One afternoon in early October as Lord Greystoke was trying for at least the tenth time to get past the first page of Finnegan’s Wake, a helicopter appeared over the leafy branches of the forest that surrounded his African estate. The Lord of the Jungle quietly placed his half-eaten banana on the table and walked out to the noisy machine that was whipping up great clouds of dust from the ground.
The door of the helicopter opened and out stepped three men dressed in black each of whom carried a black briefcase.
“Are you Lord Greystoke?” asked one of the dark strangers.
“That depends on who is asking,” replied the Lord.
“Don’t get funny with us, Lord,” said a beefy-looking thug, “we’re from ERB, Inc.”
“So?” replied the Lord with a slight smile.
“We’ve heard that you are using the name, ‘Tarzan’ now and then; is that correct?” said the third man, trying to look threatening as he could behind sunglasses that hid his squinty eyes.
“I AM Tarzan,” replied Lord Greystoke.
“Well, boys, that’s it,” said the first man. “Come along with us. You’re in big trouble now.”
Lord Greystoke lifted the two of the three men dressed in black, one in either hand, and tossed them like bags of horse feathers into the helicopter.
“Hey, you can’t do that,” the remaining man said with a discenable quiver to his voice.
The ape-man did not reply, but tossed the third faceless mug into the helicopter and slammed the door.
“We’ll be back,” the strangers shouted in chorus as they left the ground.
Tarzan walked back to the veranda and began sharpening the blade of his father’s hunting knife.
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