The C-130 passes very low and slowly over the old jungle air field piloted by the ship’s copilot Jake, as the hunter and the pilot stand on either side of the large open rear cargo bay door assessing the condition of the old airstrip. Each of the men is wearing headsets plugged into a communications’ panel allowing conversation between the hunter, the pilot, and copilot.
Parked well off the airstrip below in the mid-morning sun is a small, bright yellow helicopter. Two men in jungle camo with shouldered rifles watch the low flying transport as it makes its second low pass over the airstrip.
“Well, Jake, what do you think? Can you set us down here?” asks the hunter.
“It won’t be pretty… but yeah, I can bring her down safely. It looks like your boys know their business. They did a great job clearing and patching up this old air field… it’s a vast improvement when compared to the satellite shots from last week,” replies the copilot.
“Let’s do it then… you and Jack have to be back in Nairobi by this afternoon,” reminds the hunter.
“I never thought I’d be in business together with you, Hunter… don’t take it the wrong way. It’s great… I just never thought I had any useful skill to be used in your type of work. Stand back… I’ll secure the door for landing,” says pilot Jack. The hunter smiles and nods as the pilot pushes a button on the door control. The large rear door slowly retracts down and outward and comes to a stop. Jack pulls his headset jack from the communication panel and gestures to the hunter to follow him forward.
Seconds later the hunter and pilot enter the cockpit. Jake the young red-headed copilot is in the second seat banking the transport slightly preparing to bring the plane around for another low pass over the airstrip. Jack sits in the first seat and buckles in saying, “We’ve seen enough. Prepare for landing, Jake,” orders the captain.
“Sure skipper,” replies Jake.
The hunter buckles into the navigator’s chair behind the second seat and watches as the pilot and copilot begin a going over their checklist in preparation for landing.
“I have the plane, Jake,” says the captain.
“You have the plane, skipper,” sighs Jake in relief at not having to land the big bird on the old airstrip.
The captain smiles at his young partner and says, “You’d do just fine, Jake… when you’re ready to try, you’ll know. You have wisdom, Jake…most guys your age would be too proud to admit their limitations and try before they feel they’re ready—that’s why I took you on with me. Gear down, Jake,” orders the captain.
Jake nods and pulls down on a large handle between the pilot and copilot seat; the plane vibrates slightly as the hydraulics engage and the landing gear extends downward, locking into place.
“Gear down and locked, skipper,” reports Jake as the plane banks hard and then lines up on the on airstrip and begins to lose altitude. The ground crew has set burning red flares on the boundaries of the airstrip to aid the pilot in lining up the transport for landing.
“Brace for landing, Hunter,” warns the captain. “Jake, when we touch down, power down the engines and reverse thrust… I will need help braking the bird, too.”
“I’m here skipper,” replies Jake. He reaches over and puts his large hand on the engine throttle.
The two men below watch in interest as the large C-130 banks hard around and approaches the jungle airstrip. When the landing gear begins to extend and the landing lights blaze bright, the taller man says excitedly “Looks like they’re going for it!”
“The hunter says this pilot is good… real good. He flew transports for the Air Force during Desert Shield and Desert Storm. He’s even flown the big ones – C-5’s,” explains the other man.
“What’s this about, anyway?” asks the taller man.
“You know the hunter; secretive about his contracts. All I know is he wanted this airfield operational, and he wants transport for two to Nairobi—and pays good for the work,” replies the other.
“Here it comes,” says the taller man excitedly as the C-130 approaches and drops low. The landing lights attached to the landing gear blaze bright white, and the plane continues to descend as it approaches the jungle airstrip. The aircraft gracefully loses altitude and clears the edge of the jungle. Seconds later there is a loud screech: two gusts of black smoke waft from the far end of the airstrip as the C-130’s tires touchdown on the cracked surface of the strip. Once on the ground, the large transport immediately begins to loudly decelerate... the turbo props in reverse. the craft begins to brake hard. The roar is deafening as the prop-thrust is reversed and brought to full power, slowing down the large transport. Seconds more, the two men feel a gust of hot wind and hear the roar as the plane flashes past their helicopter parked well away from the runway. The transport is still moving a bit fast, approaching the end of the airstrip—both men run onto the strip to watch.
