit perfectly in the hole. It was almost like the salamander shoved planks into the sand and then dug out the sand inside the planks. All the edges of the wood touched. The turtle reached into his shell and pulled out his knife. It would take awhile, but he was in a wooden box with nowhere to go and hardly any new air being cycled into it. He may not die, chances were he’d survive. If a knife going through his neck and around and around in circles like the hands on a clock didn’t kill him, odds were on his side that he wouldn’t die from a little case of suffocation. The salamander was on the surface above joyously cooking his meat. Whistling again, only taking breaks to say some odd ingredient or instruction, the salamander was unaware of the escape bound turtle who was cutting maniacally. Every time the whistling would stop so would the cutting. With a little determination and a lot of arm work the board was cut halfway down by time the food was done. A hole was cut into the lid of the cage around the proximity of the turtle’s head area. The fish was dropped down and then a rock was shoved into the hole and more sand thrown on top of the lid then before.

“A-huh-hu-HUH! Hey thanks man!” the turtle shouted out, pretending to be just as naïve as before.

“Everyone deserves a fantastic meal as their last,” chimed the slinky man up top.

“Well even though you’re killing me, thank you sir.”

The salamander just began to whistle some more as he carried everything he used to cook things throughout the day down to the water’s edge to wash them. The turtle took this as the perfect opportunity to saw like hell. In no time he finished the incision completely down the wood. The laceration was in the middle of the plank of wood directly in front of him. After shoving his dirt covered claws in between the two slices of wood the turtle pulled them backwards towards him with all his might. There was hardly any room to move around in the bottom and his hands flew back and hit his head far more than once. The hole wasn’t big enough for both the slates to open outwards the way he was trying. There was no way. Especially because he lacked flexibility because of his shell. There was a new plan which consisted of pushing the boards back into their original position and cut a large vertical slit along the sides making four squares. Then the one of the top squares would merely have to be wriggled out. Naturally the next three would come out more easily. By the time the new plan came about the salamander had returned.

Chapter Seven

The salamander washed his plates in a happy manner. The fight was over and he had won. If suffocation did not work there were other methods to killing the turtle. If worse came to worse he would just roast and cook the turtle live and eat him that way. And if the re-healing process kicked in, then well the feast would begin and raw meat would be in full stock. He began to kick more dirt over the top of his pet’s cage. Tonight he would sleep there, just to be certain there was no escape. None of that was an issue really. Thinking back on his sad life, there was not a time in his life since his parents died when he felt such glee. Indeed there were happy moments and joyous times in his life since that tragic day. There was always a certain joy when catching your prey and feasting upon their delicious remains. This joy topped every moment like that, however. Sure it would have been an ever bigger, better, and more honorable win if the turtle was actually smart and actually had brains. In truth the match was rigged. There was no hope for the turtle in the first place.

The more the salamander thought about how un-victorious in truth his win actually was, the more he felt like a huge jerk. There was nothing honorable about this win at all, nor was there a justifiable reason to kill and/or eat the turtle in the way he was planning. Nevermind that though. That was not true. His mind was just playing tricks on him. The salamander argued with himself continuously until he fell asleep.

Chapter Eight

The turtle heard the salamander on the surface going to bed above him. A huge damper was put on his plan. He had to move quietly. That was no matter. Half of the vertical line was done already. As soon as heavy breathing was audible and an occasional snore filled the air, the turtle began his task. It took far longer then he had planned. Being quiet sure has a way of putting a damper on things. The two square planks popped out first, next the long rectangular one was flipped diagonally and eventually it came completely out. The wooden planks were placed at his sides as the digging began. It was not an easy task. The dirt that was dug out from the front was pushed to both sides of his shell and eventually behind him. The turtle dug all night long. There was no way he could afford to stop. The hole that was dug was being quickly filled back in as he moved. Everything that once was a wall in front became a wall in back. Eventually the tunnel he was digging ran into his small home. If he took the door back out to land there was a chance he could get to the salamander’s camp before he awoke and slaughter him right then and there. Poor guy wouldn’t even know what hit him. He’d go peacefully. That is, if he could get him to die nice and easily. The turtle was hungry. The last thing he ate was that small sliver of fish that was offered the night before.

