This work is entirely fictional, and all characters, including Tarzan, are not based on any real people or events. While the character of Tarzan, originally created by Edgar Rice Burroughs, is in the public domain, it should be noted that the Tarzan name and related trademarks are owned by the Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc. corporation. This narrative is a creative, independent interpretation and not affiliated with the corporation. I appreciate feedback or constructive criticism of my writing directly at [email protected].
The moon was alive and beaming through the Congo. Stars were brightly glowing as Tarzan sat halfway in a chair by the sole entrance of the treehouse, keeping watch over his sleeping mate. James’ battered and bruised twink body tossed and turned in-between the various pelts of animal skin and leather blankets made by Tarzan’s parents from long ago. Sitting straight up in the chair, Tarzan noticed his James was having a night terror and immediately scooped his love in a warm embrace. James, still asleep, recognized that he was safe in the warm pectorals of his king. Tarzan’s massive pecs and chiseled body was warm and he breathed in heavily as he drew James close for a deep kiss on the forehead; his dark brunette-honey blond hair lightly cascaded down to James’ face. His subtle beard stubble also grazed his lover's face, and James, even in dreamland, embraced the sensual kiss of his king. Tarzan held James close and promised himself that nobody would ever harm James again, ever. James stretched and, half-awake, looked at Tarzan and said, “I love you. Thank you for saving me.” He rolled over out of Tarzan’s arms and back onto their bed. Tarzan then did a somersault-style aerial backflip to the sole entrance of the treehouse. He would keep watch and protect what was his. James was HIS mate, his lover, his life. Pain and hatred seethed from his nostrils. He crouched in the simple doorway of the shack on his hind legs and let out a small, mean-spirited grunt that only came out as “Oooh.” Primal. Animalistic. Soon it would be daylight, and he had to get the anger out of him somehow; he needed to hunt to clear his mind. He quietly called upon his ape-brother Turk and asked him to watch his James.
In the blink of a flash, he shifted into the canopy, determined to find a big game cat to satisfy his feelings.
--
Mkuu was not merely bruised; he was shattered. Every muscle ached from his last defeat, but the greater wound was the one to his Waziri warrior's pride. For nearly twenty-five years, that arrogant ape-man, Tarzan, had held the throne of the jungle. Twenty-five years of being the second-best hunter, the secondary threat, the other man. He was miles away from his former village, plotting a revenge that felt less like a plan and more like a holy mandate.
This time, the plan was flawless. He would draw Tarzan into a deep, final confrontation. He would succeed. He would capture his nemesis and eliminate him, and only then would Mkuu decide the fate of that spoiled, tempting little piece of meat—the twink of a cumdump, James. Subduing James and claiming him as a personal sex slave was a delicious bonus, a side dish to the main course of Tarzan's destruction.
He knelt, meticulously pressing jungle leaves onto a deep gash, the pain fueling his focus. It was then, through the dense, vibrant green of the canopy, that he saw it.
It looked like a colossal insect, or perhaps a god's fiery, metallic hawk. It was an object he had never witnessed, tearing through the sky with a low, unnatural roar. Smoke and oily flame trailed from its fixed, rigid wings. Mkuu watched, utterly transfixed, as the sound suddenly shifted from a roar to a dreadful shriek of tearing metal. The giant bird began a terrifying, uncontrolled dive. It punched through the cloud layer and plummeted straight towards the heart of the jungle.
The world dissolved into noise. There was a sickening CRACK as the metal ripped the tops off ancient mahogany trees, followed by a deafening, earth-shaking BOOM that flattened the undergrowth around Mkuu and sent a hot wave of displaced air rushing over him. The jungle, usually alive with a million sounds, fell into a terrifying, absolute silence, broken only by the hiss of distant fire. Whatever that thing was, it had landed close, and it had brought something utterly new and dangerous into Mkuu's kingdom.
Mkuu was not granted silence for his plotting; the air was thick with the acrid stink of burnt metal and jet fuel, the soundscape dominated by the hysterical cries of the woman. This sound, evidence of mortal frailty, acted like a blood trail to the predator. He dragged his beaten body, fueled by sheer malice and venomous curiosity, across the thousand-plus yards of dense jungle. Every torn muscle screamed in protest, but Mkuu pushed through, his gaze fixed on the billowing black smoke.
The crash site was an apocalyptic wound on the jungle floor: flames greedily consumed the shattered plane. Mkuu halted just inside the shadow line, surveying the tragedy. Two men were clearly gone, frozen in their seats, but the woman was a ruin of shredded silks and crimson blood, trapped in a loop of delirium and piercing agony. Unseen by Mkuu, she was shielding a miracle—her newborn son, still asleep amidst the wreckage.
Before Mkuu could make a move, a powerful, silent shadow fell over the scene.
With a barely audible thump, Tarzan dropped from the canopy. The ape-man’s powerful muscles tensed, his expression a mixture of bewildered alarm and instant compassion as he took in the fire, the bodies, and the screaming woman.
The woman fixed her half-sane eyes on him. She saw not a savage, but a strange, powerful protector. Tarzan crept forward, low to the ground, offering soft, concerned “Oooh ooh ooh?” sounds. She couldn't understand the words, but she understood the intent. The pain was too great; she knew she was drowning in her own blood.
In one final, desperate, maternal act, she fought the darkness. Her hand found her swaddled son, and with a superhuman surge, she thrust the tiny bundle into Tarzan's massive, fur-covered arms. Her blond hair was plastered to her skull with dark, sticky blood.
Looking into the eyes of the bewildered jungle lord, she whispered a single, life-defining plea: “Please… p-please take my son.”
The light left her eyes. She was gone. The month-old infant, sensing the final absence of his mother’s warmth, erupted into a high, furious wail.
Tarzan didn’t hesitate. He clutched the baby tight to his warm chest, his own protective instincts roaring to life. He threw back his head and unleashed a deep, vibrating, chest-beating death cry—a terrifying lament that announced the tragedy and summoned the loyalty of the jungle.
The jungle answered. First, the massive gray bulks of his elephant family arrived, their trunks acting as emergency pumps, showering the wreck to contain the fire. Then, Turk lumbered through the trees. Tarzan signed a rapid, urgent command for Turk to take the child back to the safety of their treehouse. Only after watching his ape-brother vanish with the precious bundle did Tarzan turn, spear in hand, to the solemn duty of digging graves for the three strangers.
High above, hidden within the lush green ceiling, Mkuu was smiling to himself.
He was watching the perfect, horrifying spectacle unfold. Tarzan, the unbeatable lord of the jungle, had just been handed a liability—a weakness Mkuu could exploit. The Ape-Man would be burdened by this fragile human infant. He would love it. He would defend it. Tarzan may have had the brute strength and jungle brawn, but Mkuu had the intellect, the strategy, and the malice. The rival was no longer simply a target; he was now a protector times two, with something delicate to lose. Mkuu felt a chilling sense of victory settle over him. The child was not merely a burden; the child was the key to Tarzan’s grave.