The engines roar even louder, and the old transport shakes hard, gradually coming to a full stop. The engines power down, then ramp up again as the C-130 spins gracefully around 180 degrees: the thrust of the transport’s four engines whip-tear at the leaves of the leafy palms and brush near the runway. The C-130 then slowly begins to taxi back down the jungle airstrip. The men move off the runway and stand next to the helicopter again; the plane slowly passes by them and then comes to stop near their parked jeep. The dull roar of the C-130’s spinning engines continue as the plane remains stationary and the large rear cargo door slowly retracts and opens.
As the rear section opens, the men catch sight of the hunter and Jake standing near the door. Jake is operating the door control and has on a headset that is attached to a black cord that leads to another cord that is coiled in Jake’s hand. The copilot grabs a pair of yellow wooden wheel chocks from within the cargo bay and jumps lightly down to the tarmac followed by the hunter. The hunter slaps Jake on the back and says something to him over the dull roar the engines. Jake nods acknowledgement and then moves off quickly towards the port side aircraft wheels and chocks the large aircraft tires front and back.
Hunter greets the men with handshakes and a shouted greeting over the engine noise, while they wait for the C-130’s engines shutdown. The men watch as Jake plugs the cord to the headset into a recessed jack on the exterior of the aircraft; he drops the coil of black wire and begins to move around the exterior of the aircraft speaking into the headset’s microphones. Jake walks quickly around the starboard wing and moves well out in front of the spinning blades of the C-130. The copilot stands before each of the C-130’s four spinning engines one by one making a visual inspection of each and relaying his findings to the captain. Satisfied everything is in order the copilot draws his right index finger across his throat. The plane’s four turbo prop engines immediately shut off one by one and begin to ramp down. A repeated scenario, each time of their landing gigs.
“That’s better,” says the hunter as he listens to the subsiding engine noise. “Have any trouble boys?”
“Out here?” asks the tall man. “We haven’t seen a soul, two days we’ve been here.
“Good. This spot is perfect for the plan,” says the hunter, and he looks around.
(NOTE: The end of Chapter 1, and this following Chapter 2, were practically verbatim repeats, and made little sense. Thus, much of it was simply excised, and severely edited, short as it is... so the story layout could continue and remain as originally numbered.)
“So how’d it go, Shawn?” Hunter asks the tallest of the two men. A leanly tall fellow, with short- cropped blond hair; the now quiet remoteness of the jungle settling around them.
“Same ole, same ole,” Shawn replies. “So many greedy wackos in the world, could probably
have sold the Brooklyn Bridge to the local Boy Scout troop for six bucks, just as easy.”
“No hitches, no questions?”
“Show them the money, they squat every time,” agrees the shorter Vince. A bit on the muscly side, but no Adonis or heavyweight. This one has darker features, coloring. No doubt Italian, and proud of it.
Both of the men, Shawn and Vince, have been long associates of the hunter. They were basically the go-fors: front men sent ahead to smooth the way, pave the road, entice the foolish, roll out the carpet... for whatever was to come. Probably could have coerced Miss America into posing for Playboy, with promises of absolute legitimacy, no g-string needed. And a Hollywood contract for Sesame Street, if she’d only smile and peel off her top. The hunter trusted them. They were charmingly devious and thorough.
“Any problems with Bomba’s police commissioner friend, Vince?”
“Are you shittin’ me?” Shawn interjected. “Once we popped open the briefcase with the bills,
his eyes got wide, took a handkerchief to wipe his forehead, and says ‘What d’ya need, fellas—how can I help? Been wanting to retire for a long time....’ And he was off and running, on auto-pilot.”
“No, you had the old man pegged right,” laughs Vince. “With friends like him... Bomba does not need enemies!”
“I figured the police commissioner could not resist the cash,” replies the hunter.
“Pops played it cool. He went through the heart wrenching spiel that Bomba is like a son to him…he could never sell out his boy, Bomba…for any price,” laughs Vince.
