chuba

Now out of doubt Jake is mad. "By Jove that thunders what art thou fellow?", says him to me, laughing off any tear of joyless shock. Stands he in a doorway; looking at me through the agled reflection of mirror. "This is heavy business lay ahead for us!", he cries like a battle. I don't care though, let the drunkards shout and tell stories they'll never remember. Let the all these human forms, these bastards of self dignity, scream tales like prophecies. It still ends as it began, nothing more than breath in my way. Their business always in the matters of things dying, mine concerning things alive. Be they rum halls and roach parlors, brew pub or Calcutta brothel. Every place a new stone to be turned or reset, or left alone to thrive on it's own. In a similar time to our reflected conversation at the bathroom wall another tale take the same tone.
An American Scientist screaming with excitement at his many discoveries of fish, and sponges, crocodillios, and smaller baubles of creation, waded into water with camera crews in tow. A British man of the same profession tottered slowly on the banks waiting for toothsome oppurtunity to veer like a thunderbolt. After a crescendo of seconds, the Yank and crew were all of discomfort at the Spiny Canteroo, which swam a devilshock of fury under their skin as they too deep left themselves to the Amazon's wide and muddy legs. Running as crawfish for the bank, their clamor called home the great Armoured CatFish, and looming Anacondas. A quick event is always less than a scuffle, as the crew and, their mouth of a factotum, the Scientist fell below to fall no more. With the slow breath and distant precision of a surgeon, the Brit culled in the American's journal with a mesh sifter. Holding the wet pages of newly titled Flora and Fauna close to himself he exhaled. After a winsome catch of the river's spray, he decided his Nation should be glad to still adhere to the older, more sure, methods of the aquisition of data.