A story of survival in the brutal desert
That’s the word that Marvin Cotters used to describe the desert.
Marvin was being hunted by some guy with a gun. He didn’t remember how he got into this crazy adventure in the first place. All he knew was that Razor McCracken had given him a two hour head start. “I’m giving you a two-hour head start,” he had said, with a twinkle in his eye. “Now get outta here you dang Mormon.” And then he fired his rifle into the air with a “YEEHAW!!!”
“This desert is so harsh though,” Marvin had responded. “I don’t know if I can handle the harshness.”
“I don’t care!” yelled Razor. “Get on outta here!”
And so Marvin had set off into the harshness of the brutal desert. It was only minutes before a rattlesnake flew out of the sagebrush and latched onto Marvin’s leg. “Ouch!” yelled Marvin, trying to shake the snake off. “Get off me you varmint!”
As soon as he had shaken the snake off, and the venom had had ample time to travel to the chambers of his heart, he was off again. He had to run. And he had to run fast. In no time, Razor McCracken would be after him.
He heard the rifle fire, and a bullet ricocheted off a rock several yards away.
“NO FAIR CHEATING!” yelled Marvin. “You said you’ve give me a head start!”
“YEEHAW!!!” came the voice of Razor McCracken. He didn’t care about cheating.
Marvin just ran and ran. He didn’t know where he was going. Technically, he knew he was going somewhere: away from civilization.
The sun beat down on him like a thief beating an old lady before taking off with her purse.
“Gotta keep going, gotta keep going,” he reminded himself as he ran. Droplets of sweat were pouring down his face into his eyes.
“I’M COMIN’ FOR YA COTTERS! HEH HEH!” laughed Razor McCracken. He must’ve been coming at a relatively quick pace too.
McCracken was a grizzled old fellow. He was most likely in his 50s, and had an afro of gray dirty hair, complemented by a nice unkempt beard. Some say he bore a resemblance to Bob Ross, the famed painter of old, only a lot dirtier and missing a lot of teeth. He was extremely skinny, but had an unusually large head for his body size. Or maybe the afro made it look big. All these thoughts ran through the head of Marvin, who had a knack for coming up with long, flowing descriptive paragraphs of people while at the same time running for his life from crazy guys with guns. Some say he had a gift for it.
He came to a depression in the desert, which was surrounded on all sides by sloped sandstone cliff formations. He decided to bank right and go up the rock. As he skittered up the sandstone face, he heard a clink sound in front of him.
Quickly, he ran up the face and dove into an alcove, with his head covered. An explosion rocked the cliff, shattering bits of sandstone everywhere. He heard Razor’s cackling, not too far off. The maniac was using grenades now?
Marvin got back on his feet, and kept running. But he was starting to tire. A rabbit came out of the brush, and rather than run around the rabbit, he kicked it, as hard as he could. It sailed high into the air, and if he had been in the Super Bowl, kicking the winning field goal, that baby would've sailed right through the uprights. The thought pleasured him, intensely.
Lost amidst his thoughts again, he tripped over a bush.
Tired, sweating, and angry at the world, Marvin just lay there in the sand, staring up at the sky. “What a bunch of baloney,” he said to himself. “I don’t deserve any of this.”
Rather than get up and run, he just stayed there. It worked for him, because a minute later, Razor McCracken trotted by and didn’t even see him on the ground.
“Idiot,” said Marvin.
He pulled himself up onto his feet. This was going to be a long and zany adventure, he decided. He better look for some food and water. He turned around, and headed back to the cliffs. On the way there, he ran into an older looking couple, hiking their way through the desert. “How we doin?” said Marvin. “Good, how are you?” they asked, and continued on their way.
“Such nice folks,” he said to himself.
He needed water, and fast. Fortunately, he remembered a technique he had learned in Boy Scouts, many years ago. He found two rocks on the ground, and then began hitting them together. He felt awesome doing it, because he was really putting his Eagle Scout achievement to use. After an hour of hitting rocks together, he gave up. “I swear that worked before,” he said.
The sun was at its highest point in the sky now. The cruel, unforgiving sun. The gluttonous, adulterous, prideful sun. It embodied all sinful virtues.
Razor McCracken would probably soon find out that he had been duped, and would turn back. And he would be angry. Angrier than ever.
Marvin climbed up the cliff face on the other side, and found a nice little cavern that he hid in for like, two seconds, before Razor McCracken found him and chucked in a grenade. “HEH HEH!” laughed Razor McCracken, poking his head in, and then out. Marvin swore 50 times, and then got out. There was an explosion, but Marvin was too tired and too dehydrated to come up with any fanciful description of what the explosion was like.
Razor McCracken was waiting for him, standing at the base of the cliff. “LOOKS LIKE I SMOKED OUT THE RAT!” he yelled, and laughed with that creepy Razor laugh.
“You’ll never win,” said Marvin, with determination in his eyes. And he pulled out a handgun that he’d forgotten was in his pocket until now. “Go to heck.”
And he fired it at Razor McCracken, several times, at about a range of 5 feet, but missed every single shot. The gun clicked, out of ammo. The only merit badge he had never obtained was the “Personal Shooting” or “Guns” or whatever the crap they call it. THE ONE WHERE THEY SHOOT GUNS.
“Crap,” he said.
“HEH HEH!” laughed Razor McCracken for about the 30th time, and he raised his rifle to shoot Marvin Cotters in the face, to death. Marvin Cotters waited for the end. He waited for the bullet to the face.
Then Razor McCracken stopped cold, and tumbled forward onto the ground, unmoving.
There, standing behind him, was the old couple that Marvin Cotters had passed earlier, hiking. The man had a rock in his hand.
“Whaaa???” said an astonished Marvin Cotters.
“You thought we were just going to be part of the zaniness of your little adventure!” said the man, looking up at him. His wife nodded. “You thought we were only put here to show how stupid you were!”
“Well yeah,” said Marvin.
“You thought wrong. We just saved your butt,” said the woman.
“Indeed you did,” said Marvin, who was actually kind of mad that they had killed off Razor McCracken. He thought he would be the one to triumphantly finish him off. It would’ve been the only satisfying thing he’d ever done in his life. He rolled his eyes.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” asked the man, putting his hands on his hips.
“I hate you!” cried Marvin, and he threw his handgun as hard as he could at the man’s face. It made a satisfying cracking sound, and the man fell to the ground, dead as a person who’d been hit in the face by a gun and suffered a fatal cerebral hemorrhage.
“My husband!” cried the woman, and before she could say anything else, Marvin Cotters hit her with a rock.
Marvin Cotters had come a long way in his life, from a little whiny spoiled brat of 6-years-old to a whiny spoiled brat of 24-years-old who knew how to survive in the harsh desert.
Truly, he had conquered the desert, the most unforgiving terrain in the world.
Truly, he had conquered all of his enemies, and all of his fears.
Truly, he was the greatest human being in the world.