by Jardonn Smith
based on Aquadude’s single-plate fantasy,
Greenpeace Activist and the Rainforests of Malaysia
Strange how life’s road can take you to places unexpected. It’s like an exit suddenly appears, tempting you to leave the main flow of traffic, and for some unknown reason you turn the steering wheel.
I joined Greenpeace to save orangutans, not trees. I suppose the destruction of one leads to destruction of the other, but still, if not for Jack Mattingly I never would have agreed to this risky operation. He’s the one who lured me here. I could not help myself. Once I met him, I had to work with him; had to become a member of his team; had to be near him and his heavenly eyes of cobalt blue, his masculine hair of black enhancing those cobalt eyes. He sensed me. And he played me for all he could get. Tempted me to go undercover for him, take that exit off the main highway into uncharted territory. Hope it pleased him.

I should have known it was too easy. Pacquiao Industries hired me with few questions asked. Specifically: why the hell would a blond-haired, fit and muscled westerner desire working in the forests of Malaysia? What reason could he have for roughing up his perfect form with the hard-labor occupation of logger? They knew the reasons. They allowed me into the trap, let me learn the trade for three weeks, let my hard body grow even harder before raiding my living shack, confiscating all the information I’d gathered about them and their illegal raping of the rainforest. Too bad I could never break away long enough to dispatch what I’d learned. Useless agent I turned out to be.
And how thoughtful that the company’s owner assigned to his son Herman the supervision of my interrogation. After all, Herman speaks English. Herman’s gaze upon my naked skin betrays him just as mine upon Jack, what I could see of Jack, betrayed me. Difference is, there’s no love coming from Herman, only a sadistic lust to punish.
Since I’ve been labeled a tree-hugger, they strung me up to one. Dangling rope from horizontal branch binds my wrists together, and from here my body hangs in a vertical line, ending with my identically-bound ankles secured by rope tied to stake driven deep into earth.
Herman wastes little time in announcing his purpose. He wants to know the name of my team leader — name, base of operation, reason for operation, and he asks these questions with eyes transfixed upon my exposed genitals. Secretly, he prays I do not answer quickly. His stare hints at his ultimate target, but first he has the rest of me to do with as he pleases. Instantly my pores open. Tropical heat, gravitational stretching, naked vulnerability, dreaded anticipation, the evil eye of Herman — it all combines to coat me with layers of sweat. Summoning his gang of four, he positions fist-clenching men around me, one each to my front, back, left and right. They work in pairs, front with back, and they work in unison, fist to my gut coinciding with fist to my kidney. They work in pairs, left with right, and in unison they bring simultaneous blows to my rib cage from opposite directions. Immediately following is the first pair hammering between shoulder blades and right side pectoral.
Their synchronization is flawless; their punches like battering rams. First one pair and then the next, two fists come together with pinpoint accuracy in meeting at my muscle, their motion stopped only by my muscle. With full-bore power they wail upon me. The pair front and back target my chest and shoulder blades; the pair left and right hammer my ribs; the pair front and back impale my gut and lower spine; the pair left and right devastate my flanks. Gravity stretches me, exposing my ribs, flattening my belly. None of my four limbs can protect me, no movement allowed. Only my muscle can reduce the shock, and each is flexed to capacity. I grunt. I groan. I grit my teeth and clench shut my eyes. I gasp for air, but hold my tongue. My fists tighten, toes curl, and I focus all thought to absorbing their relentless barrage of unified, two-fisted poundings.
As my sweat flies and muscles soften, I am stalked. Herman circles outside the gang of four. Bubbles of froth coat the corners of his mouth. Sounds of my suffering, sights of my resistance are entertainment for him. He no longer questions me, but encourages me. He invites me to fight him, mocks me by sending crews of men into the tree from which I’m tortured. Chain saws buzz. Branches fall to the earth, severed from the mighty source, stripped of their own tributaries and carted away. Between my grunts, groans and gasps I hear him assure me that I will again see my tree parts after their treatment at the mill. Between the deep thuds of meaty fists to meaty muscle I hear him warn me that until my branches are ready my beating will continue. He proves it by dismissing an exhausted gang of four, replacing them with a fresh gang of four.
