*This is a sequel to Mystical Magical Mischief, so I would highly recommend reading that before reading this!*
“Breaking News: More Victims of Mexico’s Jungle Cryptid Found in the Lacandon Jungle,” stated the newspaper crinkled in Zamdani’s clenched hands, while Zamdani sat in a golf cart, smack-dab in the middle of the Lacandon Jungle. Zamdani, who, after a much too long year, had finally managed to take a vacation from his job in New York City, cursed himself for deciding to travel to Mexico.
When he booked his trip—specifically his excursion exploring the Lacandon Jungle—he had thought that he would finally be able to touch some grass, connect with nature, and relax. But no. Instead, Zamdani had to hope and pray that he wouldn’t become the next Jungle Cryptid’s victim. Of course, Zamdani could have decided to not go on his excursion in the Lacandon Jungle, but he had spent too much money on the excursion; and if there was one thing he learned from scrapping by in New York City, it was making the most of his money. And so, that brought him to where he was now: riding in a golf cart in the middle of the Lacandon Jungle, where he would hopefully not encounter the terrifying cryptid of the jungle.
Needing a distraction from his current predicament, Zamdani flipped to the next page of the newspaper: “79 Year Old White Man Discovered Trying to Sneak Into Children’s Day Camp at Yosemite National Park.” That was…interesting…and extremely creepy, if Zamdani was being honest. The picture on the front depicted an old man with an overabundance of neck-fat, a cheeto-orange face, and thin, wispy blonde sideburns, arguing with a counselor.
Curiosity piqued, he decided to read more: “The man was discovered by one of the camp counselors while trying to talk to several of the kids. According to the counselor, once he discovered the man, he told him ‘Sir, this is for children only,’ and the man, after making a ruckus about freedom of expression and speech and so on, eventually left. The 79 year old has since been identified as Tronald Dump, the leader of Magical And Girly Activities—which, according to Dump, is not a cult.”
Well, that was incredibly strange, and made Zamdani feel mildly better about his own situation, since at least no creepy old man would be after him—just an inhumane, possibly murderous creature. No biggie! It would be fine, just fine! He shoved the newspaper into the glove compartment of the golf cart, wiped off some of the sweat pouring down his forehead (it was boiling in the jungle), frantically swatted the oversized mosquitoes circling around him (he saw one the size of his hand), and pushed down on the gas pedal.
He cruised through the jungle, appreciating the sights and sounds—like the beautiful variety of orange, yellow, pink, and purple flowers and leaves scattered throughout the jungle, the frogs ribbiting in the trees, and the human-sized mosquitoes which didn’t exist because he was ignoring them and they couldn’t hurt him if they weren’t there. It was fine.
“AAAHHHHH, HELP ME!!!!”
Zamdani immediately braked, his beloved sunglasses launching off his face into the swarm of mosquitoes, never to be seen again. After mourning the best and only pair of sunglasses he owned, Zamdani looked around, trying to spot what on Earth made that horrible noise. As he looked through the towering trees, maddening mosquitoes, and flourishing flowers, he finally spotted a bright orange, rather large, man, with—were those golf clubs?—strapped on his back, stuck upside down in a tree, hanging by a vine wrapped around his leg.
Then—with a crunch, a crack, and another moan of pain—the man’s weight broke the vine holding him, as well as an entire branch of the tree. Zamdani stepped out of his golf cart to go help the man, reasonably sure that the stranger wasn’t the Jungle Cryptid based on his, well, physical abilities. As he got closer to the man, he suddenly had the feeling that he had met him before. Wait…No it wasn’t possible…there was no way, even he wasn’t that unlucky…Was this man…Tronald Dump? The creep from the newspaper? No, there was no way, he probably just looked similar.
Finally reaching the man, Zamdani outstretched a hand, helping the man up. Looking up at Zamdani with a strange smirk, the man said: “First of all, thank you for the help—really tremendous help, by the way. Very kind, probably the kindest, people are saying it. And let me tell you something, that tree? Total disaster. Just grabbed me out of nowhere. I would never get stuck in a tree, okay? Never. Nobody avoids trees better than me.”
“Right, yeah totally, I’m sure you’re great at avoiding trees. I also…get grabbed by trees…all the time…yeah.” A chill ran down Zamdani’s spine; something about the man creeped him out. “So, what’s your name, and how’d you get all the way out here in the jungle?”
