Lock, Croc and Two Smoking Barrels

Michael shouldn't be upset. This was the furthest he'd ever gotten, and he got her to come with just his fingers. That was pretty good for the first attempt, right?

Life in the swamp wasn't fair.

Chapter 9: We Will Croc You

Michael woke up on the straw bed... alone. Odile was nowhere to be found. He rolled off the bed, a few bits of straw sticking to his bare sweat-streaked back. He scratched his hair and walked out to the dock. He didn't notice anything outside that would indicate she was out there.

Isn't that just like a woman? You think everything's going great, and once you finger her, they leave. Why buy the bull when they can have the steak?

Michael would not be discouraged. He went inside to the 'fridge,' which was just the corner of the hut that was most often in shadow, where he grabbed a banana and a cola. Letting his feet enter the water, he sat and ate his breakfast of champions, trying to estimate what time it actually was by the height of the sun.

Something grabbed at his foot from under the water. Michael pulled his foot out of the water and stood, looking down at the water. Out of the murky water, Odile's face appeared, parting her lips into a mischievous smile.

"So you're not afraid of water after all." She said, taking Michael's offered arm and climbing up to the dock. "After so long, I started to wonder if you could swim at all."

"Everyone from Florida can swim." Michael defended. "I just don't know where I'd go." Odile took off the backpack, which hit the dock with a thud. "What'd you get this time?"

"Since you figured out where I was getting your food, I thought you could use this." She unzipped the bag to reveal a white scuba tank. "If you... ever wanted to swim with me."

The scuba tank had no regulator, mouthpiece, hose or any other essential parts to be used in scuba diving. If it weren't for the shoulder straps, he might think it was full of helium.

"That's very nice of you... but that's not the whole device. I can't actually use that to stay underwater."

Odile considered the device again. Michael figured she'd seen enough of those in her life, but not enough to have noticed that detail. "Oh." She grunted, disappointed.

"It doesn't matter." Michael said, bringing his hand to her arm. "I was more of a pool-party kind of swimmer. I didn't even like the pool at the high school. Way too much chlorine."

"Chlorine?"

"It's a harsh chemical they put in pools to kill microorganisms and keep it clean."

Odile looked down to the water. Her hand went to the back of her neck. "Does chlorine kill things that are... bigger?"

Michael caught her drift, chuckling. "Are you asking... if you could live in a pool? Like... maybe my pool?"

"I know you can't stay out here forever." She said, hands coming together in front of her. She looked up at him, vertical pupils widening. "And we're probably a long way from where you live..."

Michael moved around Odile and hugged her. "I don't have a pool anymore. I never did. My granddad had it, and he's long gone. I live in an apartment. Besides, it doesn't matter. I still have no way out of here. You sunk my boat."

"I sunk it..." She said. "But I didn't destroy it. I just pulled it under the water so it wouldn't float. I could get it back, if you wanted." Odile huffed a little. "I don't want you to stay here just because you're stuck. I want you to stay because you want to stay."

Michael kissed her gently. "I'm sure I can stay a little while longer. If I need to leave, you can get the boat back for me."

Their kisses grew less gentle, more aggressive. Odile held his upper arms firmly, keeping her claws off his flesh to avoid scratching him. They pulled in closer, spinning in place, Odile's tail slapping against the hut as the turned. Michael tried to shuffle her closer to the bed, but she extended and arm and took hold of the door frame.

"I had a different idea." She pulled playfully on his arm to lead him into the water. "I feel this... need to do this in the water. How long can you hold your air?"

Michael rightly assumed she meant 'breath.' He guessed he could hold it for a minute, but not while doing something physically strenuous. "Not as long as you."

"We can't have one of us in the water and the other not." Odile kept gently coaxing him towards the end, and just as quickly released him as her claw reached her chin in thought. "Unless..."

Odile stretched out on her back, her head and neck over the edge of the dock. She rolled her neck down and her head vanished under the water, like she was at a salon and the stylist was rinsing her hair and she went too far.

Alarmed, Michael pulled her up out of the water by her shoulders. Odile looked at him, a little annoyed.

"What?" She asked.

