No Contest

“Extreme Nuggets is high-profile competition and they’re cutting into our sales. We will beat them at their own game by launching Extreme Oaties in less than thirty business days.” One bullet point instructed the cereal development laboratory to formulate the new cereal by the end of the week. Another bullet point called for the creation of dummy sales materials to be in the hands of sales reps in two weeks. The most important factor in the launch would be the celebrity promotions, as the final bullet point detailed.

“Oaties is famous for using champion athletes on its boxes, and we’ll achieve dominance in this aspect of the extreme-cereals category, too. The vice president of marketing is charged with the responsibility of personally signing the best-known extreme athletes. This will be accomplished within two weeks.”

Fellows Fence felt his spirits droop every time he read the part about the “vice president of marketing.” Not a name but a tide. Adam’s way of letting everybody know when somebody’s position was tenuous.

“He’d fire his own brother,” Fellows moaned.

“I never knew the breakfast-cereal business was so ruthless.”

“Oh, yeah. It’ll chew you up. It’ll spit you out.” Fellows wiped away a tear and silently asked himself if he was man enough to endure such viciousness.

Chapter 25

Jaiboru Junction, Northern Territory, Australia, was in the middle of nowhere—never mind that it was easy to find on the map, off the highway from Darwin to Alice Springs. The truth was that there was a single pitted dirt trail from the highway to the small outback town.

The name was a bold-faced lie. There was no junction in Jaiboru. It was on the way to nowhere. Wauchope was hours away, and Elliott and Tennant Creek were unreachable most of the year without an aircraft.

Situated on a dank stretch of real estate alongside the arid unpleasantness of the Tanami Desert, it offered visitors both the horrible dry and awful wetland outback experiences. That was just what the Extreme Sports Network was looking for when it planned its first Extreme Outback Crocodile Habitat Marathon.

The plan was for a triathlon, originally. The scout producer had to explain to the locals that a triathlon involved biking, running and swimming.

“You can’t have people swimming in these waters, mate.” The mayor of Jaiboru Junction chortled. “They’ll be et.”

“They’ll be what?”

“Et. Et by crocs. Water’s teeming with them.”

The producer considered that. “It would be acceptable if some of them were eaten by crocs,” he said hesitantly. In fact, it would be great if some of the contestants were eaten by crocs. He was already thinking about how to set up underwater cameras to film the feeding.

“No way, mate. You don’t understand. The water is teeming with crocs! They’d all of ’em be et.”

The producer considered that, then decided that, for the sake of the program, there had to be some survivors to finish the race.

Jaiboru Junction had been visited by a thousand people in its eighty-year history as a white settlement in the outback, and it quadrupled that number in just the first afternoon of the Extreme Outback Crocodile Habitat Marathon.

“Where’s the hotel?” asked the latest stupid American to stop by the new roadside tourism-and-information tent.

“Ain’t no hotel, mate,” Quimby Summy said with a brown-toothed grin and dollar signs in his eyeballs. “Seems the promoters forgot to arrange to ’ave one built.” The American didn’t panic. Most Americans would panic. “And the nearest hotel is…?”

“Two hundred and twelve klicks out that way,” Quimby Summy said, happy to be of service.

“So where’s everybody staying?”

“Summy’s Tent City. My ma and I thought there might be a need, see? We got tents, cots, blankets, mosquito nettin’, all the comforts.”

The American seemed bored with this. “Not that I’d rent one, but what’ll a tent run you in the outback these days?”

“Two tents,” piped up the small, elderly Asian man standing nearby.

“Two tents. Lessee, now. We got a grading price structure. You got your bronze package, your silver package and your gold package.”

“We shall accept nothing less than gold package,” the Asian man stated without hesitation.

“What do you get with the gold package?” The American sighed.

“Not so much what you get as where you’re put. Gold package is the farthest from the latrines, see. Not convenient, but upwind.”

“Fine. Two golds. How much?”

“One thousand. Each,” Quimby Summy said with the smile of a man who could name whatever price he wanted—and get it.

“That had better be pesos you’re talking,” the man growled.

“Dollars. American. Only place in the territory free of King Brown snakes. Money back guaranteed.”

Remo shrugged and handed over his CURE credit card, booking two gold packages for two days in advance. They found that the tents were reasonably clean, and that was end of their list of benefits.