This was an assignment for my fiction class. It was supposed to be a parody of some author we read. It kinda is that. Its also in many ways totally not that. Its also kind of awesome. To me at least. So I thought I would put it here.
Jeff Goldblum wiped the sweat from his brow and looked into the distance.
“I think there’s four of them,” whispered Haynesworth.
“Five, if you count the dog,” Jeff Goldblum said, placing his chewed gum on his finger then emptying the last drops of his canteen onto his outstretched tongue. “So here’s the plan. Here it is. You hook right. Stay low. Don’t let them know you’re there until I give you the signal.”
Haynesworth nodded in compliance.
“When I stamp my foot three times, not in a row, but on my third stamp, I want you to hit them with everything you got -- and I mean everything. Rocks, shoes, your glasses, your insults, make them pray for a time before they started this whole crazy mess. Act big, like a lion. Like two lions. Act like they are surrounded by lions. And make sure you take care of that dog, too. You, uh, know how I feel about dogs.”
“And what will you do?”
“Improvise.”
With that Jeff Goldblum took two large steps over the savannah brush. Haynesworth looked on in admiration, pulled his pith helmet down to his ears, and with bent knees shuffled along the border of the dense wood.
Large flies crackled above the tips of the tall grass. The midday sun beat down from above; the dry ground was broken and thirsty. Jeff Goldblum walked towards the guerillas with fingers entwined behind his head. Sweat poured down his body. The four men saw him. The four men shot their rifles in the air. The four men were happy with their prize.
“Where is the idol?” the leader said. He was dark. He wore a soccer jersey from the seventies. He had a scar that stretched from his scalp to his chin. He was evil.
“The idol? Gee, the idol. Idol,idol,idol,idol. Nope, I don’t remember any idol,” improvised Jeff Goldblum. The men surrounded him. Jeff Goldblum stomped his foot once.
One of the men struck him from behind with the butt of his gun. Jeff Goldblum fell to his knees. The leader of the guerillas started doing dangerous things with a very long knife.
“Do not play dumb with us, Jeff Goldblum. We know you have taken our idol. We have killed many for less. We kill often. We are not bothered by killing. We have seen Independence Day. We like you, Jeff Goldblum. We like your devil-may-care attitude. We would like to see you in more movies. We would like to spare you from death. We would like you to tell us where the idol is.”
Jeff Goldblum rose to his feet and indignantly stamped his foot. Jeff Goldblum got right up in the face of the scarred leader. “I would like you to shut the fuck up,” he sneered.
Like a whirlwind, one of the men spun and cleanly chopped Jeff Golblum’s hand off at the wrist with a heretofore unmentioned sword. The sword had dangled ornately from the man’s hip, it seemed more like an affectation than a weapon for modern use. The dog pounced upon the grisly mitt. Jeff Goldblum had not expected this. He stamped his foot. He stamped once more for good measure.
Haynesworth burst from the bush, but took off running. “I’m not brave like you!” he shouted.
The guerillas laughed. Jeff Goldblum did not.
“Damn you, Haynesworth. You coward,” he said. His time was up. The guerillas slowly advanced.