“The old goat changed his tune when he saw the cash in the case; heck, he even offered to help. He said he would drug the Jungle Boy and hogtie him while he was unconscious,” snickers Shawn. “Some step-father he is!”
“I explained to him that this had to be done quietly and professionally. There has to be a witness to the fact that Bomba left the village alive and well for personal reasons, for an extended period of time... and that he might not return. Pops will provide a witness and spread the story that Bomba has left the village on a personal matter. Pops will send Bomba on his way here to you at exactly midday tomorrow…he should arrive just after sunset,” explains Vince.
“Perfect. I read that old cop correctly. He’s old and tired… facing the prospect of working that shit job in that shit hole village until he drops dead. I figured he’d sell out Bomba for a retirement incentive,” sneers the hunter.
The pilot and copilot now have arrived to join the group.
“Boys, this is Jack and Jake, friends of mine,” introduces the Hunter as Jack and Jake approach the trio on the side of the jungle airstrip. “Jack and Jake, meet Shawn and Vince—some occasional partners in my acquisition projects.”
As greetings and handshakes take place, Hunter steps out in front of the group of men and claps his hands sharply together. “OKAY! Here’s the plan. Shawn and Vince… you boys take Jake and Jack and chopper out of here, first thing in the morning. I’ll stay here alone…less chance of Bomba spotting anyone. And I'll be sure to give young Bomba the proper greeting he deserves when he arrives at sunset tomorrow.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay too, Hunter,” asks Vince. Well-skilled as he is in Karate. “Got a look at that Jungle Boy in the village…he’s a big, strapping boy… all muscle! If you were just going to take Bomba out, I wouldn’t be concerned. But you want him alive, and putting that big kid down alone won’t be easy.”
“Thanks, pal, but I’m prepared for Bomba…muscles and all. I brought a little surprise with me for him,” smiles the Hunter slyly. “I’ll be fine. After I deck him, I’ll flush and plug the Jungle Boy for the trans-Atlantic flight. I don’t want to mess up Jack’s plane.”
“Like Tarzan? I appreciate that,” laughs the pilot.
“You boys chopper back here the day after tomorrow, then we’ll settle up and go our separate ways. Jack, Jake and me will go on to deliver the Jungle Boy to his master in San Miguel. Poor kid… he’ll never know what hit him."
“Ah Bomba…please come in,” chirps the old police commissioner cheerfully as he quickly closes the lid of a metal briefcase sitting on his desk and then secures the case’s latches.
“Hello, commissioner—note say Bomba need come see you,” smiles young Bomba as he steps into the commissioner’s office off the dirt street of the small jungle village.
“Yes, Bomba. I need a favor from you,” says the commissioner.
Bomba, the Jungle Boy, is good-looking nearly twenty years old and stands 6” 3” tall. He is a strapping boy clad only in a skimpy leopard loin cloth, and carries his trademark spear. Bomba is handsome; he has clear tanned skin, brown eyes and curly brown hair. He has an impressive body and the scanty loin cloth reveals Bomba’s powerful thighs and calves - muscular torso with six pack abs, and well-developed pecs – large arms and bulging biceps – the result of growing up wild and on his own in the rugged jungle.
“Bomba glad to help police commissioner,” replies the handsome boy with a friendly smile.
“Thank you, Bomba; I need you to travel west to the abandoned airstrip near Narendra Ridge, and check on a plane that was reported to have landed there late yesterday afternoon.”
“Trouble commissioner?” asks Bomba.
“I’m not sure. It’s a crazy place to make an intentional landing… that old beat-up strip hasn’t been active in over a decade or two. It’s probably nothing sinister… engine trouble… mechanical problem of some type. I’m not sure. Nonetheless I need to have it checked out to be safe… no injuries, drugs… poaching, or funny stuff going on out there. The problem is that Boito and I have to travel to the district headquarters this afternoon, to testify at a hearing,” explains the police commissioner.
“Bomba leave now and check plane at airstrip. Bomba be back quick - tomorrow midday, commissioner,” says Bomba as he turns to leave.
“Thanks, Bomba… you’ll never know how much this means to me. Oh, Bomba… travel alone so you’ll make good time. And be careful, Bomba. If there is any sign of trouble at the strip, return for help. Boito and I will be back tonight,” cautions the commissioner.
“Bomba go alone; Bomba travel quick; Bomba always careful,” replies Bomba as he flashes a smile and leaves the office.
As the door shuts the commissioner’s mood changes abruptly; he watches sullenly as the strapping young Jungle Boy hurries past his office window to make his way out of the small jungle village, and towards his demise at the hands of the waiting slaver. The gray-haired commissioner sighs loudly as he sits down behind his desk, unlatches and then opens the lid of the briefcase once more. He gazes intently at the neatly stacked and wrapped bundles of crisp US dollars within the briefcase. “One hundred-thousand dollars, to lure Bomba the Jungle Boy to an abandoned airstrip,” muses the commissioner. “Two minutes of my time to earn all this money! Two minutes, to betray a friend! But an offer I could not refuse! I’m so sorry, Bomba; nothing personal, son. But I’m getting too old to keep doing this job out here in this dreary place – terrorists – poacher’s – drug dealers; you’re my ticket to secure retirement, Bomba,” thinks the commissioner out loud. He scratches the gray hair on his head, and stares with wonder at the briefcase full of cash. “I have a good idea why my clients wanted me to lure you to that old secluded landing strip, Bomba…. Sad; and I’m pretty sure you won’t be coming back.”
“Boito,” yells the commissioner as he closes the lid and latches the briefcase. Seconds pass and there is a quick knock on the door as a local native enters the office.
“Yes, Bwana?” asks Boito.
“Have all my personal belongings from my bungalow been loaded into the Land Rover?” asks the commissioner impatiently.
“Yes, Bwana,” replies Boito.
“Did you see Bomba leave the village alone, just now?” asks the commissioner.
“Yes, Bwana; Bomba go west… alone… very quickly,” replies Boito.
“You said nothing to Bomba,” asks the commissioner sternly.
“No, Bwana. Bomba not see me…and you tell me not to speak to Bomba today. Where Bomba go?” asks Boito.
“Bomba would not say; it is a personal matter, and I had to respect Bomba’s privacy. Bomba did say he would be gone for a very long time, and for us not to worry about him. He says he might not be back. You witnessed Bomba leaving the village… so if Bomba does not return, foul play should not be suspected. Now take that box and put it in the Land Rover; that’s the last of my office files,” instructs the commissioner.
“You not come back, Commissioner?” ask Boito.
“I’m afraid not, Boito. I’m retiring – I know it’s sudden – but circumstances have changed. My replacement will arrive Monday after next. Until then you can mind the store, Boito… make sure the new commissioner knows that Bomba has left the village on a personal errand and intends to be gone a long, long time…perhaps permanently. Therefore, if interested parties voice concern for Bomba’s well-being, they should be informed Bomba left the village of his own free will. And further… you personally witnessed Bomba’s safe departure. Now be off with you,” orders the commissioner.
Boito shakes his head and shrugs, then obeys; he takes the box and leaves the office quickly. After Boito has gone, the commissioner leans back in his chair and considers, “I really will miss Bomba; he has been like a son to me these past few years. I feel bad that it has to end like this for the poor boy. There is not much chance of a happy ending, when someone pays that much money to lure someone somewhere! Most likely Bomba has caught the eye of a slaver; the demand for good-looking white boys has created a huge black market for white slaves... and Bomba certainly fits the bill. The Orientals and Arabs can’t seem to get enough kidnapped white boys to serve as their unwilling slaves… scum… perverts… deviants!”
The commissioner leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, and shudders... contemplating the miseries of Bomba’s soon life as a slave at the mercy of a cruel perverted master. He is disturbed by images in his mind of the strapping boy forced to perform every imaginable deviant act of humiliation for his master’s pleasure. He tries to shake off second thoughts for his brutal betrayal of his would-be son, Bomba. He begins to sweat; he sighs loudly, sits upright in his chair and moans, “What have I done? No! Wait! I need to get a grip! I had to lure Bomba to the airstrip! It was either doing this job until I die, or delivering Bomba! I need a drink… or two!”
