How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex by Mark Paul Jacobs Page B

beside the campfire conversing with Lieutenant Lyra. He noticed Julio and Lieutenant Martin continuing their overt—and somewhat suspicious—separation. Roosevelt turned to Rondon, asking casually, “How has Martin fared with the survey task?”
    Rondon shrugged. “He listened to my orders. He kept his mouth shut, and he did what he was told.”
    “Good, good.”
    “Is there something on your mind, senhor Roosevelt?”
    “Oh, no, nothing,” Roosevelt replied.
    Retiring to their tents, both Teddy and Kermit Roosevelt fell immediately into a deep and restful sleep.
     
    The survey teams pushed off early the following day. Roosevelt’s canoe remained beached at the campsite while George Cherrie shot and collected an assortment of exotic native birds. Cherrie finished preparing his specimens shortly before noon, and they set out upon the river amid intermittent showers that drenched them to the bone.
    The procession of dugouts arrived at their first river confluence a few hours later. A small river merged from the east nearly doubling the Dúvida’s volume, Roosevelt calculated. When they reached their next campsite Colonel Rondon informed Roosevelt that the river was probably the same stream they had crossed ten days earlier on the road to the Bonifácio telegraph station. Colonel Roosevelt asked Martin to confirm this hypothesis and the Englishman concurred quite categorically. Measuring their effort so far, Lieutenant Lyra announced proudly that they had progressed sixteen and a half kilometers along the twisting river on the flotilla’s second day.
     
    Roosevelt and Cherrie woke before dawn on the first day of March. They exited their tent and crept down to the river as the Brazilian wilderness’ pre-dawn nightlife buzzed in their ears. Hurriedly, they stripped to their underwear and tossed their filthy clothing upon the flattened rocks. Roosevelt slipped cautiously into the water, its torrent cool to the touch yet not uncomfortable under the Amazon’s incessant balminess. Roosevelt felt refreshed for the first time in days, wiping away a week’s layer of dirt and grime. Teddy harkened back to the days of his carefree youth, leaping buck-naked into a cool Adirondack lake on a bright and crisp late August morning.
    Cherrie laid his rifle on the ground and followed Roosevelt’s lead. He waded into the stream, splashing like a child.
    “My word, good man,” Roosevelt said suddenly, “stop that blasted splashing! The piranhas are quite content lying about without a dinner bell to entice them from their nooks.”
    George Cherrie laughed heartily, dipping chest deep into the water.
    Roosevelt glanced around nervously. “Blasted little finned carnivores…”
    Cherrie smiled wryly. “Ah, but Mr. President, the piranha should be the least of your worries while mucking about in the waters of the Amazon. The candiru is a tiny catfish no bigger than a toothpick, yet it is known to invade and parasite the human urethra.”
    Roosevelt furrowed his brow. “But how…? How does…?”
    “Some say it follows the warmth of a man’s urine stream. Eventually it gets lodged in…” Cherrie smirked and pointed downward.
    Roosevelt’s eyes widened. He grabbed his crotch. “Bloody hell.”
    Cherrie laughed.
    Teddy shook his head and chortled.
    The two men waded back to shore and dried the best they could amid the oppressive humidity. They dressed quickly attempting to thwart the ferocious gnats and pesky mosquitoes.
    Roosevelt secured his hat and gun. He turned and listened to the soft and familiar sounds of rainfall in the distance. Looking upstream, the storm approached like a monster lumbering though the forest’s canopy. Roosevelt felt the first heavy raindrops moments later.
    Cherrie looked to the sky and shook his head.
    “How I long to feel truly dry once again,” Roosevelt said. “And yet I feel I will not, until we are safe on the steamship sailing comfortably homeward.”
     
    The camaradas packed up camp