The salamander was indeed up by the time the turtle came back to the camp. The salamander, however, was not on the surface. The lid to the cage was haphazardly thrown beside the hole and the burning camp fire and there were obscenities being yelled from inside. Cautiously, the turtle approached the opening. The digging procession had not yet started as the salamander was still examining the boards trying to figure out how exactly his plans were foiled. Now was the only chance. Drop kicking into the lizard, the turtle entered the hole.

“A-huh-hu-HUHHH!” he yelled as he flew down. The kick sent the salamander flying up against the wall and the turtle leapt after him and in putting all his weight on the feller he held him there while he reached into his shell and pulled out his wire noose. It fit over the lanky reptile’s neck almost too well. The salamander got free enough to hit the turtle and attempt to push him off, but all efforts came too late. The noose was tightened and breathing grew harsh. The salamander’s rounding phalanges did everything they could to untie the wire but to no avail. While all the struggling for breath took place the shelled creature stabbed the back of the other reptile’s head with his knife, landing his fist solidly upon the crown after it was withdrawn. Falling to the ground, and coughing up blood, the salamander felt completely hopeless. He could not give up though. He would not give up.

It was quite obvious that the wire was next to impossible to get off. The fact that the salamander had not already suffocated to death yet showed that it was improbable. Breathing was very restricted though. Before he could react or land a couple blows of his own onto his attacker, he was on his back, with a hard shell on top of him. The turtle’s back legs held down the salamander’s arms, while his front began a heinous task. The gouging of the eyeballs. As the butt of the knife hit the salamander’s right eye, a larger urge to fight struck in. More adrenaline entered his veins. While his front appendages proved unable to do anything, his back legs were in full motion, kicking frantically. The problem with this plan showed itself at once as more damage was done to the feet of salamander than to the turtle who needed to be damaged. Sight was no longer a privilege of the wriggling reptile. His eyes were one by one hit out with the butt of the knife then before you could say “A” they were cut off. Breathing still short. Only black where colors and a turtle should be. Feet bruised from kicking a shell. Arms pinned down at the joint, unable to move. The salamander felt more useless than ever before.

Everything he had thought of the turtle was a lie. The turtle in and of himself seemed to be one huge lie. He was not a peace lover. He was not a retard. He was not some gullible naïve thing. No. He was one of the strongest and bravest creatures the salamander ever faced. All the regrets that were trying to deprive the salamander of sleep the previous night fled. There was no room for them here. There was only room for hatred and other violent emotions. Apathy swelled at large and anger towards himself and the opponent boiled inside him. The turtle sat there, on top of the salamander. The salamander completely unaware of what the turtle was planning next, where he was looking, or anything at all that was going to happen. Never before had he realized just how much you rely on your eyes. Even though it was a logical thing to guess would happen next, it didn’t even cross the salamanders mind. Two jagged rocks were shoved up his nostrils. As if the salamander’s face was not smothered in blood enough already, more blood poured onto the whole scene. A large, wet, bloody mess was splattered everywhere in that ditch. Though in tremendous pain, the salamander held back all wails and screams of pain. His hands were fisted, even under the weight on his arms. At least with his nose plugged he could barely taste the coppery tasting blood. His sense of smell always coincided with his sense of taste. There was a major disorientation level going on in the salamander’s head. Honestly though, what could he have expected? To be up and kicking after loosing his eyes and sense of smell? He fought to regain orientation. He didn’t fight the turtles grip yet. No. that would most certainly come after he reoriented himself with his surroundings and got a grasp on the situation. His eye sockets were tingling intensely. They burned and stung. His eye lids were closed for no purpose. If anything they were holding themselves shut out of reflex and instinct to keep the dirt particles and dust from getting inside the hollow sockets. They held themselves down, and wouldn’t go up. There was a force that was pushing them down and locking them in place. Almost like super glue.

Thoughts swam boundlessly through the salamander’s head on how to escape and how to save himself. He was invincible to stab wounds and knife wounds, bite wounds and burns, but it was looking as if once something was severed off all at once before it regenerated itself it was gone. Never to heal again. How was he to win when he could not see? How was he to win when he could not smell? A small sliver of hope was hanging from the fact that he could still hear. It was the last thread keeping hope alive before all hope was gone. He could not move for the fat lard of a turtle was still on top of him pinning him down. If it had been any creature other than a hard shelled turtley beast sitting upon him he could have used his legs to aid in survival. However, the hard shell only proved to be a torture device in and of itself.

