Piranha-Otter

by Trevor J. Houser

For lunch, we had cold chicken and some wine. They worked well together, even though under the circumstances it was hard to enjoy, what with the dreaded piranha-otter reportedly frequenting the nearby Rio Orto. My brother and I were now deep in the Corrientes savannah in the north of Argentina. It was late spring. Palm trees with painted white trunks swayed in the breeze. The weaponry of our companions shone magnificently in the sunlight. Bayoneted muskets and double-grip, heavy, iron-wrought torches lined up against the estancia. They were from Norway, our companions.

“What kind of ammunition do you use?” I asked them.

“Ball bearings.”

“Is that regulation?”

“What do you mean?”

Equipment
I was equipped with a fly rod, a slick book about making cocktails they don’t make anymore, and an oversized titanium leash. My plan was to catch the dreaded piranha-otter, break its spirit (if it had any to break), ride it all the way to Buenos Aires, slay it in the Plaza Dorrego, and then sell its heart on the Filipino black market (its heart was rumored to be mostly silver in coloration with a slight tinge of carbuncle, no bigger than a teacup). My brother Cal was with me. He was the tallest of my brothers. His handlebar mustache was also the stoutest. My other brother, the one whose mustache was less stout than Cal’s and quite often shorter by half an inch, was busy in L.A. firing various band members for diminishing stage presence. Cal had equipped himself with dynamite and a three-for-one magazine package he bought at a gas station called Double D’s Over Forty. Also, he had the guidebook. Our blood type is rare.

The Guidebook
The guidebook mentions nothing of piranha-otters.

Fairly Large Nords
“That’s because no one’s seen it,” explained Tron, one of the fairly large Nords.

“That’s not entirely true, Tron,” interrupted Raid, the other Nord. “It was sighted quite regularly by gauchos around the turn of the century.”

“Do you think maybe it died off?” asked Tron, suddenly concerned.

“How the fuck should I know?” answered Raid.

It was a quarter past noon and the Nords were already on their second bottle of cognac.

“How big is it?” asked my brother, finishing off his fogged goblet of Torrontes.

“About as big as a regular otter,” said Raid.

“But with teeth like daggers,” added Tron.

“Yes,” agreed Raid, “but with teeth like daggers.”

I asked if it was a man-eater, as I casually rolled a digestif.

Both Raid and Tron looked at me and my joint as if I was maybe not as serious about this as I should be.

“You sure you want to do this?” they asked.

“Serious as a heart attack,” I assured them, tossing another chicken bone to the bullfrogs burping invisible in the long grass behind us. We lick between their shoulder blades when we can.

The Estancia
We are seated at a long table in a large front lawn overlooking an airfield and a corral full of dust-covered men with long sinister knives. It is an old estancia. White tablecloth, scattered china, and wine goblets glinting in the sun. If it weren’t for the two call girls in neon tank tops the Nords brought for company, the scene easily recalled one of those gauzy wine ads from the early eighties. The ones where young couples have impossible golden sunlight shot through teased hairdos like the death of disco dipping below the apple orchard.

The Nords are licking their chops with cognac.

“Cognac is very popular in Norway,” said Raid. “Much like your milk.”

“Milk isn’t very popular nowadays,” I told them.

“I hate milk,” said Tron.

“Who fucking cares,” said Raid. “So how is it you two got down this way in the first place?”

Drugs
We came by the Chicago-Dallas-Lima-Santiago swing on a late-model Russian jet. It was all they had left for some reason. They apologized profusely and eventually offered us first class, which we accepted on one condition.

“Anything, you name it.”

“I need to hang my titanium leash. If I put it in the overhead compartment, it’s likely to get tangled. Also, we prefer dry roasted peanuts with our screwdrivers.”

They agreed to our terms and we paid them in rare woodcarvings. The plane looked a little like one of those Boeing 757s, but I don’t pretend to know aircraft. I will say the overall design was questionable (are ten-foot nose spears really necessary in this day and age?), but the stewardesses were aboveboard in all categories, according to my brother, whose ex-girlfriend recently attempted to ram a stolen police cruiser through his front door.

Cal sat across the aisle from me so we could both stretch our legs and go to the bathroom without causing a ruckus. (We both have overactive bladders. It is a humbling condition, especially when traveling and consuming alcohol.)

The young man in a Hawaiian shirt next to me was breathing heavily.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” he informed me in midascent, “but I think I’m dying.”

But then he didn’t.

He just sort of sat there tapping the window, humming. Drugs is all. “Order some beer,” I told him. Then he calmed down. We even watched the first in-flight movie together. Something about vaguely homoerotic teenage vampires unsatisfied with life in general. Afterward, over too-warm mimosas we discussed the unlikelihood of teenage vampires, gay or otherwise. That’s when he took off his shirt and declared his intentions of taking over for the co-pilot. They removed him in Lima. Big stretcher surrounded by bored-looking mestizos in white tennis shoes and white cotton jumpsuits. Who knows? Maybe he did die after all. When I finally landed in B.A. I tried calling the airport in Lima to find out, but I kept getting Sucre instead. Then I ordered up some Hungarian porn and a cheeseburger and wrote letters to my unborn children on the hotel stationery.

Hotel Alvear

Dear So-and-So,

If I am to perish at the maw of the dreaded piranha-otter sometime over the next three days, I want you to know that I unconditionally love and support you in whatever pursuit or nonpursuit you deem worthy of your time on this planet. Assuming you’re reading this letter, mine as it turns out was, no matter how you look at it, a bit on the short side. But not pointless. I cannot stress that enough, hence the underline. Regardless, I loved your mother dearly whoever she is or was or might very well someday be. I wish I could be there for you. I wish I could help foster your curve ball so that you don’t blow out your elbow trying to impress someone who co-owns a used car dealership and has heart disease. Try to listen to what others have to say, but likewise don’t be afraid to call out the crazies and in those cases it may actually be your duty to alert the proper authorities. Don’t let anyone tell you masturbation is something to be ashamed of. Also don’t be afraid to drink champagne on occasion, even without something to celebrate. Enjoy yourself. When all is said and done, whatever you do, remember this: the legitimate upkeep of one’s genitals and teeth is paramount and one will see what I’m talking about whenever one decides to visit Southeast Asia or Arkansas.

Love, Your Loving Father (in absentia)

Safari
We gathered the various “fishing” equipment and call girls and took the Land Rovers and headed out past the swimming grotto, where there was a vast parilla for grilling meat and where the gauchos found an ostrich egg the other day and made a cake from it (vanilla, with dulce de leche, which is like caramel only sweeter). Wafting from the Nords’ Land Rover was an energetic little number called “Do the Donkey.” It was washed-out high-pitch harmony over an up-tempo crescendo of drums. It sounded like 1967 or maybe ’68. According to one of the call girls, Raid resembled a middle-aged Neil Young. Tron apparently resembled no one. His head was lopsided and nearly bald. They were both easily six foot seven, all of their appendages hollowed out and filled with cognac. As we drove through the grasslands sparkling with dew, I spotted an electric blue sparrow, an anaconda, and the largest rodent in the world, which I’m told is capable of producing varying purse and shoe sizes. They were generally skinned alive and hung to smoke in gambling parlors along the Rio Orto, where neither practice is legal per se.

Rodent Purses
They were auburn in color with small white points in perfect constellation. They were relatively cheap and of high quality....