Mr. Martin waits alone at the end of the new landing strip he has had constructed on his island of San Miguel. He watches with interest as a C-130 transport appears first as a speck on the horizon and then grows larger as it draws closer losing altitude. Mr. Martin is in his mid-60’s and is short and not very physically fit… well, he’s quite fat. He has led the good life for decades and the pounds have been slowly added on over the years. To look at the man one would never suspect he was a billionaire. He is wearing an old beat-up wide brimmed straw hat, a garish blue and gold Hawaiian shirt and stained white pants. He sits in driver’s seat of his old open air white jeep patiently waiting for his merchandise to arrive, sipping a cool drink in a plastic cup.

Minutes later, the aircraft gracefully swoops down out the clear blue Caribbean sky. Twin gusts of black smoke arise at the far end of the runway as the C-130’s tires touch down on the surface of the runway. Seconds later the C-130’s nose drops and the nose gear touches lightly down on the tarmac. The large transport immediately begins to loudly decelerate as the turbo props reverse power and the pilot begins to brake the aircraft. Soon after, Mr. Martin feels a gust of hot wind and hears the roar of the transport’s engines as plane speeds past the jeep parked well away from the runway. The plane gradually comes to a full stop at the far end of the runway. The engines power up as the C-130 turns around 180 degrees, the thrust of the transport’s four engines blowing at the big fronds of the leafy palm trees nearby. The C-130 then slowly begins to taxi back down the runway as the wing flaps retract back into take-off position. Mr. Martin raises his plastic cup as the plane slowly passes by him and then comes to a stop near the parked jeep. The dull roar of the C-130’s spinning engines continue as the plane remains stationary and the rear cargo door slowly retracts and opens up and inwards into the C-130’s large cargo bay.

As the rear door opens, Mr. Martin catches sight of young Jake, the C-130’s copilot, standing near the opening, operating the door control. “Oh, my… what have we here?” asks the old man aloud, making a cursory appraisal of Jake. The copilot is wearing a dark blue one-piece flight suit and black combat boots, and wears a headset with a microphone. Attached to the headset is a black cord which leads to another cord that is coiled in Jake’s hand. The copilot is a tall, good-looking young man, with dark red hair and a light beard, crowned with a dark blue Buffalo Bill’s ball cap. Jake is in his early twenties and has a swimmer’s type build, which has obviously also been enhanced with some strong weight-training added, and is clearly defined by the tailor-made jump suit he wears. Jake’s taut athletic body does by no means escape Bill Martin’s notice, who stares hungrily at the young man standing in the cargo bay, while he sips his drink.

The young copilot grabs a pair of yellow wooden wheel chocks from within the bay and jumps lightly down to the tarmac, quickly moving towards the port side aircraft wheels, and chocks the large aircraft tires front and back. Jake then plugs the cord to his headset into a recessed jack on the exterior of the aircraft; he drops the coil of black wire and begins to move around the exterior of the aircraft, speaking into the headset’s microphones. Bill watches the young man with keen interest as Jake walks quickly around the starboard wing. He quickly rounds the wing and moves well out in front of the spinning blades of the C-130. The copilot stands before each of the C-130’s four spinning props, one by one, making a visual inspection of each and relaying his findings to the captain. Satisfied everything is in order, the copilot draws his right index finger across his throat. The planes four turbo-prop engines immediately shut off one by one, and begin to ramp down. As Mr. Martin listens to the subsiding engine noise, he stares longingly at the outline of Jake’s athletic body contained in the snug fitting flight suit as he walks around the aircraft, occasionally squatting as he inspects the fuselage of the C-130. Mr. Martin finds himself becoming deeply infatuated with young Jake, observing the young man perform his duties… apparently love at first sight. The old man leers at Jake, never taking his eyes off the young copilot as he inspects the aircraft’s components and reports his findings back to the captain in the cockpit. “I’ll call you, Red, my handsome young man,” decides Bill as he continues to eye Jake appraisingly.