“Well, frankly—and people are saying this—it’s an incredible story. Maybe the most interesting story ever told, a lot of people are saying that. I was working at a beautiful establishment, absolutely beautiful, the best establishment—everybody loves it—it’s called McDonald’s. You’ve heard of it. Very successful. Very classy.”
The man looked to the side, with a questionable look on his face. “And sadly—very sadly—they came to me and they said, ‘Sir, you’re too good. You’re too talented at McDonalding.’ I was the best at McDonalding. Nobody McDonalded like I McDonalded. And they said I had to leave. Not because of this totally fake story about sneaking into a kids camp at Yosemite National Park—never happened, by the way. Total hoax.”
This story was sounding scarily similar to the one Zamdani had read earlier…
“It became a huge event when I left. Massive. People lining up everywhere. Bigger than the Super Bowl—and I know big events, okay? People were crying. Grown adults. Tears. They said, ‘Please don’t go.’ It was very emotional. Very powerful.”
Zamdani somehow doubted that.
“So I said, what’s next? I’m watching my favorite show—the best show, everyone agrees—Dora the Explorer. Grammy-winning. Very prestigious. And I’m watching, and I notice: every single day, she finds treasure. Every day! Very consistent. Very impressive.”
“I don’t think that’s —”
“And I’m thinking—she speaks Spanish all the time. A lot of Spanish. And where does she live? That’s right: Mexico. And I said to myself, if Dora’s finding treasure there every day, there must be tremendous treasure in this jungle. Tremendous treasure.” As he spoke, the man slid into the passenger seat of the golf cart and gently placed his golf clubs into the back, as if the golf cart was his.
“Right, um, so what was your name again?” Zamdani asked, questioning if he truly wanted to know, to confirm his fears.
“Oh, right. Frankly—and a lot of very smart people are saying this—I have one of the greatest names ever. A tremendous name. Maybe the best name. Strong, powerful, unforgettable. People come up to me all the time, they say, ‘Sir, what a name. What a beautiful name.’ It’s true. They call me Tronald Dump. Incredible name. Very classy. Very successful-sounding. Nobody has a name like Tronald Dump, believe me.”
Of course he was Tronald Dump, of course. With Zamdani’s luck, who else would he be? It seemed Zamdani was wrong, there in fact would be a creepy old man in the same vicinity as him, not just a mildly murderous cryptid. Great, just great! Well, Zamdani came this far into this excursion already, so he wasn’t going to back out now.
Pushing the gas pedal once more (though this time with considerably more effort, likely because of the added weight), Zamdani continued to chug along through the jungle, this time with grating running commentary (and…flirting?!…Zamdani wasn’t that young, was he?) from Tronald sitting next to him.
After another hour, Zamdani contemplated just launching himself out of the golf cart and sprinting away; it was too unbearable! Zamdani would rather have encountered the cryptid. Tronald just wouldn’t stop talking! He wished that something—anything—would happen so that he wouldn’t have to listen to Tronald yap anymore.
Suddenly: with a crash, a bang, an excessive amount of terrified yelling, an old, beat up, graffitied pizza van blasting reggae flew off a nearby cliff, landing smack dab in front of Zamdani. Shocked, he turbulently braked. Tronald (and his golf clubs) flew out of the golf cart, launching face first into the van. Silence. Zamdani, and the people in the van (except for the driver), all stared at the place Tronald landed, hoping he was still alive. Even the music had paused, as if knowing something terrible had happened. Then, with a groan, Tronald stood up, albeit missing a few teeth.
“What happened? One thecond I’m in the golf cart—beauthiful golf cart, by the way, very expenthive—and the next thecond, I’m thtanding in front of thith ugly van. Terrible van. Maybe the uglieth van I’ve ever theen. Nobody maketh a van that bad, believe me. And who are thethe people? Theriouthly. I’ve never theen thethe people before. They come out of nowhere. Total dithathter.”
Stifling a chuckle at Tronald’s newfound lisp, as well as his—somehow—uglier face, Zamdani got out of his golf cart, walking up to the van to ask the people, who had rolled down the windows, why, just why, they decided to launch themselves in front of his golf cart. “Hey, um, I’m Zamdani, and that’s Tronald. Can I ask, why did you guys launch yourselves in front of my golf cart—?”
“Did you just say Tronald!?” A handsome young man with perfectly windswept greyish-blond hair exclaimed. “Oh my god! Haha, Melon, it’s your creepy cult leader you’re in love with!!!”