He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and then opens a side drawer of his desk; he retrieves a bottle of Jack Daniels and a small glass. “The die is cast. I cannot un-ring that bell!” thinks the gray-haired commissioner as he pours a generous amount of Jack into the glass. He stands and raises the glass and offers a toast, “To Bomba, the Jungle Boy! He really was like a son to me!” He voraciously gulps the sour mash whiskey down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The old man refills the glass and toasts again, “To Absolution!” He gulps down the second glass and then sighs loudly, as he throws the glass to the stone floor, shattering it into pieces. He takes the briefcase and heads for the Land Rover and his retirement—paid for with Bomba’s precious freedom.
It is near sunset and Bomba has arrived in the vicinity of the jungle airstrip. He moves stealthily towards the edge of the airstrip and pushes the dense jungle brush aside. He quickly spots a solitary C-130 aircraft parked on the old abandoned jungle airstrip. The transport is dark and the large rear cargo bay door is open. He watches the lone transport parked on the airstrip for several moments but sees no sign of activity. He scans the edges of the jungle in all directions and listens intently but hears or sees nothing.
“No one here,” thinks Bomba. “Bomba check plane.” The sun is now low on the horizon and is beginning to set as Bomba cautiously moves out of the safety of the dense jungle and out into the open onto airstrip.
Bomba quickly and silently approaches the C-130 crouching low with his spear ready. He reaches the open rear cargo bay door crouching with his spear in hand and peers into large cargo bay. He looks back around the darkening airstrip for nearly a minute scanning and listening for signs of any activity, but again he sees or hears none. He silently jumps lightly up and through the large open door and into the spacious bay. Bomba silent and cautious makes his way towards the front of the cargo bay. Strangely, the bay is empty except for a small black barred cage anchored to the steel floor with fabric straps. He ignores the small cage for the moment and quickly reaches the front of the aircraft and enters the cockpit. No one aboard thinks Bomba as he looks around the cockpit at the empty seats and darkened control panels containing numerous switches, dials, and indicator lights. He peers out the aircraft’s windscreen in every direction for any sign of activity on the airstrip but sees nothing again.
Bomba leaves the empty cockpit and returns to the cargo bay which has only one item in the expansive area – a small steel cage that measures 3’ wide by 3’ high by 4’ long. Bomba looks around the empty aircraft bay warily as the sun begins to set; he then carefully opens the cage door located on the top of the cage.
In the growing darkness, he peers down into the small cage and see miscellaneous items scattered about the small cage floor – a heavy leather hood - a thick black silver spiked collar - a set of heavy black leather mittens shaped like paws - a large black plastic ball with leather straps with buckles on the end - a large curled black plastic tail attached to a large plug. Bomba looks cautiously around the darkening empty C-130 cargo bay again before he reaches into the cage holding his spear in the other hand. He picks up the strange heavy leather hood and then closely examines it. The black hood is heavy, made of thick leather. The face of the hood has the features of a dog with pointed leather ears that sick up straight attentively on the top of the hood and a long flat snout. The hood has eye holes but has a thick leather blindfold snapped over the eyeholes – the only the other openings in the hood are two small nose holes in the snout, and a small one at the mouth.
Bomba has become careless. He is distracted; he continues to curiously examine the strange hood with a strange fascination, trying to imagine its purpose and that of the other strange leather items in the cage. Bomba is oblivious to the hunter’s presence. He has silently entered the cargo bay while Bomba was wonderingly examining the cage’s contents, as the hunter knew he would. “Bomba, I presume,” says the hunter casually.
Bomba is completely taken by surprise – he is startled and immediately drops the dog hood and turns quickly towards the voice and is about to crouch low and defend himself with his spear. But the hunter is ready for the defensive move. The hunter is holding a black taser gun and immediately fires it at Bomba. Two small dart-like electrodes launch from the gun pulling thin wire along behind them. The evil twin darts strike Bomba’s chest and lodge deep into his firm pecs as the hunter smiles slightly and says, “Gotcha!”