"Is that safe?" Michael retorted with his own question.

One of Odile's hairless eyebrow ridges rose. "Is it safe for me to go under the water?" She spelled out his question.

Michael felt quite foolish. "OK, you're right. But maybe we should have a safe word or something."

"How would I say it?" Michael felt his face redden. He brought her scaly hand to his arm. "It's OK. I'm happy that you are concerned about me." She smiled, a few teeth visible. "Just... do that thing you did last night." She tipped her head back and it sunk under the water, clutching the edge of the dock with her fingers.

Nervously at first, Michael's fingers rubbed Odile's mound through her bikini bottoms. He didn't notice any change in her body language, so he tucked his fingers in and entered her slit. She tensed a bit, her tail still for a moment before resuming its gentle sway. Michael coaxed his fingers in deeper, in and out, slowly. He parted his fingers like a pair of scissors, and then back together. Odile's tail started to wave along with the movement, like a passenger's hand hanging out a car window, waving up and down with the flow.

Michael's fingers gradually got faster, his free hand rubbing her abdominal muscles on their way to gently massage her breasts. He gently turned her nipples in his fingers like a radio dial. His fingers got faster still, and Odile's tail slapped against the floor. If Odile was trying to give him a signal, it was probably, "Keep going." He went faster for a few seconds, then slower, then much faster. Odile's tail whapped against the dock a few times, and she dug eight scratch marks into it with her claws.

At the moment, Michael felt more like a mechanic than a lover. He wanted to be more deeply involved. He retrieved his fingers, using both hands to pull her bottoms to her knees. He ducked his head under the bottoms holding her knees together like someone swooping under the velvet ropes in line at the bank.

Odile had made it clear that she loved pink, a color not seen much in the swamp. As it turns out, pulling it apart gently with both thumbs.... there was a little pink in the swamp all this time. And it wasn't her bathing suit. It was inside her all this time.

Michael held her up by the torso, her legs over his shoulders, her tail waving in the air uncertainly. His mouth went between her legs and made contact with her. His tongue parted the lips and entered the cool fold. Michael moved his arms so he could support her left leg with his elbow, his hand free to massage the small hood at the peak of the slit.

Odile's torso writhed rhythmically, making waves as her legs pulled tighter against his shoulders, her feet folding together. Michael would teach her the advantages presented by a tongue that was not affixed to the roof of the mouth... and blunt teeth.

Odile clutched the edge of the dock again, digging eight new deep scratches in its edge. She involuntarily let out some air, letting bubbles hit the surface.

Startled, Michael pulled her out of the water and brought her to the dock, as gently as a head-first approach allowed. "Are you OK?"

Odile's eyes were half-open, her pupils wide. Her lips gently came together, verging on pouting as she blew a satisfied sigh. She balled her fists and stretched her arms over her head. She looked Michael dead-on. She seemed to have that 'glow' that the fashion magazines always talked about on the covers.

Instead of responding, Odile slithered over and kissed Michael on the lips, taking as long as she could to pull her lips away. "That was nice." She whispered, a bit hoarsely. But there were no horses here.

"That was." He said. Michael was aroused, uncomfortably so in the Speedo that was now his underwear. But... even after several days without release, he was fine. Is this that feeling called 'emotional maturity,' where it's OK for your partner to have an orgasm, but not you? They don't talk about that on the magazine covers.

"Should I rustle you up some breakfast?" She gently traced the claw on her pointer fingers along his thickening beard. "I could get you one of those spine-apples you city folk like."

"Pineapple, Odile." He corrected.

"Oh." Odile looked off for a moment. "I thought I had that one right. It's got spines on it."

"You're right, of course. I think I'll call it that from here on." He shrugged. "Just like Apple Jacks, it doesn't even taste like apple."

"Like what?"

OK, Michael couldn't honestly expect her to get an admittedly dated pop culture reference. "Never mind."

Odile stood at the edge of the dock and turned back to him. She smiled. "See ya later." She said, diving into the water and swimming off, little waves parting from her body as they passed the scutes on her back.