Minutes later as the blades of the turbo-prop stop spinning, the hunter emerges and jumps from the open rear cargo bay door, leading a very tall, muscular man by a chain attached to a thick leather collar. The man is entirely naked and well-secured in leather restraints, wearing only a grotesque black hood. The strange hood has shoulder-length black kinky hair, and the face of a gorilla on the front of it. The hunter roughly helps the hooded man down and then tugs the chain, pulling the largely muscled, nude-bound man along, stumbling and staggering weakly towards the jeep and its occupant. Young Jake cannot help but notice the hunter and his captive. He stops his aircraft inspection, his mouth dropping open, as he stares in disbelief at the events unfolding on the edge of the runway.

The jeep’s occupant licks his lips and then struggles, breathing hard, as he rolls his obese body out of the jeep, quickly grabbing a metal briefcase and a cloth bag. He sets both items on the vehicle’s hood, as the hunter and his captive near the jeep. “Well done, hunter. I knew you would not fail. So Tarzan, King of the Jungle! We meet again—but under different circumstances. The money is all there, Hunter…you can count it if you wish,” offers Bill.

“I trust you, Bill,” counters the hunter as he brings Tarzan to a stop with a hard nudge into his rippling abs with his elbow. The hunter holds the leash as Bill waddles around the strapping man, appraising him as he stands on grassy edge of the tarmac, unsteady still on his legs, breathing heavy, trying to draw air into the mask—weak from the confinement of his legs and from the lack of any nourishment for days.

“Tarzan’s not near as cocky as he was the last time I encountered him!” remarks Bill. “The mask suits him well. I’ve made a monkey out of “Lord” Tarzan. I have waited a long time to have the King of the Jungle standing before me: defeated, powerless—helpless.”

I bet you have, you disgusting, gross pervert, thinks the hunter, and smiles at the fat old man.

“Have you “tamed,” Tarzan?” asks Bill, looking a bit apprehensive at the tall, powerful man.

“Tarzan is tame. Once he was deprived of his senses, his muscles harnessed tight… his free spirit and pride crumbled; and he submitted,” explains the hunter.

“Excellent. There is an envelope on top of the money in the brief case, too. It has the GPS coordinates, all known data, and the handling instructions I have for Bomba, the Jungle Boy. I’ve had a very special hood made, and other accessories for him, there in the bag. Wait until you see this one! I have a different theme for the cocky Bomba, indeed. You are still interested in capturing the Jungle Boy, and bringing him here to me?” asks Bill hopefully.

Pervert! thinks the hunter. I can’t even begin to imagine what this sick fuck has dreamed up for the kid. “We’re leaving now to fetch the boy, Bill. We never did discuss a price,” remarks the hunter.

“You work is flawless, quick results—no loose ends to tie up. I’ll pay the same price for Bomba as for I did for Tarzan… plus expenses,” offers Bill. He suddenly cracks Tarzan on his mounded ass with an open hand, and then rubs the jungle man’s firm buttocks, no longer able to resist the urge to feel the jungle man’s satiny, smooth skin. Tarzan flinches at his unseen master’s slap and caress, and the hunter tugs hard on the lease making Tarzan heel.

Can’t you wait until I leave, before starting your perverted games with the ape man? fumes the hunter; then smiles, and says, “It’s a deal then, Bill. I’ll take the cage with me. I’ll call you when I have Bomba.” The hunter surrenders Tarzan’s leash to Bill.

The fat old man smiles and takes the jungle man’s leash. The hunter grabs the brief case and cloth bag, and turns to leave. But Bill says, “Hunter… one moment, please.”

“Yes, Bill,” responds the hunter, turning to face him. “Don’t tame Bomba when you catch him…. I want the boy left wild. I want to personally make Bomba heel to my will. Just bring him here to me.”

“It works for me,” replies the hunter.

The old man then gestures towards young Jake inspecting the C-130 and says, “Hunter, Red over there…the interesting, tall athletic young man, with the dark red hair and light beard, scurrying busily around the plane. I’d like to meet, Red….”

