The Primeval Force

Author © Scott D. Zachary

Perhaps “The Force” is a remnant from primeval times, from days of antiquity when our ancestors hunted in packs like wolves, challenging big woolly mammoths out of necessity. As contradictory as the idea might seem, perhaps The Force is simply basic survival instinct. And maybe, The Force is the result of an inordinate gush of adrenaline into the bloodstream—a shot of adrenaline so great that the body and mind react much like “The Incredible Hulk.” Possibly, The Force is the result of the confidence-bolstering effect of a specific quantity of imbibed alcohol. What probability could be assigned to The Force being a proverbial guardian angel? Or is there some chance that The Force is a combination of these? Who knows?

       Whatever The Force is, it is not a presence of mind that I can willfully invoke, like the magician who pulls the rabbit from his hat. Nor is it my usual demeanor.

       The Force initially introduced itself when I was staying in Katmandu, enjoying some rest and recuperation after fifteen days of rigorous mountain climbing in the Himalayan Mountains.

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I checked into a colonial-style hotel in Katmandu and delved into my first agenda: a long, hot bath. While soaking in the tub, I reflected back on the goat’s milk beer that I tried to drink in a Nepalese kitchen on my return trek from Mount Everest. I vowed never again to allow that vile concoction to violate my palate. It reeked of rotten cottage cheese that someone seemed to have pissed in—and I don’t even like cottage cheese.

My next priority will be to swill a long list of imported beer brands. I dressed in my least-petrified jeans and cotton shirt; however, I hesitated to part with my hiking boots, so I didn’t. I dropped my laundry at the concierge and strolled to the classy mahogany bar around the corner from the lobby in my hotel and sat down.

The bartender greeted me jovially, and I ordered a Heineken. I promptly disposed of that frosty-cold beer and chased it with five more. When I ordered my seventh, the bartender pronounced, “We will be closing in ten minutes, sir. This beer will be your last.”

“What! Nine o’clock! This party has just begun!”

I asked the native bartender where in that Asian town I might further develop my festive yearnings. He looked at me kind of funny. I rephrased my question and asked him where I might purchase another beer.

“Oh,” he said, “the casinos are ten kilometers down the road. They stay open all night.”

I thanked him, left a sizeable tip for his valuable advice, and trotted out the door. I walked through the gates in front of the hotel where a dozen or more bicycle rickshaw drivers accosted me, clamoring for my business. It seemed as though they believed whoever asked the loudest would get my fare. Having trekked for as many as twenty kilometers in a day, ten was a short hike in my book. I’ve never seen a group of people more disappointed or astonished than when I told them I was going to hike to the casinos.

Six or seven kilometers down the road, I wandered into a residential area where there were no lights. Not one. I could barely see the street in front of me and wondered if I had taken a wrong turn. I pressed forth on my trek, hoping that I would eventually meet someone who could put me back on track. Three- and four-story dark apartments loom on either side of the road appearing as though they’ve been abandoned. There are no automobiles with their friendly beams anywhere.

Something moved across the street. I couldn’t identify it in that lightless environment. Another sinister entity moved ominously in front of me. Have you ever been so physically fit that you believed you were Superman’s cousin, or even Superman himself? You know then the confidence I felt in these questionable circumstances. The darkness all around me began to stir—to have a life of its own. I trekked on, but not so quickly as before.

I heard a throaty “Grrrrrrr” behind me. I retrieved my Swiss Army knife from my pocket and snapped open the largest razor-sharp blade. I continued forward into the darkness, prepped for the worst, my ears perked for the next hint of aggression. Adrenaline spurted into my system. I heard another less throaty, higher pitched, but no less threatening, “Grrrrrrr” across the street. Seconds later, I realized I had strayed into the vortex of some vicious malevolence.

I halted. It—or they—surrounded me. I sensed these beings moving closer to me. The moon skirted past a slice of yielding clouds, allowing me to see a little better than before, but still not enough to illuminate my potential feasters. My mind seemed to be metamorphosing. I wasn’t me anymore. In retrospect, I would call it a kind of out-of-body experience, watching myself react to a situation that was beyond my control. This frightening ordeal unfolded as if from afar.

My lack of motion seemed to invigorate this evil presence. I could feel in the hairs of my arms that it was galvanizing to attack me, but that couldn’t be. I was outside myself, mesmerized, watching a being that I later named “The Force” commandeer my body. I gazed upon a scene that could be my last. As cocksure as I am, I blanketly doubt I could’ve, or would’ve, done what The Force did.

The moon poked its reflecting beams of light through the cloud-dappled canopy and spotlighted 30 or 40 underfed dogs with their teeth bared, ready for dinner—ME!! The Force panned my vision, summing up his enemy. He did the last thing that I would’ve ever done—he selected the most fearsome dog and strutted cockily, yet casually, toward it. The Force hunkered and leaned forward, pointing the tip of my Swiss Army knife at the throat of a huge German shepherd, whispering, “I will die tonight, but you will too.”

The Force initiated a stare-down with that canine beast. Time seemed to stop its incessant ticking. The growls ceased. The aggressive movements dissipated. The moon popped out in all its glory, illuminating The Force and the German shepherd. Face-to-face, blade poised, fangs unsheathed, the German shepherd exhibited no sign of fear. But then, neither did The Force. The shepherd stood, looked at me with an air of disdain and a certain degree of respect, slowly turned, and then pranced away.

That savage confrontation whetted my party appetite to the hilt! I proceeded on my trek to the source of merriment without further bestial or human interference. Four hours of gambling and drinking sated the party animal in me. I walked out of the casino where I encountered a similar swarm of bicycle rickshaw drivers. Drunker than three cavorting skunks and more than ready to put my head on a pillow, I selected the most enthusiastic driver and gave him my hotel address. A couple of kilometers down the road, I realized that my driver wasn’t much of a physical specimen. Worse than that, the chain on his bicycle was misaligned and popped with his every exertion. I ordered him to stop, and I took his place. The look on his face as he sat in the rickshaw made it clear that no one had ever chauffeured him before.

I popped that chain vigorously all the way back to my hotel. As I bicycled through the dark area where those dogs had confronted me, some other primeval force prompted me to holler, “I’ll get you my pretty, and your little doggy Toto, too. Ahhh-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Those dogs wouldn’t dare, would they?

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Folks, it happened exactly the way I wrote it.