When she was gone, Michael pumped his fist into the air. His girlfriend was going to feed him pineapple. Could she know the implications of pineapple, and its assigned properties to male emissions? Was she preparing him for this? Was she going to return the favor?

Unbridled enthusiasm gave way for sudden panic. As much as the sight of Odile's smile made his heart swell like a teenager checking out the grad-student substitute's bare legs, that didn't change that her jaw might as well have been filled with X-Acto knives for how hospitable an environment it was. It was a jaw not meant even meant for chewing, but ripping limbs from the body and swallowing whole to be digested.

Michael relaxed a bit. If Odile meant him harm, she could rip him apart. His soft, meaty and possibly delicious body was always hers to eat if she wanted, as easily as if he sat in a cookie jar or was naked, on a roasting pan with an apple in his mouth. But here she was, spending time getting him food to keep him alive...

Alive and fatty? Soda makes you fat, surely, but bananas and coconuts? Could she be fattening him up to eat him? With how little he was eating out here, he was probably losing weight, if slowly. If she really meant to make him fatter, she'd have to work much harder. Then again, he kept showing off his 'second brain' getting bigger. Maybe she intended to get it as large as possible before eating it, an idea he liked up until that last part.

Michael let the contradicting thoughts go. He's got a beautiful friend with benefits who's out shopping for him. Life was good. He took a seat on the bed and sighed. She'd be back soon, and then they'd see where things would go.

And he sighed and waited for her to return only a few minutes after she'd left.

Chapter 10: Croc Around the Clock

Michael woke up to find himself alone again. This wasn't too surprising. Maybe she'd come and gone in the night. Nothing had interrupted his sleep this night, not even any troublesome mosquitoes. Out here, mosquitoes were about the size of helicopters, threatening to drain you completely like a vampire with one thrust of their sword-like beak.

The floor didn't have any wet footprints, either. In the humidity, the water on the deck remained there like drops of water on a car hood. Most telling... there was nothing new nor missing in the hut. His provisions still numbered only three coconuts (useless to him unless he could open them), one last banana and a few cans of soda.

Michael looked out towards the swamp. He didn't see her in the distance, which wasn't too far, admittedly. The haze made seeing in the far distance difficult.

So... Michael waited. He sat around for a while, waiting for her return. He decided, what the hell, he's got three empty coconuts of about the same size and nothing but time, why not learn to juggle?

After a few hours, he'd mastered the art of two-coconut juggling, which mostly consisted of throwing one high enough in the air that he could pass the other in the time the first was airborne. Introducing that third one was too much, especially since the coconuts were too big to have two in his hand at once.

And Odile still hadn't come back. At this point, he'd have been happy to have her return just to be disappointed in his lack of juggling prowess. But she still hadn't returned.

Michael was getting hungry, but wanted to save the banana, as it was his last bit of food. Maybe now was the time to get inside those coconuts and eat the flesh inside that kept Tom Hanks alive in Cast Away. He was something of a castaway, after all, except his Helen Hunt was out on the island, not back home.

Or she was. Not right now. But soon.

As impotent as Odile's claws made his Swiss Army knife look in comparison, he still hesitated trying to use it to cut open the coconut. He looked for something to bash the hollow coconut open with, but everything in this hut was made of mostly damp wood or softer. The coconut was the hardest thing in this thing... except the air canister she'd brought in.

In what was definitely not the recommended use of this device, he rolled the canister out of the corner and struck the coconut against it with a glancing blow. He could have lifted the air canister to smash the coconut, but he envisioned that putting a hole right through the floor. Counter to the baseball expression, after three strikes, he was in, a fissure forming large enough for him to get his hand inside and break the coconut apart.

He scraped coconut flesh from the husk with his knife, eating the meat within. It was super gross, but he was not about to be picky. He ate every bit of the fruit he could get off, and threw the husk shrapnel out into the swamp.

And Odile still hadn't come back.

Now full, he just waited. She really couldn't be gone much longer... could she?

Michael waited for the sun to turn from blue to the barest orange-yellow. She was still not home. Something had gone wrong. Could she have fallen prey to some superior predator? That was preposterous. Nothing in the swamp could stand up to her, not even men. Certainly, he was weak to her charms.

