I glanced over to Guadalupe, watching his body heave as he took sharp breaths, a slightly upwards-curled lip hinting that he was probably having a dream about Kristen Bell. I never understood his fascination with her. Sure, she was cute, and Veronica Mars was a thoroughly enjoyable show (though I’d never admit as much to anybody other than the moleskine in which I now write), but to quote Kanye, “up top: two beestings”, like a twelve year old boy. His quick breathing reminded me of my dog. It was tough watching it get speared by that rhinoceros at my brother’s football match, but that was three days ago, and I had to get over it.

I leaned back against the log cabin wall, the legs on my deck chair creaking slightly under the pressure. I wished I’d studied engineering or physics so I could properly articulate the forces being applied to the chair, and made a note there to call Annie and get him to tutor me if he hadn’t been ganked by ghosts. Several feet away, a bush began to rustle. I rubbed my eyes to try and focus them. Also, a bug had gotten caught in the corner of my eye lid and was pretty fucking irritating. Temporary blindness inflicted, I began to panic, sure that whatever was about to emerge behind the leafy bulwark was either a) supernatural or b) otherwise terrifying. My heart raced, but I stood fast, trying to appear brave to a non-existent audience. The dark mass was hurrying towards me, its matted hair swinging from its fuzzy face. As my vision cleared, I realised it was only Reginald.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I hoarsely shouted, foolish in my belief that I was communicating stealthily, though it was self-assuring.
“Looking for a good place to piss,” he replied.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere”
“So?”
“You can go wherever you want, as long as it isn’t on me”
“What about your compatriot?”
“He can go wherever he wants also”
“Toucha toucha toucha touch me,” Reginald croaked.
“I wanna be dirrrrrrty,” I squawked back, hoping dancers would spring out from the pine needle-strewn surroundings, proving that this horrific ordeal was just a scene from a musical episode of the sci-fi show du jour. No such reprieve came, and silence fell once more. Reginald dropped into the seat beside me, joining me on lookout duty. I still hadn’t figured out why Guadalupe chose to sleep in the hammock outside when Jack was enjoying a comfortable, warm sleep in front of the crackling fire inside. I’m sure thoughts of Veronica Mars sidekickery warmed his soul, if not his body. Which is pretty fucking ridiculous, but whatever.

“Do you ever think about your soul, and stuff?” Reginald asked.
“Funny you should say that, I was just writing about the soul,” I replied.
“You’re writing your actions in that book immediately after they happen?”
“And the things that are said”
“That is crazy”
“Somebody’s gotta keep a record of all this”
“I suppose” he said, defeated. QED, motherfucker. “I saw that”
“Stop reading what I’m writing” I said as I pulled my book away, positioning my seat at a slight angle so as to prevent him from reading it.

I imagined the embers dying down inside. That’s my way of saying “Several hours passed”, but in a way that isn’t so tired. I guess I just said it though. Note to self: Edit this passage out before sending manuscript to HarperCollins. Reginald had fallen asleep, his head laying in his lap, the follicular mess adorning his crown now covering his entire body in a Cousin Itt-ian fashion. Looking up to the purply black sky, I watched a shooting star, scrunched up my eyes and made a wish. “Show me the way to solve this crisis”. My eyelids lifting, I saw nothing but the night sky. Jack emerged from the cabin, wrapped in a giant bear pelt, and I’m fairly sure not much on underneath.

“Why haven’t we used our cell phones to call for help?” he asked, frustrated, as the embers had died out. Just like I’d imagined.
“No reception out here, buddy”
“What’re you writing?”
“Just ignore it, keep talking. Let’s talk about something else”
“Did you hear about Bruce Springsteen selling his guitar for gas money?”
“No, it was Keith Richards and he sold it for drug money” I hated it when people got their rumors wrong. That’s why I subscribed to the TMZ RSS, for accurate reporting.
“Mmmph hmmph hmmph” Reginald muttered, his head still buried twixt his knees.
“We need to get out of here, now!” Jack shouted, a tone of urgency hinted at in his voice, indicated here by the use of an exclamation mark and the note that he “shouted”.
“Uhhh… why?” I asked, puzzled as heck.
“Dinosaurs have started running around”
“How is it that you know this?” I asked, puzzled as even more heck.
“Satellite phone”
“You learned dinosaurs have started roaming around via satellite phone. Are you ‘fo reelz’?”
“Did I mention this takes place years before Jurassic Park 3 came out?” Jack stated in the format of a possibly rhetorical question. I didn’t really know what to make of it. There’s going to be a third Jurassic Park? Lost World was bad enough. A triceratops started charging towards us, smashing through trees like that polar bear in a TV show that’ll be made one day. Or was that the black smoke? How does smoke even smash down trees? Man, if somebody does make a show like that, they better have some satisfying answers. The heavily plated dinosaur had Guadalupe in his sights. Time seemed to slow to an intolerable 500m/hr as I looked from my friend, still making his short, sharp breaths, and the horned creature charging at him. Violent flashbacks. The color red. The color orange. The color white. They’re all pretty cool colors, don’t you agree? Overcome by the phenomenon of hysterical strength, I leapt off my seat.