“We’ve already issued a Missing Persons bulletin to the media,” the chief said. “I asked the state to do a Silver Alert, but—” “Anybody can get a Silver Alert, even on the mainland,” Fay Alex sniffed. “Isn’t there a premium version for people like us? A Platinum Alert, something like that?” “Silver is the highest priority, Mrs. Riptoad. However, it’s only for seniors who go missing in vehicles.” Crosby had learned the hard way never to use the term “elderly” when speaking with the Palm Beach citizenry. “Since Mrs. Fitzsimmons wasn’t driving the other night, the best they can do is a Missing Persons bulletin.” Fay Alex said, “You didn’t give out her real age to the media, did you? There’s no call for that. And which picture of her did you post?” “We’re required to list the age provided by her family. One of her sons sent us a photo from a family gathering on Christmas Day.” “A morning picture? Oh, dear God.” Fay Alex groaned; noon was the absolute earliest that Kiki Pew allowed herself to be seen by civilians. When the police chief inquired if Mrs. Fitzsimmons was known to use psychoactive drugs, Fay Alex threatened to have him sacked. “How can you even ask such a vicious question?” she cried. “A pill was found among your friend’s belongings, next to the fish pond. Actually, part of a pill. Our expert says it was bitten in half.”
.jfif)
Mauricio looked as if he’d rather be in the front row at a German opera. He told Angie that one of his mowing crew had spotted the giant snake in the tree that afternoon. “It hasn’t moved an inch since then,” he said. “We’re hoping the damn thing is dead,” Teabull added anxiously. “Oh, it’s the opposite of dead,” Angie informed him. “It’s digesting.”
The trunk of the ancient banyan presented a dense maze of vertical roots. Angie wasn’t wearing the right shoes for such a slippery climb. “I’ll need an extension ladder,” she told Mauricio, “and a pistol.” From Teabull: “Absolutely no gunfire at this event!” “Well, we’re looking at about eighteen feet of violent non-cooperation,” Angie explained. “The recommended approach is a bullet in the brain.” “Hell, no! You’ll have to do it another way.” “Then you will have to find another wrangler.” The band had started playing—Cuban music, a well-meaning tribute to the Buena Vista Social Club. Soon the guests would be twirling drunkenly all over the grounds. Teabull wore the face of a climber trapped on a melting ledge. “Five thousand cash,” he whispered to Angie. “But we’re running out of time.” Angie put a hand on Mauricio’s shoulder and said, “Sir, would you happen to have a machete?”
— The Burmese python is one of the world’s largest constrictors, reaching documented lengths of more than twenty feet. Popular among amateur collectors, the snakes were imported to the United States legally from Southeast Asia for decades. But because a hungry baby python can grow into an eight-foot eating machine within a year, owners often found themselves having second thoughts. Consequently, scores of the pet snakes were set free. Only in southern Florida did the species take hold, the hot climate and abundance of prey being ideal for python reproduction. A relatively isolated population exploded to a full-blown invasion during the early 1990s, after Hurricane Andrew destroyed a reptile breeding facility on the edge of the Everglades. The storm liberated fresh, fertile multitudes, and today the Burmese is one of the state’s most prolific and disruptive invasive species. An adult female can lay as many as ninety eggs, which she will encircle and guard from predators. Like all constrictors, pythons encoil their prey, squeezing the breath out of it. By disengaging their jaws, the snakes are able to swallow animals of much larger girth, which are typically consumed head-first. In this way the furtive intruders have decimated native Everglades wildlife, including marsh rabbits, raccoons, otters, opossums, and full-grown deer. Adult Burmese pythons will even drown and devour alligators. To the chagrin of suburban Floridians, pythons will leave the wetlands to travel long distances. Frequently they are discovered prowling residential neighborhoods, the signal clue being a sharp dip in the cat population. To stem the onslaught, authorities have recruited both lay hunters and experienced reptile handlers by offering hourly wages and bounty payments that escalate per foot of snake. While the frenetic capture videos are wildly popular on YouTube, the removal program has so far proven to be biologically inconsequential. Although hundreds of pythons have been caught and removed, biologists believe that many thousands more are still on the loose, mating insatiably. Despite their startling size, individual specimens aren’t easy to find. Their skin is lightly hued, with chocolate-brown patches creating puzzle-board patterns similar to that of a giraffe. Even the beefiest of pythons can be astonishingly well camouflaged in the wild, and experts cite their “low detectability” as a primary challenge for hunters.