What could he do? He couldn't even leave this damn hut; he had no boat. Well, he had one, but it was at the bottom of the swamp, only a few feet out.

Michael took off his jeans, leaving just some other dude's Speedos. Had he ever really reconciled the fact that his junk was touching the stuff that touched some other dude's junk? He'd better not walk away with crabs or whatever. If he was going to catch a venereal disease, it WOULD be in the way that wasn't any fun at all and didn't involve coitus.

For the first time, Michael lowered himself into the warm swamp water. He treaded water, kicking downward with his feet to see if he could feel the boat under his feet. Nothing.

Michael gasped in a long breath of hot summer air and went underwater. He kept his eyes closed, pawing down for anything that didn't feel like it belonged in the swamp.

He knew not how many meters he had descended, but he eventually found something metal; the underside of the boat. He pawed around for the front of the boat, trying to lift it up and get under it. It moved slowly and heavily, the water far weightier than the air that filled it on the surface.

Unable to hold his breath any longer, Michael returned to the surface and became reacquainted with oxygen. The boat was there, but how could he get it to the surface? He could get under it and swim it up.... but he'd probably die before getting it all the way up. Surely, Odile could do this in a heartbeat, but he'd run out of air.

Air.

Michael put the air canister on his back by the shoulder straps. He jumped back into the water and sunk much more readily, wearing the steel canister. He took it off his shoulders, holding it by the straps so he could keep track of it in case he lost control of it. He heaved the end of the boat up and climbed under it. Placing the back end of the tank against the interior of the boat, he opened the air valve full-blast, hoping to thrust the boat out of the water with the force of the pressure release.

That didn't happen. Air did rush out of the tank with a din of white noise, and all nearby fish and other marine life ran away, not knowing what the hell was happening. But the force imparted on the boat seemed minimal. Nevertheless, the air from the scuba tank was gathering inside the upturned boat. He brought his head into the newly formed bubble within the boat and took a breath, but the bubble quickly lifted away from him, hoisting the boat towards the surface.

He followed it upwards, letting the bubbles from the air tank fill the boat further, until it spilled upwards like bubbles in beer. The boat breached the surface itself and turned upwards, now afloat on the water's surface.

Michael looked at it sideways. If he got the chance to tell that story to his friends, he would probably have to lie and say this was his plan the whole time.

Tying the boat to the dock for the time being, Michael went through Odile's collection of oars, trying to find the least damaged one. Most of the oars had more than half the blade removed in a jagged circle, like a huge cookie cutter had been used to tear it off. Only one had no damage to the blade at all, but the handle had been bitten into a jagged edge. He winced at the thought of poor Odile being smashed in the head with the wooden end of this thing, and also at the fate of the poor bastard who had done it.

Unmooring the boat from the dock, banana sitting on the floor, he slowly paddled the boat off, away from the dock that had been his home for only a week.

To him, it might as well have been a million years.

***

The swampy river was unfamiliar. Michael occasionally looked to the compass on his Swiss Army knife to see if he was generally going south, but with no map or other navigation aid, it was not particularly useful information. He slowly drifted down the river, pulling the oar across his body to row on the other side like he was in a kayak.

He looked around for landmarks. Nothing was familiar, but it all still looked the same. There was nothing different about any of these trees--except that one.

One of the trees had six circles scratched into it near the water line, three rows of two. Michael didn't see anything significant around the tree itself, so he continued down the river.

A few thousand feet further down... there was another one. Three rows of two circles.

The plastic six-pack rings. Odile must have left these to remember the way, or to help him find the way if he needed to go it alone. Or maybe she'd carved them to ward off anyone who would venture into her swamp the way the more religious would put crucifixes at the apex of every doorwar.

With these symbols as his guide, he carefully monitored his left side as he rowed down river, knowing whenever he saw the claw marks, he was on the right tracks.

The swamp finally relented, the trees thinning to grass and cattails like a receding hairline, the water growing clearer, until he reached what more and more resembled... a beach. The blue water extended forever, so this was probably now the ocean. He didn't see many coastal houses, roads, anything to indicate civilization except for some cigarette butts and other litter.