Another young man, this one decidedly not handsome, with a square shaped frame and a red face, angrily yelled “IT’S NOT A CULT, NAVIN, AND I’M NOT IN LOVE WITH HIM! I- I- I mean, of course I really respect and admire you, Tronald, but I- I’m not in love with you or whatever, haha…”
“Right, of course, we know you just respect Tronald, Melon—we all respect him,” Another man, this one a bit less young with a voice that sounded like a chainsmoker’s, said. “My name’s Kobert F. Cennedy Jr., by the way—KFC Jr. for short.”
“Melon, KFC Jr.—great people, by the way—my friendth, all of you guyth…What are you doing here?! Theriouthly. Nobody told me you were coming. Total thurprithe. Tremendouth thurprithe. I mean, I walk in, and there you are. Incredible. Just incredible.” Tronald exclaimed with a toothless smile.
“I wouldn’t say you ‘walked’ in,” Navin chuckled, “but you’re right, this whole situation was a bit unplanned.”
“Yeah,” a dark-skinned young man chimed in from inside the shabby van, “in fact, let me be clear, most of us don’t want to be here, but we have to because Boe—our grandfather—threatened to take us out of the inheritance if we didn’t come.”
“Oarrack’s right,” Navin sighed, “if it wasn’t for the inheritance, I would not be here right now. I would be on a yacht, tanning while sipping a martini.” Navin stepped out of the van, looking around gloomily, as if wishing a yacht would magically appear for him to sail off into the sunset in. Then, he continued. “The reason we’re all here is because last month, after a bit of a disastrous family trip, our cousin Y/N ran away and faked their death, and we’re pretty sure they disappeared into this jungle here in Mexico. Most of us honestly don’t care what Y/N does with their free time, but Boe has a soft spot for Y/N and basically ordered us to come here and find Y/N.”
While Navin continued to explain just how he, and his extended family, arrived in the jungle, (something to do with a built-in rocket launcher and a schlond poofa in the van?) the rest of the inhabitants of the car—Clillary and Cill Blinton (Navin’s aunt and uncle), Melon (Navin’s cousin), and Sernie (Navin’s…um…eccentric uncle)—all shambled out of the car.
Out of the corner of his eye, Zamdani swore he saw KFC Jr. clutching his head and twitching, all while muttering something that sounded like “don’t let the worm win, you’re stronger than thi- euuuuhhhhhh,” under his breath. But when Zamdani turned to look at KFC Jr., he was standing calmly with a blank look on his face, so Zamdani was probably just going a little crazy.
Turning back to the rest of the group, Zamdani spotted Tronald and Clillary shouting at each other, whilst playing some sort of tug of war with Cill. “He’s my husband!” Clillary yelled.
“Okay? He may be your huthband—terrific guy, by the way, I’m thure—but he liketh me better. Everybody knowth it. He tellth me all the time, ‘Sir, I like you better.’ It’th unbelievable. The betht. Tremendouth, really!” Tronald shouted back, pulling harder on Cill’s arm. Cill, who looked like he was a second away from ending it all, roughly pulled away from both Clillary and Tronald, storming off.
Cill quickly walked away from the two, approaching a cluster of trees, when suddenly a terrifying silhouette launched out of the trees and tackled Cill into the underbrush. Zamdani’s heart pounded in his chest, and he wondered if anyone else had noticed the creature kidnap Cill. Now, of course Zamdani felt bad for the guy, but was he going to go into the trees and risk his own life to save him? No. Zamdani had only known the guy for about five minutes, and he didn’t have a death wish. Still, Zamdani was surprised that Clillary and Tronald—who were still loudly squabbling like dogs and cats—hadn’t noticed Cill’s disappearance and (presumed) death.
“Oh my god! Sernie, step away from the van! Why do you have a lighter in your hand?!!” exclaimed Oarrack.
“Too late,” giggled Sernie, and then-
BOOM!
The van blew up in a tornado of fire. Hopping up and down joyfully from foot to foot, Sernie cackled and then exclaimed “Yay!!! I can make some smores now! It’s like a real life camping trip, woohoo!!”
Sernie then swiped up one of Tronald’s golf clubs off the ground, grabbed some marshmallows and chocolate from behind his right ear (Zamdani wasn’t going to question it), stabbed some marshmallows onto the end of Tronald’s club, and began roasting the marshmallows over the burning remains of the van. Tronald, who had just now noticed that his precious clubs had been launched out of the cart with him (Zamdani was reasonably sure he had a concussion), gathered the other clubs off of the ground and rushed over to Sernie to try and get his club back.