“Where the hell did it come from?” Tripp Teabull grumbled about the one in the tree. “And why did it show up here, of all places?” “Sir, you’ve got a pond full of slow, dumb fish. However, that”—Angie cocked her trigger finger at the exceptional lump in the python—“is something else.” Mauricio and a co-worker arrived with a ladder that unfolded to twenty feet. With Angie’s assistance they notched one end into a cabled tangle of banyan branches directly beneath the quarry, which remained motionless. “You think there’s more of those fuckers around here?” Mauricio asked. Angie said this was the first one she’d ever heard of on the island. “What do you suppose she ate?” The groundskeeper exchanged a tense glance with Teabull. “How do you know it’s a she?” he asked Angie. “The biggest ones always are.” “Then maybe she didn’t eat anything,” Teabull cut in. “Maybe she’s just pregnant.” Angie chuckled. “Sir, that’s not a baby bump.”
Scientists in the Everglades have implanted transmitters in captured pythons and released them to help locate “breeding aggregations,” groups of randy males that communally cavort with a lone large female. That telemetry tracking has led to the interruption of many amorous assemblies, but so far, it has failed to stop the epochal march of the species. Although many pythons were found dead one winter after a rare hard freeze, the hardy survivors rebounded and—thanks to natural selection—produced new generations able to withstand colder temperatures. Nonetheless, Palm Beach County, which on some January nights experiences temperatures in the thirties, was believed to be safely north of the invaders’ comfort zone.
“We should fill in that damn koi pond,” Teabull said, “if that’s the big attraction.” Angie asked him if any domestic animals were allowed to roam the grounds of Lipid House. Teabull said absolutely not. Mauricio spoke up. “We got a few iguanas. Everybody’s got iguanas.” “Have any neighbors complained that their pets have gone missing? Like maybe a Rottweiler,” Angie said, “or a miniature pony.” “That’s not funny,” Teabull snapped. “Sir, I’m serious.” Angie’s habit of saying “sir” was the result of a childhood rule imposed by her father, whose own father had been a career Marine. She said, “These snakes feed only on live prey. Are you sure no animals have disappeared in the neighborhood?” Teabull shot another uneasy look at Mauricio before saying, “I’ll ask around.”
Angie turned to the groundskeeper. “All right, let’s see that blade of yours.” Because of their gluttonous threat to Florida’s shaky ecological balance, all captured pythons are supposed to be euthanized. A gunshot is the most humane way, but another state-approved method is decapitation by machete. The one that Mauricio loaned to Angie Armstrong was practically new. Teabull said, “One more thing, Ms. Armstrong. Could you please move that thing off-site before you kill it?” “Sir, I’m loving your sense of humor.”
“There are nine hundred guests here tonight!” “Okay, we’ll do it your way,” Angie said. “But I’ll need four of your strongest security guys to help me wrestle it out of the tree. My experience is that large men are often terrified of snakes, so please find me a crew that isn’t. FYI, their tuxedos are going to get trashed big-time. A python that size shits like a fire hose.” As he eyed the immense silent presence up in the banyan, Teabull reconsidered his position. Trying to take the beast alive would turn into a spectacle. The wrangler was right—an inconspicuous removal would be possible only if the snake was limp and unresisting. In other words: dead. Teabull sought assurances from Angie that the act could be carried out quietly, and with a minimum of gore. She said, “I’ll try not to bloody your landscaping.”
