Venezuelan Prospector

It was a nice day in the Venezuelan jungle. Not very hot, and not too humid either. Chalupa could hardly believe his luck. It was his first day in the mountainous jungle. He had come out to the wilderness to mine for gold. His family was very poor, and couldn’t afford to send him to college. That was okay with him. He’d never really liked school anyway. 

Before he started his adventure, Chalupa went to town to purchase some quality gold mining gear. However, his life savings could only get him a railroad spike, a roll of duct tape, and an old hammer that looked as if it had been probably used as a murder weapon at some point. Thankfully, Chalupa was a resourceful guy. He taped the spike to the business end of the hammer, and ended up with something that barely resembled a respectable pickaxe. But that was okay. It was capable of taking a sizeable chunk out of a brick. Chalupa decided that it was probably the best he could hope for. 

Out in the jungle, Chalupa felt very confident. He walked with a spring in his step and a smile on his face; his makeshift pickaxe in hand at his side. He couldn’t wait to mine some gold, and send it back home. Mom would be really proud of him. Chalupa imagined the look on her face as she saw the shining gold nuggets that he had hewn from the ground. Suddenly, a man in an Armani suit exploded out of a bush to his front. The man had his face painted red, and was holding a blowgun to his lips. 

"Hello!" said Chalupa, "Hey! My name’s Chalupa! I’m a gold miner! What’s your name?" 

The man lowered the blowgun, and laughed out loud.

"Hah! Hahaha! Look at you, you look like you were born in a gutter! Chalupa, eh? I am Wahubi Nootya! I am a noble savage! I roam the forest, and fight for justice for indigenous peoples like myself! You should be very afraid, you gold-mining street mouse! Your kind are all the same. You come out with your machines and your chemicals, and you destroy my home! Well, not you, at least! You’re deader than toast!"

"Wow," said Chalupa, "That was a long speech, Mr. Wahubi Nootya. I really hope you don’t have to kill me. I’m too poor to have any machines or chemicals. All I’ve got is this janky pickaxe that I made with duct tape. By most of the world’s standards, I’m a pretty sorry sucker. But that’s okay with me. Maybe we can be friends! I like your suit, it looks good on you. I’ve always wanted one, but all I’ve ever had to wear are these trash bags."

Chalupa was, in fact, wearing a shirt and pants made from trash bags.

"Huh." Wahubi Nootya said, "That makes me reconsider my point of view entirely. I am very sorry that I threatened to kill you, Chalupa. It makes me sad that I would consider doing such a thing to a person without considering their character or motives. In fact, I’ve done it many times already. That makes me feel very depressed. I think I will commit ritual suicide."

"Oh." Chalupa said.

Wahubi drew a nine-millimeter automatic pistol from his jacket.

"Uhh… It’s okay?"

Wahubi inserted a full magazine into the chamber.

"Please don’t do that?"

Wahubi pulled back the slide.

"I forgive you?"

Wahubi laughed. “Relax, I’m kidding. Who the hell does that? That whole change of heart thing was complete B.S. I’m gonna mess you up bad, miner boy.”

Chalupa felt a knot in his chest. 

Wahubi took aim. 

Chalupa did the only thing he could: he threw the hammer-pick.

Wahubi laughed, and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet struck the hammer, and ricocheted into a tree. The hammer kept flying, and hit Wahubi’s gun. Wahubi yelped, and dropped it. Chalupa took off into the bush.

Chalupa ran back toward civilization with a frown on his face. His day had gone quite sour. He resolved to go to college, and start a great big mining company that would wipe out the entire stupid jungle. Then, the indigenous mobsters would have to stand trial. It was the only way, Chalupa knew. Justice had to be served.