The tale once began like this:

I am alone in the middle of the Savage Land…a hidden pocket of untamed life…with only semi-mystical leather pants long ago lost —now found — and a large bowie knife for protection and sport. This is not a hunting expedition. I will not attack, but I will taunt any lion, leopard, or other creature that might be up to take such action. These powerful beasts and I will do battle until I am left standing on top of a hill, backlit by the setting sun, seemingly exhausted and defeated…easy prey. And you will see them advancing for the final strike, but the savage horde instead kneels at my feet as some dumb, sappily triumphant score blasts from the speakers. They are…my now loyal army.

There is no real agenda after that. Normally, the credits would roll and we’d only assume they lived happily ever after in hot bestiality. Noncommittally, I’d say we’d probably frolic for a few days…and then sort out a way of powering an Xbox 360 in the middle of the desert, rain forest, or what will have you. The animals will not be that into it…and I will have to defend my authority on an increasingly regular basis…with the inevitable, sad result of whole species being threatened with extinction. This will of course go unnoticed, with no intervention from man…surely. We are in the Savage Land after all, completely off the radar.

But what happens afterwards is worthless. Don’t get too uptight about the extinction or bestiality, ok? I am after all using the word bestiality in accordance with its original 17^th century definition:

bestiality n. – A peaceful, provincial way of life often characterized by the use of flowers as decoration and official currency.

Wipe those tears. Hey…um…maybe we’ll build the first perfectly peaceful, cooperative society, where man and beast literally walk hand-in-hand, the beasts all having evolved the ability to do so…with certain training and genetic experiments…that cause the additional phenomena of red glow-in-the-dark assholes — unintended.

Christ….it just can’t end pretty can it? So let’s move on and see if we can’t find any prettiness in how the tale now begins: I am alone in the middle of the Savage Land…a hidden pocket of untamed life…with only a large bowie knife for protection and sport.

…

BUCK NAKED…as I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m fairly decent to look at, in the end— and the other end — and, if not to my immediate advantage on this safari, I will at least be invigorated by feeling the breeze where it is meant to be felt.

I’m sure you are thinking this is a great disadvantage for me as the leather pants would have at least delayed by a fraction of a second the dismemberment of my lower body, which my aggressors would surely prioritize over disembowelment, destroying the heart, or removing the head.

But no! Although perhaps not as great an effect as I imagine it to be, it should at least be a disconcerting and disorienting sight for my combatants. Not that I have any delusions that they would be frightened by the potency you believe me to believe I would have on display. No, I’m comfortable with my status in such worlds, but by no means am I that far gone. However, the sheer artistic presentation of the scene would be enough to cause low aesthetic conversations amongst the animals, a slight distraction providing the moment that would then be mine to strike.

They are very accustomed to seeing leather-pants-clad foreigners in their land. Jim Morrison frequently appeared as such…and probably still makes regular visits. These garments no longer carry their original effect…and this indeed directly contributed to Jim Morrison’s first death…prior to the fat bathtub incident.

But surely, no such harsh reality will befall me. I am steadfast in my imagination’s confidence…and the safari goes on…

I’m Thomas K…and I’m not.

continued: The Lost Safari: Part 2