A burst of concentrated high voltage surges though Bomba’s body. Bomba drops his spear and shrieks in pain as he falls hard to his knees on the steel deck of the cargo plane. His head and body convulse as his head jerks wildly; Bomba twists and turns on his knees as muscle spasms wrack his body. The hunter knows he now has the big Jungle Boy right where he wants him. He keeps the juice flowing full power to the electrodes in order to put the big boy down quick and hard. Once knowing the big Jungle Boy is no longer a threat, the hunter walks slowly towards Bomba as he tries desperately to fight off the surge of electrical voltage coursing through his body. “You are a strong boy, Bomba…most boys your size would be sprawled out on the floor by now,” notes the hunter as he maintains the current to the electrodes.
Bomba begins to sweat profusely as he continues to convulse twisting wildly in pain on his knees his arms shaking wildly as the intense muscle spasms gradually suck his strength and consciousness away. Bomba falls forward onto his hands and knees in the cargo bay and tears begin to run down his handsome face as he grits his teeth... his head and body continue to jerk uncontrollably with severe muscle spasms. Bomba is helpless before the hunter on his hands and knees as the voltage courses through his powerful body depleting his strength and even his will to fight. Seconds later, Bomba’s body drenched in sweat, is now thoroughly exhausted by the sustained power discharging into his body.
As the hunter reaches the boy and stands over his convulsing form, Bomba suddenly stops moving and then he stiffens hard. Bomba then relaxes as he collapses and rolls onto his back onto the steel deck of the cargo bay, and remains motionless. The hunter shuts down the taser immediately and tosses it next to the unconscious boy. He picks-up Bomba’s spear and nudges the big sweaty Jungle Boy in the ribs several times with the blunt end to makes sure he’s out cold… he is. He drops the spear down next to the boy and moves to the rear of the cargo bay. He flips a switch and the cargo bay lights illuminate. He returns to Bomba and nudges the unconscious boy with his boot. Bomba does not react. Hunter sighs and retrieves the studded collar, heavy leather mittens shaped like paws and ball gag from the cage floor. The hunter stares down stoically at the helpless Jungle Boy in the leopard loin cloth that lies at his feet unconscious, and says out loud, “A real shame… Bomba’s only a kid. Fresh meat. Bill will really work this boy over hard.” He dispiritedly tosses the leather toys next to the dog hood and then picks-up the spear. He uses the sharp spear to gently cut the leather cord around Bomba’s waist that retains the boy’s leopard loin cloth around his waist. The hunter tosses the spear towards the rear cargo bay door and then reaches down and strips the boy out of his leopard loin cloth leaving Bomba completely naked on the cold steel deck of the cargo plane.
The next morning Jake, the copilot, enters the cargo bay. He is not prepared for the sight. On the steel deck is Bomba completely naked wearing the heavy hood with the features of a dog and a spiked dog collar. His arms are restrained behind him, his hands encased in heavy leather mittens shaped like dog paws. The boy must be gagged thinks Jake as he stands over the helpless Jungle Boy still making muffled moans as he squirms in pain on the steel deck floor. Jake’s mouth drops open as Bomba twists on the deck face down. Bomba has a short curly black plastic tail protruding for the crack of his buttocks. “You stuck a tail up his ass?” asks Jake.
“Instructions, Jake; the fat pervert wants Bomba made into a dog,” explains the hunter. “Dog face – dog paws – spiked dog collar – and a tail.”
“Poor Bomba,” says Jake out loud as he picks-up the black taser gun and examines it.
“Taser gun. Bomba went down hard. Be careful around that old pervert in San Miguel,” warns the hunter. “Or you may wake up and find yourself trussed naked wearing a leather animal hood for the rest of your life.”
Jake gulps as he looks at the large, helpless Jungle Boy squirming and twisting naked in the hood and restraints - a black tail plugged deep into his firm ass.
“It’s all about power with the old pervert. He buys strong, good looking, free-spirited men and boys and degrades them. You saw what he did to Tarzan… hooded him, harnessed his balls to his jeep, and then forced him to scurry along behind him in utter humiliation. God knows what else he did to him. Anyhow… where’s Jack and the boys?” asks the hunter.