Never realized how much the first four had weakened until re-energized punches take me back to where I began. I myself am weakening. Think I’m going to puke. Am puking, and wish I’d have done so earlier. At least Herman’s giving me a break, ordering his men to back off so buckets of water can be dumped atop my head. Bile and sweat mix with the refreshing rinse. Eight, between-my-toes tributaries saturate the ground. I needed that.
Could use some of that water inside me, too, but Herman does not agree. Instead, he orders resumption of my beating, while the original gang of four dig with shovels into the earth. When I care to look the pit grows deeper, circumference bigger. When I care to look they build a fire at its bottom, flickers of orange dancing above the opening. Flickers of orange catch my eyes elsewhere, too, high above me. I squint, focusing through thick canopy before I can define the source. Tree apes. Orangutans silently witness my torture perched upon well-hidden branches.
I suppose Herman’s still badgering me with questions. His lips move, but dull ringing sounds are all I can hear, the audio of fists still pounding me distorted by brain teetering on unconsciousness. Must be what happens when a man’s internal organs begin to fail. No man, regardless of muscled padding can keep this number of punches from eventually penetrating his defenses. But I’m still trying. Haven’t given Jack to him, either. Not yet. Don’t plan to. A matter of principle.
Ah, ha! Men are returning with those branches, or, I guess it’s the same ones. They’ve been bent into curves, interwoven and bound together with rope. Looks like a giant bowl. Now, they’re taking it above…
* * *
God, it’s hot. Wonder how long I’ve been passed… Jesus H. Christ! They’re roasting me alive. Rotten mother fucks. Wait… am I alive?
That damned thing wasn’t a bowl. They turned it over. It’s a dome, and I’m draped over the top of it, staring right down into the fire. My penis is at the top… rest of me sloping down… stretched in an X. Feels like I’m melting. Shards of sweat are trying to douse the flames… god, I hope it’s sweat… maybe it’s flesh. Wait… can’t see my dick… did they cut it? Gotta strain my neck… SHIT! Gonna catch my hair on fire. Where is it? Can’t see… oh, thank god. They got it bundled up in some sort of cloth. Wish I could piss. That’d lower their flame a bit.
I wonder what I’m saying to them. Probably nothing. Probably nothing but screams. Or… no… maybe I talked. They’re cutting me loose. Got hold of my wrists and ankles. Can I break free? Hell no. There’s nothing left of me to resist. They’re flipping me over. Got my butt atop the dome. Stretching me the same way… same X. Bending me backwards. Ripping off my loin cloth. Gonna cook my backside.
This is too funny. Herman’s standing in front of my upside-down face. Still talking. Red in his face. Doesn’t he know I don’t hear a word he says? Doesn’t he understand I wouldn’t give a shit if I could hear him? Guess I haven’t told him what he wants to know. Still protecting Jack, even though I don’t know why. Whatever miniscule chance I had with him is surely gone now. Doubtful that anybody could possibly want anything to do with what’s left of me, if there is anything left of me. I refuse to look at myself, but it does appear that Herman and his men are planning to have a garden party. They’ve got short-handled rakes… hoes… pliers, needle-nose and otherwise… some sort of…
Ah, what does it matter? I’m not here anyway. Couldn’t tolerate the pain. I’m here and there, thanking my stars I’ve got someone to talk to besides Herman. My friends are still watching me. Wonder if they’d let me join their tribe…
“Hey, fellows and ladies. Sure is peaceful here in the rainforest canopy. Now, don’t you get any stupid ideas of trying to save that poor man down there roasting atop the dome. He’s a goner. His body just doesn’t know it yet. Isn’t that simply god-awful what they’re doing to his manhood?”
That’s funny, my treetop males are hand-covering their genitals. Guess it’s universal shock for men when male organs are desecrated.
“No, my friends, nothing to be done for him now. Besides, those other men would blast you to kingdom come. See those metal things leaning against the tree trunks? That’s what they’re used for. One little pull of the finger puts a hole right through you, in case you’ve never seen it. Don’t know about you, but I think it’s time to get the hell outta here. I’ve seen enough. Why don’t we all go far, far away where men like those can’t find us? Got any suggestions? Is there any place left? Good. I’ll follow you.”

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