“Sorry, Bill. It’s best to forget about him. Red, as you call him, is a personal friend of a friend of mine. He’s off limits… not for sale, at any price!” replies the hunter trying to mask his disgust.

“Are you sure? Money is no object—name your price. Red is so… so fit. I’ve always had a thing for young, tall red-heads,” replies Bill sullenly.

I bet, mutters the hunter under his breath.

“I’m very sure,” replies the hunter. He dismissively turns and walks back towards the C-130 at quick pace. The hunter then once more casts his eyes back at the odd pair standing on the runway’s edge, shaking his head inwardly at the odd spectacle. The sight of the short, obese old man in a straw hat and bad Hawaiian shirt, holding the leash of a very tall, muscular subdued man, tightly restrained and wearing only a gorilla hood… is beyond perverse thinks the hunter.

As the copilot continues his checks, he cannot help but to occasionally steal a quick glance towards the surreal and bizarre activity taking place in plain view near the edge of the runway. The hunter approaches Jake, who is making his aircraft inspection expecting a barrage of blurted out questions, but surprisingly gets none as he passes by. Jake only smiles and nods politely to the hunter, and continues to inspect the aircraft for takeoff, while communicating with the captain in the cockpit. Jack was right about the kid, he does know when to keep his mouth shut, thinks the hunter, suddenly stopping to watch Jake perform his duties for a moment. Then hunter turns from the cargo door, and walks quickly over to Jake. He reaches out his hand and smiles. Jake quickly pulls his headset down around his neck, smiles, and takes the hunter’s hand.

“We’ve never really met yet, I’m Hunter,” shaking the young man’s hand.

“Jake. Nice to meet you, sir,” Jake says warmly.

“The pleasure’s mine, Jake. Call me Hunter,” replies the hunter. “Jake…we’ll probably be back to this island a few more times in the months to come. See that old man over there?”

“It’s none of my concern, what type of business you conduct…” replies Jake nervously.

“I know you can keep your mouth shut; Jack speaks very highly of you. And this has nothing to do with you keeping my business affairs to yourself. What I mean, Jake, is that I strongly advise you to stay well clear of that old man when you’re on this island. Don’t let him get you off alone anywhere, no matter what story he concocts—no matter how harmless or sincere he sounds. And most important of all, Jake, under no circumstances ever… never drink or eat anything that old man might offer you,” warns the hunter. He puts his hand on Jake’s shoulder, and gives him a very knowing look—then purposefully looks over at the spectacle on the runway’s edge.

Jake hesitates for only a few seconds, before his eyes open wide and his face turns beet red. He gulps and swallows hard as a wave of realization sweeps over him. He turns and looks again, this time apprehensively, at the old man and his captive jungle man at the edge of the runway.

“Just be warned, Jake… I know for sure he’s got his eye on you. Always, always stay near the aircraft when you’re on this island, and you’ll be fine.… I’ll see to it,” promises the hunter.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate the advice,” stutters Jake, watching the hunter begin to retreat back towards the cargo bay door.

“Call me Hunter,” replies the hunter, backing off. “You seem like a nice guy, Jake. I don’t want you to wake up someday from a drug induced sleep, and find yourself on your belly—naked, ball-gagged, and tied spread-eagle on that old man’s bed.”

Jake tries to respond to the hunter’s presentiment, but the words escape him. The thought of being made the helpless captive of that perverted old man completely unnerves Jake. He is speechless as he watches the hunter turn away and re-board the C-130. Eventually, he replaces his headset and returns to his tasks, glancing warily every so often at the strange pair on the edge of the runway.

I hope Jake heeds my advice, and stays clear of that warped old coot when he’s on this island. Otherwise, that old pervert will have himself a brand new red-headed boy-toy, thinks the hunter.

Then, a new plan to capture Bomba comes into focus. Jake seems like a straight-up guy; he could probably use some extra cash. He sure portrays youth and innocence. I can use an attractive guy like that on the next job. I think I have just the role for young Jake to play… in the capture of Bomba, the Jungle Boy. If he will?

To be continued….