The turtle was waiting on top of the salamander, unflinching. Occasionally, he would raise his fist and blow it across the face of his prisoner. The punches did not knock the lizard-like reptile unconscious, they just furthered to disorientate it. There had to be a way to kill the thing once and for all. If he could cut the salamander’s limbs off in one blow there would be more hope to killing it. The only knife that he had was sadly dulled in the process of cutting his own escape. If he took him to the water, would he drown? In order to stay alive his body would have to either somehow prevent the water from entering its lungs and make oxygen, which seemed very unlikely to happen, or he would have to grow gills. Equally unlikely. Both animals’ trains of thought were over rode when in their ears reverberated the sounds of footsteps coming towards the camp. And towards the hole they were perched in.

Another strand of hope fell into the salamander’s lap as the footsteps grew nearer. That hope was killed just as fast as it had sprung up for the turtle punched him across the head again. Only this time it actually knocked him unconscious. The turtle left the limp salamander at the bottom of the pit as he himself climbed out. A large bird approached, bobbing his head as he walked. It was if he had music playing and he was doing a cat walk all the way to his destination. To further this theory when the bird got three feet in front of the turtle he turned sideways, placing one wing on his hip as he turned and squinted his eyes. The turtle was afraid. Not because of how the bird carried itself and posed as if it reached the end of a runway, but because of the bird’s size. It was more than twice the turtle’s height when the turtle was standing on his hind legs. The size of bird that ate turtles like him. For desert. The turtle did not show his fear. Indeed that is what makes the predators want to eat you more.

“I say, young man, I am looking for a turtle by the name of Donald Ortega,” uttered the bird.

“A-huh-hu-HUH! Why, that’s me!”

“Oh my!” the bird cried out in pure disgust. “Everything they said about you was right! You are just…well I shant say,” he pulled his head back as if he would catch an infectious disease from the shelled being.

“A-huhhh, well why were you looking for me?”

“I was sent to deliver a message to you, unfortunately,” the bird had a mischievous, yet repulsed look in his eye.

“Wellp, are you gunna tell me what that message is? Cause I don’t got all day. And I really need to get back to my friend down there who needs my help, friend, right.”

“Well, you see my good morsel, your mother has died. I was sent to inform you of this.” The look in the bird’s eye was changing again. What exactly that look in his eye was the turtle did not know. Nor did he care.

His heart was shattered. His mother, dead. Never did he think he would live to see the day. There had always been that childlike thought in him that his mother was invincible, also that she’d never die. His father could die, he abandoned the turtle and his mother when the turtle was very young. Even though he was little when his dad left, he needed his dad. His dad was his hero and his role model. Dad was the person who knew everything in the whole world, the one who the turtle strove to please. Then one day, he was gone. Not even a note goodbye. Not even any form of goodbye or any closure. He just vanished. It was that day when he noticed that he overlooked his mother those first seven years of his life. She was there, and she loved him much more than his father ever did. The stronger love went unnoticed but it was always there, it would never vanish. The love he wanted the most was the love from his father. Yes, his father loved him to an extent, though he showed it in different ways, if he showed it at all. There was more anger than love that came from his father. Not only was there a strong desire for his father’s love, approval and attention, there was a genuine need. The turtle took for granted the love his mother showed him all those years, and ignored it in attempt to gain that level of love from his father. It wasn’t till his dad left that he realized how poorly he treated his mother and how amazing she really was. It was in those days that the widowed wife cried her eyes out that the child realized something. His mom needed that love, too. She needed it more then he ever did. The child had a love though that was always there, even though it was lacking from the source he needed it most. His mother, though, didn’t have either. Donald loved his mother very much, he just was like his dad in his way of showing it to her. In that very moment, there was a strong need for not only the seven years’ worth of love to be inherited from the woman, but to return that love. His mother was in grave pain from the loss she experienced, yet there was a certain joy about her. She was more free, more happy and she certainly lived more brighter from that day on. Though heartbroken, she was more whole and complete than the boy had ever seen her. To the child, she was more whole and complete because she now had his love. Every day for a week she gave him a special juice. It was blood red, and had a copper taste. She said it would help him be strong, and never end up the way his dad did. Nor would he hurt anybody the way his dad hurt them. The boys whole world changed on that day, and all his outlooks on life. That strong desire to be loved hit him like a stone across the head. Dead. No. Impossible. She could not be dead.

