This is Herpworld. Here, the reptilian class is a superpower...in one way or another.
This is the Amazon jungle. It's much bigger than you think. Here, the sun peeks through the jungle canopy, down at the flooded jungle floor below. In the dawn, there's often a fog.
Now, it's about dusk. Here and there, a firefly flickers. The jungle gets very spooky, by night...as it should. Vampire bats and mosquitoes, after all, aren't the only vampiric species that frequent this jungle...
Through the dark, a river boat makes way. She calls herself the Connecticut. Much of her crew is a long way from home.
The Connecticut has a very broad poop deck. From its taffrail, the colors of Pará often fly. Now, though, there's no point. They've been retired...for the night.
From a deck hatch, little Denise Kalberg emerges. She, too, is a long way from home. She's in a white tank top and short blue shorts. Her hair is short and brown.
She's the production manager of a film quest. She's about to become the production manager of something MUCH harder to manage...
She leans against the taffrail, heaves a lovely sigh, and looks around. She's got a very small body. Up here, she's an easy target. And it's only a matter of time before she finds that out...
In the shadows, the fireflies still flash. There's some kind of courtship ritual in there, to be picked out... Alas, and unlike Ms. Flores, Denise is still learning this for herself.
In the open water, a black caiman lies. Anyone who didn't know him would say that he was either dead, or a log instead.
From the depths, a river turtle comes up for air. He only sticks around for a minute. Once he's re-breathed, he dives back into the river depths.
Behind her, Denise hears a clash. She whirls. In moments like these, she wishes she'd bring a knife above deck every once in a while...or even a marlinspike...
She can't see it very well...but it's a two-toed sloth. It's fallen from a weak limb, up in the trees...and landed here. Denise smirks. If this sloth wasn't so slow, he might have a future with the NBA...if basketballs were green instead of orange...and if basketball players could be their own balls...if they aren't already...
Denise bends over, and creeps forth. She's pretty sure it's harmless. Alas, she's also been told that only twice, in a sloth's life, is it faster than slow: when it's swimming, and when it's defending itself. And a sloth's claws are nothing to sneeze at...even though their teeth are a bit more harmless.
She thinks she can see the poor guy's eyes... But she can't tell... Shit, she can't even tell if this one's a male...
NOW she can tell, as the sloth's eyes light up with bright yellow light. Simultaneously, Denise's do, too. Around them, time slows. They can't stop staring at one another...
At last, the sloth blinks, crawls to the rail, and goes over. One splash later, and he's speed-swimming back to a tree that he can climb back into his slow life in the trees...where he seems to prefer...as eagle-infested as it usually is...
Denise feels dizzy. She stands, and staggers about. She trips over the taffrail, falls down the stern freeboard, and splashes down into the flooded Amazon's depths.
In her absence, the Connecticut moves on, without her. It gets farther and farther away... Soon, it's gone for good.
All around, night passes. They don't seem wary enough that there's a new girl in the neighborhood. And while she's not particularly mean, she's far from what you'd call neighborly.
From a tree abroad, a male anaconda lowers his head, and narrows his big yellow eyes. He's seen what's happened. And for some strange reason, it excites him...