Her tone rankled the caretaker, whose priority was to prevent guests from learning of the reptile’s presence on the property. The fallout would be devastating. Hosting parties, weddings and fundraising galas such as the White Ibis and “Stars for SARS” was a lucrative industry in Palm Beach. Competition among mansions had always been intense, but it had turned cutthroat after the social drought inflicted by Covid-19. This was supposed to be the season of the big rebound. Owners of old island estates were counting on event revenue to offset their overhead—parabolic property taxes, criminally priced hurricane insurance and six-figure landscaping fees. Half the fucking pool boys drove Audis. Sponsors of charity balls were seldom fazed to learn that the one-night rental fee for Lipid House was a quarter of a million dollars, not including custom catering.
However, rumors of goliath pythons could wipe out a season’s worth of bookings. The five grand that Teabull had offered the female wildlife wrangler was a bargain; the trust that owned the estate had been prepared to pay ten. Still, the machete and all its messy possibilities made Teabull nervous. In particular he was fretting about that dowager-sized lump in the snake. “So, you’ll be cutting off its head,” he pressed Angie Armstrong, “and that’s all, correct? No further chopping.” “Sir, I’m not fixing cutlets. I’m neutralizing an invasive.”
Angie hated to kill anything, but the magnificent python had signed its own warrant.
Dead or alive, it would be delivered to wildlife officers. The next stop was a biologist’s dissection table. Angie expected to collect no bounty for the specimen because Palm Beach was outside the state’s hunt-for-pay zone. “We’ve moved your vehicle to our rear gate,” Teabull informed her, “to expedite the departure phase. Is there anything else you need?” “A backhoe would be swell,” Angie said. Teabull hoped she was joking. “I’ll leave you to your work,” he said, receding into the cover of the topiary.
“Wait—what about my money?” “Your fee will be in the console of your vehicle, Ms. Armstrong.” “Just call it a pickup truck, sir. That’s what it is.” But Teabull had already slipped out of earshot. Mauricio steadied the ladder while Angie climbed. The machete was sharp. It worked fine.
~~~
Mea Culpa to me, first... I saw the author's name and thought I had read him before and enjoyed it... I was wrong... Mea Culpa to me and you, you will be subjected to a satire that includes much about the rich and famous that live or visit that "White House of the South..." Where you will be subjected to meeting the group of cult members:
...the POTUS Pussies, a group of Palm Beach women who proclaimed brassy loyalty to the new, crude-spoken commander-in-chief. For media purposes they had to tone down their name or risk being snubbed by the island’s PG-rated social sheet, so in public they referred to themselves as the Potussies. Often they were invited to dine at Casa Bellicosa, the Winter White House, while the President was in residence. He always made a point of waving from the buffet line or pastry table. During the pandemic lockdown, he even Zoom-bombed the women during one of their cocktail-hour teleconferences. News of Kiki Pew’s disappearance at the IBS gala swept through the Potussies faster than a blast sales alert from Saks. The group’s co-founder—Fay Alex Riptoad, of the compost and iron ore Riptoads—immediately dialed the private cell phone of the police chief...
Yes, this book is a satire and is especially well done. So well done, that the satire actually reads as the reality of those four years--at least to those, like me, who knew that what was written...was...true... as it related to the sycophants and their love of powerful people... Because, after all, when they are introduced, you will learn not only the name of the individual, but you will be told that they are of the family of...such and such--whatever big corporation(s) their family is. or maybe both. if the husband and wife merged to create an even bigger, richer, set of people who are above all the rest of us--dontcha know... And, frankly, if you don't use a double last name you would never be invited to these events...No, I really don't write satire, but I do a good job with sarcasm, when warranted...
Also, these rich and famous have nothing better to do than celebrate all the charitable events they can on behalf of any disease that you can think of...and then spend, spend, spend, drink, drink, drink, maybe do some drugs...you get the idea...Seriously if there was research for the elimination of hammertoes, hey, maybe I'd even attend...NOT...
And so it was during one of these fabulous events that one of the potussies disappeared. She liked to use Kiki Pew as her social name, which of course, was changed to Kikey when the president got involved... Now that, slight of name was quite a fancy play on words since Hitler had already been brought into the picture during that first 2016 administration, even though it has been brought much more to the front these days!