The turtle did not respond to anything that the bird said. He was to heart broken to speak. Years of youth passed through his head in black and white reruns. Before any form of understanding or coping was even plausible the bird spoke up again.
“And as if that wasn’t unfortunate enough for you, it’s going to get even more so. For you see, lad, I am going to eat you!” as soon as the sentence ended the bird pounced on the turtle shells and viciously began to tear chunks out of the turtle, throwing the chunks of raw meat onto the fire the salamander had going all day. When he saw that his meal was only regenerating as it was being torn apart, he took his long, sharp talon and beheaded the turtle in one fail swoop. The head was not regenerated. The bird was thrilled by that fact and ate the turtle faster than he ate anything before in his life.

Chapter Nine

The salamanders eye lids burst open, and as they did, he was blinded. Once again he could see. His eyes were completely regenerated. Last thing he could remember was being sat on, footsteps, then being smacked across the face so hard it rendered him unconscious. The turtle was no longer there. There was a slight sound of what seemed to be something eating. That turtle had better not be eating his leftovers! Pain was vacant from the salamander; his body was entirely healed. Jumping to his feet the salamander’s head popped out of the hole and examined his surroundings. The fire still burned and crackled. There was a new smell of food. One he hadn’t cooked. Someone had been using his fire. The turtle no doubt. As he turned to survey the rest of the camp he found himself looking a large bird square in the eyes.

“Ahhh!” sighed the bird happily. “You must be the injured friend that the turtle spoke of before I ate him. Good day sir! My name is Fabio.”

“Friend? Far from it. Thank you for killing him and eating him, Fabio. He was a pain in my hide. My name is Jim. Pleasure to meet you, friend.”

“Pleasure to meet you too, food.” The gentlemanly bird jumped through the air with an extended leg and sliced off the reptile’s head with his talon much in the same way he took care of the turtle. The head flew off and blood shot straight up into the air. The sand on the ground was hardly tan anymore. At once the bird began eating his second meal. The timing of the reptile’s coming to and peeking his head out was just fantastic as Fabio had just finished eating his first meal.

The bird had finished all of both creatures and could not eat another bite. It really was the perfect meal for him. A nap was in high order. Walking to an un-bloodied part of land the bird dropped down and went to sleep, happy and peaceful.

Chapter Ten

While the bird was asleep he was growing fatter. Fatter from the regeneration of the turtle and the salamander in his stomach. He awoke from the pain of his stretching flesh. A scream filled the air just before the bird exploded. Guts, blood, and chunks of meat and splashes of stomach acid ran rampantly out of the bird. The turtle and the salamander fell out, not completely regenerated. Their heads and part of their abdomens were regenerated. Just the size of them like that was too great for the bird’s stomach. The turtle’s shell had not even begun to regenerate completely.
“OH, GROSS!” they yelled at the exact same time. Their fight was temporarily postponed. They couldn’t not fight when they were mostly just heads. The turtle made the most of the situation. He didn’t want to fight anymore. He wanted peace. In truth, he was just a peaceful turtle who didn’t like to fight. Every now and again, though, he had a strong desire to fight.
“Hey, man, the bird said my mom died…which means no chocolate muffins,” Donald said emotionally, but not breaking down.

“No prize. Cause I sure as hell have no desire to eat you now. After what we just did to that bird, I don’t think you’d want to eat me either. Though, I’d assume we’d come back to life after exploding so it may be fun.”

“A-huh-hu-HUH! Fun yes. We cannot die, though, so does that make our challenge called off? Neither can win.”

“Yeah, I suppose it does,” the salamander said stoically.

“Does this…” he cut himself off, but then finished his sentence. “Does this mean we can be friends?”

“Sure, why not.”