“Outside… they sent me to check on things. I guess they aren’t into this B&D stuff,” replies Jake still staring at the naked, muscular body in the dog hood, thrashing blindly on the floor trying frantically to break the restraints. “I’m not, either… I guess drew the short straw,” says Jake sullenly, feeling twinges of remorse and sympathy, as well as fascination at the bound and gagged Jungle Boy.
“Business is business. Come on. Help me put the kid in his cage,” orders the hunter as he roughly grabs one of Bomba’s muscled biceps. Jake and the hunter pick up the struggling boy and manhandle him, folding him down into the cage onto his knees, his abs over his powerful thighs. The hunter quickly attaches a chain to one of the D rings on the spiked collar and pulls Bomba’s hooded head close to the cage floor and secures the end to one of the cage bars. The hunter slams the cage door shut and secures the locking bolt. “That takes care of Bomba…. Tell Jack to get ready. We’re leaving within the hour,” orders the hunter.
“I see Red is still looking fine,” observes the fat old man as he leers at the copilot bent over, performing his aircraft inspections on the airstrip on San Miguel.
“Forget Red, Bill. We have more important things to consider!” explains a worried hunter as he accepts the briefcase with the bounty for Bomba. “This party is over! My contact in the police commissioner’s district headquarters contacted me in the Azores, when we stopped to refuel. The acting police commissioner, a certain Boito, contacted his district headquarters two days after I kidnapped Bomba. It seems Superman showed up at the police commissioner’s office looking for Bomba.
Bill eyebrow’s raise and his eyes grow wide as he asks hopefully, “Superman?!”
“Yes, Bill, Superman,” replies the hunter. “It seems we raised Superman’s interest with the disappearance of Tarzan. I can only assume he is following up on other jungle heroes… Bomba was the next likely victim.”
“Superman! How much time do we have, Hunter?” asks Bill in some dismay.
“It’s only a matter of time before Superman tracks down our paid off police commissioner. He’ll squeal like a pig. That will lead them to Vince and Shawn, my money boys. Then to me - then here to you.” explains the hunter sullenly. “A day, maybe two…. three at the most!
“I see, Hunter,” muses the fat old man as he licks his lips and studies the cage and its contents that have been loaded into the back of his open air Jeep. The old man smiles as he watches his latest piece of property, Bomba sweating and struggling futilely against the restraints in his small cage, as he mulls over another idea he was obsessed with a few years back.
“Superman will come here, Bill, to free his pals Tarzan and Bomba,” explains the Hunter dispiritedly.
“I see,” says Bill. “Well, then, I’ll have no choice but to prepare for Superman’s imminent arrival,” explains Bill
“Capturing Tarzan and Bomba is one thing. Stopping Superman is impossible, Bill,” explains the Hunter.
“Maybe not, Hunter! I smell opportunity knocking here on San Miguel! Listen, I had an idea, more like an obsession a few years back. An idea to develop a way to neutralize the mighty Superman’s powers, and imprison him here on my island. I had my scientists in R&D study him to develop a way to vanquish him. In the end they found nothing but the obvious – Kryptonite. Unfortunately, naturally occurring Kryptonite is rare, very rare, and that fool Lex Luthor squandered whatever Kryptonite that was on Earth on that ridiculous land scheme out west. Believe me because I spent a fortune searching the world for Kryptonite – just ain’t anymore to be found! Synthetic Kryptonite? I’ve been there, done that – that dog just won’t hunt! So science was not the answer to Superman’s demise. Desperate, I even looked into the dark arts – magic. That never seemed to pan out either; so I was forced to shelve my plan to enslave Superman and lowered my sights a tad,” explains the hunter as he gestures towards Bomba.
“Ideas… plans… for God’s sake, Bill. Let’s cut the stroll down Memory Lane! Superman is hot on our trail!” reminds the hunter. “I fear no man. But Superman … my hands don’t reach that high!” exclaims an agitated hunter.
