Jake Dakota:
Jungle Skipper of Doom
by Dod March
reprised from The NEW Jungle Skipper Gnus 1992

    The overhead fans turned, pushing a cool draft of damp air down onto the patrons of The Dock Box. For those of you not familiar with The Dock Box it is the local tropical dive frequented by the seediest of characters. A smoky, misty tavern where lethal deals were made and jaws were broken. And those who did the dealing and the breaking were the dirtiest players in the game, the meanest kids on the block, the hardest cases in... well, wherever cases are found. Like me. I'm Jake Dakota. I'm a jungle skipper.
    It was too normal of a day: only three brawls had broken out and I was beginning to lose my faith in the place. Watching the ceiling fans was becoming the highlight of my day, at least until I got the familiar feeling someone's eyes were boring into my skull. I moved my head down to see who it was - too fast, though. My neck cracked and my vision got blurry. I hate that.
    She was a slice of life in a haven of deadbeats. Golden hair tucked into an explorer's hat, her face glowed, even in the dark light of the barroom. Even the sordid color of khaki looked good on her, like an evening dress on Marlene Dietrich. In those blue eyes wasn't an expression of apprehension, but one of determination.
    "Jake Dakota?" she asked. It took me a second or two to realize she was speaking to me.
    "Last time I checked," I replied.
    "Your boss over at the Jungle Navigation Company sent me. He said you were the best man for the job."
    "Remind me to send him a Christmas card."
    "So you're tough. I'm not impressed. Gristle is tough. What I need is good."
    "To whom do I owe this pleasure?"
    "Karen Capshaw. My father's name is Harry Capshaw, owner of the Antiquities Tropical Corporation."
    "I 've heard of him."
    "Good." She nodded and glanced away for a moment "Good."
    I wish I could say she discreetly unclipped her holster and drew her small handgun, but that would be an obscene understatement. I also wish I could say the bar cleared, but too many skippers enjoyed the prospect of seeing a pistol leveled at my head. Karen obliged them.
    "Too bad you'll never get to meet him, Mr. Dakota," she said. Her right thumbs pulled back the hammer, making a chilling noise in the now-quiet Dock Box.
    "One bullet, Mr. Dakota. One shot."
    Her finger tensed against the trigger..........