The one bright spot is a young woman who wants to be called Angie... She's rough and tough, after being in jail for placing the hand of a man where it could be bitten off at one point in her life... He and his prosthetic hand now calls Angie every night at 6PM to tell her just how much he hates her, ending with threats...and more... This latter delightful character will continue throughout the book, or at least until he's... gone... Which reminds me, actually I did like the climax brought about by a retired governor...and his pets...
Angie loves animals of all kinds and has become an individual who takes care of pests, although mice or rats is a little too small a job unless it is an emergency... Well, Angie has handled quite a number of pythons since they had found their way into Palm Beach and she knows exactly what she is going to find inside of the huge snake that she was forced to kill at the event where Kiki disappeared... Of course, just the title and the snake on the cover surely has given you that idea, right?
But she took it away, froze it, and planned on getting it to be examined ASAP... Except that, first, she had a breakin at her home which got her wondering... And, then, when somebody got into her rented storage place and took only that snake... Well, she knew for sure... In fact, back at the half-million dollar rented mansion, somebody had actually seen Kiki disappear... And now the head honcho knew what had to happen. They could not afford for anybody to know that not only had Kiki disappeared... but knowing How...was just not going to happen!
Now up until this point, other than a few references to the women who excitedly pant over the president, it was kinda a humorous murder mystery. Quite Unusual, even...
But, you see, in order to keep this confidential, power would be needed to control the media... Really, did they think that the rich and famous cared whether a business went bankrupt--any publicity is always good publicity, even if it is bad...for somebody else... And, so, the potpussies wanted to hold an event at the winter white house, where they always lunched when meeting, thinking that the president knew them as true supporters and as individuals...LOL Yeah, Kikey was to be celebrated...
And that's when the twist of the book moves into the presidential family events... Let me just say that, if satire is supposed to be based on some basis of truth, this writer sure chose the wrong spouse to spotlight, at least in my opinion... But, hey, sex sells books, they say... No matter whether the chosen subject has actually been involved in events provided... Throwing in lots of gratuitous vulgarity made it even better, right?
Ok, there were some bright spots with Angie and other "regular" people in the book... Perhaps it is the devastating actions being wrought on America right now by that same president, however he got back in office after two impeachments, becoming a felon...and so much more... Nah... for me, reality colliding with satirical fiction is beyond my willingness to praise... And even the potpussies got upset when the individual security guards for each of the women for whom it had been provided "because of their fear that, like Kiki, they would also disappear, thoroughly enjoyed their status of being accompanied by private guards... And... these women, when the guards were pulled back, thought nothing of a few threats of blackmail to ensure they could keep those guards at their sides... Yeah, dontcha just love the rich and famous... egotistical, selfish, glamorous, and drinking their way through all charitable events where millions pass hands, held for every disease known...
Why the fxxx couldn’t they play Pearl Jam?
A final note from me. One of my bosses used to tell me I didn't have a sense of humor--I never laughed at his jokes... I don't... I don't have a sense of humor where somebody makes fun of somebody else just to get a laugh... At that time, Polack jokes were often shared... Nope! Not my kind of humor... The first time I watched Archie Bunker, I hated it. But, you know, satire does have its place in literature. After awhile, I started to realize what that television show was trying to do...and I "got" it thereafter...
So, what I'm saying is that if you enjoy humor within satire, then this book is well written and sometimes funny in a strange sort of way. But I really resent that the Office of our President can easily be used--quite easily in fact--to laugh at and make fun of... Me, I need to respect somebody in positions of authority over me. If that is not possible, then I need to act to replace that individual... America deserves to have a man leading America that works to represent ALL of us living in the United States... When a man stops aid to children in need, fires veterans, works to prevent regulations for protection of our world, takes away public education...and I could keep on going... then this man needs to be not laughed at in satire, but simply to be removed from office... So, you decide, if making fun of the rich and famous works for you, go for it... Many others enjoy this author's words...
Looking for humor is not something I do...finding humor in small things, like sharing tidbits about my niece's children is what makes me smile and laugh... I happen to like that about myself...
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