“Hunter, will you relax for a minute and hear me out,” replies the fat man. “But I did find real magic on this island a year or so ago. I’ve became acquainted with a native, an old witch doctor who lives on the far side of my island. He calls me Island Boss Bill. Moro, that’s the witch doctor’s name, is a strange old hermit. But the thing is Moro really knows how to make magic… big magic, according to the locals. Superman, hunter, like everyone is susceptible to magic,” says Bill rather excitedly. “I’m going to take a box of cigars and a case of whiskey and pay the good doctor a visit. I’ll see if I can enlist his help in dealing with Superman, when he comes here to free his jungle pals, and tries to send me to the iron-bar hotel.”
“You’re going to take on, Superman… with magic? ” asks the hunter incredulously. “If I were you, I’d cut and run! Now! I know I am! I’ll lay low for a longtime!”
“I’ve seen the witch doctor’s magic. It’s real… real enough that the locals and I don’t mess with him,” explains Bill. “The previous owner of this island was foolish enough to try and force the witch doctor off the island. He went completely mad the following day; he’s in a sanitarian in San Juan to this day. I just have never thought about pitting Moro’s magic against Superman until now. I must be getting old! I’m betting that the witch doctor’s magic can bring Superman to his knees, a dead stop in his shiny red boots. As you say, Superman’s arrival is imminent – Moro is my... our only hope, Hunter.”
"Magic … it's a stretch… a real long shot," concedes hunter. "But, we are all in this together. I don't relish a confrontation with Superman! I would owe you big time, Bill, if you got Superman out of the picture, before he catches up to me, too!"
“I’ll tell you what, Hunter! There are a pair of young stud crime fighters operating in Gotham City. I want you to bring those two to me here – just like Tarzan and Bomba!”
“Batman and Robin?!” asks the hunter. The hunter turns away and rubs his chin with his fingers. “It will be tough; a very long campaign, but it is doable… at least they are ordinary men, unlike Superman. It will cost me what I made on Bomba!”
“That’s my price for getting Superman off your back… the Dynamic Duo!” offers Bill.
“How will you get Superman off my back, before he tracks me down? Shawn and Vince will send him right to me,” reminds the hunter.
“Simple! Call your money boys Shawn and Vince; tell them my plan. Superman will find them first! When Superman tracks them down, have your boys send Superman straight here – thus bypassing you. It will save your ass and probably both the fly boy’s asses, too," says Bill as he gestures towards the C-130. “Superman won’t imprison the money boys until he's freed his pals. Don’t forget, Superman’s real goal is to find the party that orchestrated the disappearance of Tarzan and Bomba, namely me! But when Superman comes to my island, I’ll be ready for him with big magic ,” laughs Bill.
“We have a deal! I’ll bring you Batman and Robin within one years’ time providing you first take care of Superman,” accepts the hunter
“Done! Batman and Robin – if you bring those boys here by year’s end, I’ll throw in an early delivery bonus… $1,000,000.00,” snickers the fat man; “I have something special in mind for those two,” laughs Bill.
Bill tries to disguise his disgust for the pervert, “Done, and done again. But Bill, inviting Superman here is crazy,” says the Hunter.
“Maybe it is, but what else can I…. we do. I can’t cut and run… I’m too old. Where can I, or you, hide from Superman? Just have Shawn and Vince send Superman here to my island. Better yet… have the boys tell Superman he can find Tarzan and Bomba jailed in old plantation brig on the north side of the island. Tarzan and Bomba will be the bait for the trap I’ll set for Superman! Superman will come face to face with big magic , and his new digs—in my plantation’s brig!”
Hunter sighs uncertainly, but agrees, “I’ll radio Vince and Shawn to send Superman here as soon as I’m airborne. Good luck. I’ll contact you in a few days... if you’re not in jail,” replies the Hunter. Then he turns and heads out towards the C-130 with his briefcase.
Bill turns and directs his attention back towards his newest toy compressed tightly into the small steel cage in the back of his Jeep, the moaning Bomba. “Yes! Superman, the wonderous Man of Steel, will be the crowning addition to my collection of fallen heroes,” sneers Bill as he rubs his hands together. “Caught and imprisoned by his own narcissistic pride. Broken and shattered. Unable to ever “be,” rise, or fly again! Biggest catch of the lot. Won’t that be a “winger!”