“Give me my golf club back, okay? Firht of all, nobody utheth a golf club like I do. The betht uther. And you’re out here roathing marthmalloth on it? Unbelievable. A dithgrathe. That’th my prethious club—beautiful club, very expenthive—probably the betht club ever made, frankly. Give it back. Right now!” Tronald exclaimed, before—and Zamdani swore he wasn’t going crazy this time—KFC Jr. appeared behind Tronald with a disturbing smile on his face, and shoved him towards the fire. As he fell, Tronald clutched onto Clillary, taking her down with him into the flames. “Hehahehehehe I took over the human…the worms are the dominant species…heuurgghhh,” KFC Jr. cackled before also collapsing into the burning blaze.
“Holy-”
BOOM!
Perhaps the combined addition of Tronald, Clillary, and KFC Jr. to the fire gave it some extra fuel, or maybe it was something else, but as soon as KFC Jr. landed in the blaze, before anyone could even attempt to save Tronald, Clillary, or KFC Jr., the van blew up again. Maybe it was some sort of aftershock? Zamdani didn’t know, nor did he want to know.
When the smoke cleared, all who were left were Zamdani, Melon, Oarrack, Navin, and Sernie. “Well, that was exciting! And my smores are perfectly done too!” exclaimed Sernie. “Lets all sit down and sing some campfire tunes! I’ll start: moonbeam icecream, taking off your blue jeans, dancing at the movies~”
While everyone else sat in shock, Melon sobbing over his beloved Tronald’s death, Sernie continued to passionately sing his song. Then, in a flash, another voice joined in: “cause it feels so mystical~ magical~”
Wait a minute, was that-
“The jungle cryptid?!!”
“Y/N!!”
But before anyone could confirm who it was, the person had once again disappeared into the towering jungle trees.
“Oh my god, guys we found Y/N! We can go home!” Navin excitedly shouted.
“What do you mean? I swear that was the jungle cryptid who’s been going around kidnapping people?” Zamdani questioned. “Are you trying to tell me that your cousin Y/N is the jungle cryptid?”
“Well, let me be clear, I wouldn’t be surprised considering how this family normally acts,” admitted Oarrack. Which, well, based on the fact that Sernie had blown up his own van because he wanted to make smores, was a solid argument, conceded Zamdani.
“So! Who’s singing next?” joyfully asked Sernie, smiling as if half of his family hadn’t just perished in front of him. “I-I can go next,” sniffled Melon, who was still mourning the death of Tronald. “This song I’m singing—I made it myself. It’s about the best man I ever knew—the love of my life, Tronald.” Navin and Oarrack side-eyed each other, trying their best not to laugh.
Melon cleared his throat, and then-
“He stood unshaken, a voice in the storm~ A man of conviction, a heart reborn~ He spoke the truth when the cost was high~ He lived for Jesus, unafraid to die~”
Zamdani stared, dumbfounded, while Navin began giggling under his breath.
“WE ARE TRONALD DUMP~ WE CARRY THE FLAME~”
Navin and Oarrack could no longer hold it together, and began dying of laughter on the ground. Zamdani just stared off into space, zoned out, wishing he had never gone on this jungle excursion and had just stayed on the beach at his resort. Sernie was passionately clapping, and Melon had stopped singing due to breaking down into heaving sobs once again.
While all this was happening, Navin and Oarrack stood up and snuck away into the jungle, searching for a body of water to cool off in. Or, well, more accurately, Navin pestered Oarrack to go with him to search for some lake or river or something until Oarrack agreed. Zamdani stared at them, betrayed that they would leave him alone with the two other lunatics.
Deciding that enough was enough, Zamdani stood up, walked back to his golf cart and pressed on the gas, ready to leave. As Zamdani was about to drive away, the van blew up once again—this time taking Melon with it; Sernie—joined by the jungle cryptid, Y/N—stood cackling in the midst of the roaring fire, somehow untouched by the flames despite it all; and Navin and Oarrack sailed away in a yacht they had found on a beach a five minute walk away from Sernie’s man-made (van-made?) campfire. Hoping to God to never see that eccentric family ever again (which would hopefully be easy considering half of them were dead), Zamdani finally drove away, escaping from the Lacandon Jungle and all it encompassed.
And, a couple hours after Zamdani made his great escape, unseen by everyone else, while laying in the embers of the van, Tronald opened his eyes.