“Listen Lionel, this is Mexico; understand there are no rules out here, brother. If some ‘Dillo gets popped by an American-made, four-wheel drive, 300 horsepower hunk of steel trying to cross Calle Grande, so be it,” he declared. “More turf for us. You know what we always say, ‘WTTW: waddle to the water.’”
“Look, just because you were the first to hatch out of the whole clutch, that doesn’t mean you know more about the homeland than I do. I know our history front to back. How Mexico raised us. How our rivalry with those damn Armadillos has lasted for a millennium. A rivalry that sparks from shared predatory rights over the Mexican bean beetle, scientific name: Epilachna Varivestis. We only eat a few each on our way into the ocean, but there are so many of us laid in a nest at one time that we can compete with the Armadillos—curse their name! —for food. And lately we’ve been pulling ahead in consumption because of the rising number of automobile-related ‘Dillo deaths thanks to our unobservant, close-minded foes!” Lionel exclaimed, rejoicing.
“Ok, ok, chill out Thucydides,” the elder creature replied. “What, would you liken us to Athens the sea power and them to Sparta, the land power? I’m glad you know our history, finally a youngster with the required appreciation for his predecessors.”
“Dude, I’m only 54 minutes younger than you. But anyway, back to the real debate. I’ll restate my point for the umpteenth time: the Asian-made sedans have a great kill rate in taking out all sizes of Armadillos. I’m not discounting the power of American muscle, I’m just saying, look out for Hondas,” concluded Lionel.
“Bullshit Lionel. I’m calling it, bullshit,” was the retort. “One of those pussy little Japanese hybrids wouldn’t get rid of a ‘Dillo for us. I think it would break on the rascal’s shell. American muscle rules the Yucatan.”
“Well agree to disagree,” said his companion. “At least I can say without pause that whichever make does the deed of eliminating the competition, it doesn’t matter, I’ll be happy either way. The part I really want to know though, is why the sudden spike in the Average Daily Crunch rate of our most despised neighbors? Could they possibly be getting more stupid? Or could those hideous shells be getting so heavy that they are even less agile than us sea turtles who spend less than one percent of our lives on land? WTTW, you know what I’m saying, waddle to the water.”
Ha, yes sir. ‘WTTW,’ the battle hymn of the republic. Oh look at you little guy, your flipper dexterity is too underdeveloped to throw up the WTTW gang sign. But don’t worry; no matter how small, we still are the educated, worldly ones. In truth, we’re fucking enlightened considering our lack of opposable thumbs. I heard the dolphins are next. Anyway, I’m getting off track. What I’m saying is we’re the cream of the beach and marine society. We understood Watership Down. We laughed and cried and laughed again at Lost in Translation. We drink enough Mouton Rothschild to distinguish between a ’45 and a ’48. We are Athens,” said he with great gusto.
“Ok, ssh. We’re coming up to that gap in the dunes where you can see Calle Grande. Let’s wait here and see if we can witness the end of one of those uncultured fools,” Lionel insisted.
“No dude, we really should be getting to the Realm of Poseidon before the gulls come out,” his brother warned.
“Oh please, you know your ass is too fat to get scooped up by one of those sacks of feathers. Come on and look,” he said by way of conclusion.
As the two brothers glued their popping eyes to that black river of heat, Calle Grande, they saw little Matilda the Armadillo lumbering towards the edge of safety. Lionel crept closer to the road and further away from the beach. His wet, beady eyes panoramically scanned the scene, as a Dark Blue Prius whipped through the desert from left to right. As Lionel waited, excitement brewing at the thought of carnage, he failed to see the massive seagull bearing down upon his position. The hum of the flashing rubber tires on the gritty strip drowned out his companion’s screams of warning. His fat, lucky companion.
Then several things happened at once. The car, alarmed and distracted by the swooping white bird, swerved off the road, crashing into a giant cactus as Matilda scurried back into the brush, scraping her whip-like tail on a rock. As Lionel was pulled away from the sanctuary of sand and water and into the thrusting breezes, he thought that maybe he had been too hard on those Armadillos. Actually no, on second thought, they were classless land-dwellers.
Matilda crawled to the shelter of the shadow her mother’s large body cast. Then she whispered to her guardian, sympathy in her voice, “That poor little sea turtle,” she said. “Are all of them really so stupid?”
---
The fish, what makes them squirm and wiggle?
The lovers, what makes them laugh and giggle?
To chuckle and writhe away from the normal,
Presentable but never formal.
-Monika Vesting:
