Bungy Jump 1


SUSPENSE:  Watching with admiring awe from the safe, solid mountain’s edge as the slender and sleek young lady graced the clear altitudinous thin morning air with her form and flesh, arms outstretched in a classic swan dive having hurled herself with gleeful abandon from the tram’s bungee platform, calves and ankles clamped and torso harnessed snugly  to the end of her rope, I found myself enviously enthralled, but at the same time secretly squealing, squirming and clenching, knowing that were I dangling from the end of that cord like a lure on the end of a trout fishing line, with certainty, when it abruptly reached its point of periapsis, my old, brittle legs would simply snap off at the knees like penny pretzel sticks and the balance of the age-weakened and weather-worn 200 pounds of me would continue along in the free fall, flailing, plummeting, spinning through the air in a downward spiraling nebulae of swirling spraying fluid pumped ferociously into the rushing air by a heart on adrenaline overload, powerfully and rhythmically spurting my life’s blood like a scarlet jet trail from the wide open arteries flapping from the ragged shredded stumps where my knees used to be, as I glimpsed my feet, ankles and calves still firmly strapped in the powerful ankle harnesses shrinking away into the increasingly distant sky to ambulate never more, launched back upward toward the bungee deck on the other end of that regnant recoiling elastic line, a wave of thankfulness passing over me that the spewing blood was breaking into thousands of droplets forced by the roaring rushing wind of my descent to dash and splash against my goggle lenses, rivulets forming a merciful coating of crimson opacity blinding me to the horror of the miniscule towering green trees far below that grew bigger by the microsecond as I screamed at the top of my lungs without inhaling even once, wishing, praying that I could somehow instantly trade up the blackberry nestled in my back pocket for a new-every-two parachute as I hurtled downward amidst the ruby vaporous cloud of my own gushing juices like a comet shedding its ice and dust over the remainder of the 134 meter vertical dive until that sudden compacting stop when my nearly lifeless body smashes against the jagged rocks at 32 ft. per second per second only to accordion itself into the unyielding earth with a crunching thud barely audible to the startled but pleasantly surprised committee of carrion birds a few hundred yards away, leaving nothing but an unrecognizable lump of pulverized meat and bone fragments atop a marinara marinate, interlaced artfully with shreds of denim and cotton, a hank of hair and a high quality Sharper Image “Deep Pocket” wallet, the best I’d ever owned, in excellent albeit sanguine condition, without which at this point no one could otherwise identify the pile of  raw, oozing hamburger that only moments ago was nothing less than a thrill-seeking lower-middle class tourist and proud but foolish family man, now nothing more than an oddly convenient pleasant surprise of a stack of buzzard bait, crow cuisine, vulture vittles, baking in the noonday desert sun as it sears, simmers, sautés and sizzles my tenderized meatiness on the superheated steaming stony surface, a light breeze depositing a few decorative grains of sand as if flecks of a salt & pepper digestive aid for the wake of desert fowl thoroughly enjoying their pecking and playful tugging at a larger than usual good hot meal, a pulled-pork-like carcass miraculously tender, juicy and delivered still warm from the sky as the bungee operators precisely 134 meters above frantically scramble for ice and a cooler in which to pack my severed, twitching drumsticks for surgical reattachment in the unlikely event of my survival, while the vultures dine casually, flapping at one another knowingly as they wait for the other shoes to drop.

Bungy Jump 2


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