Free Jase & the Deadliest Hunt by John Luke Robertson Page B

. . .
    You ditch the sword and scram.
    You’re not about to have that thing chewing on your head.
    I’m no Evander Holyfield, and that gopher’s not Mike Tyson.
    You’re not taking any chunks.
    I mean chances . Not chunks .
    You run and don’t look back. If you look back, the thing might sail through the air and start nibbling.
    No.
    No.
    You were the last Robertson standing.
    And you bolted.
    But that’s because this is no ordinary gopher.
    This is no ordinary island.
    And this is no story Willie will ever hear. Jase running away from a gopher? Jase who?
    Tomorrow you’ll be heading back home. Back to ordinary. Back to normal.
    Thank goodness.
    THE END
    Start over.
    Read “Let the Good Times Roll: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”

STRANGER THAN FICTION

    “CONGRATULATIONS, GENTLEMEN. The boar’s head will make a terrific trophy once it’s stuffed and mounted.”
    It’s now evening, after the sun has slipped away and the wind has turned warm instead of hot. The table is set for another feast, and Count VanderVelde has made his entrance. You thought the count would probably be gone for the rest of the week, and you haven’t decided if this is a pleasant surprise or not.
    “I’m not sure I really want to see that thing again,” you tell him. “I’d say it was already a bit overstuffed.”
    “What was that, anyway?” Willie asks.
    “Feisty suckers, aren’t they?” the count says.
    “So explain this to me   — when does an animal bleed purple?” You need to be clear on this point. “I mean   —we’re not color-blind, right? Is it something special for this island?”
    The host picks up a piece of fruit from his plate and devours it. “You’ll find lots of strange things on this island the longer you stay here. By the way   —you have to try the strawberries. They’re impeccable.”
    “Great,” you say.
    “How is purple blood possible?”
    “John Luke, please,” Willie says, shaking his head.
    But you nod at your nephew with approval. The count never really answered the question. Willie obviously doesn’t want to appear rude in front of the master of ceremonies. You, on the other hand, aren’t so worried about that and continue John Luke’s line of questioning.
    “So when you grow the hogs to look like that , does it mean their blood turns a certain color? Is it some DNA thing? Is this island like Jurassic Park?”
    “Everybody knows truth is stranger than fiction,” Count VanderVelde says.
    You’re beginning to get used to how he doesn’t answer a single question you ask.
    “I bet you’re not going to tell me where we’re heading tomorrow, are you?”
    The pork on your plate doesn’t look particularly appetizing. You’re not quite sure why.
    “I will give you a clue. It involves water.”
    “Either the beach or the river,” Cole says.
    “Freshwater,” the count adds. “You’ll need to let me know which weapon you’d like to use.”
    “We can use any, right?” Willie asks. “Including the dagger again if we want?”
    “Yes. I’m feeling generous tonight.”

    Which weapon will you take to the river tomorrow?
    The crossbow? Go here .
    The shotgun? Go here .
    The rifle? Go here .
    The sword? Go here .
    The dagger? Go here .
    The cowbell? Go here .

WOOF

    YOU OPEN THE ROUND ORANGE DISH in front of you. Smoke rises from the top of it, but you can tell the smoke is cold   —maybe it’s actually mist. And whatever’s inside is covered with a cloth.
    “Chilled Chihuahua,” the count says. “Quite the treat in these parts of the world.”
    You swallow hard and hope you didn’t actually hear what you thought the count said. “Chilled Chihuahua ? As in the dog Chihuahua?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “What part of the world thinks that eating a tiny dog is a good thing?”
    “Have you ever eaten a burrito in a big city late at night?”
    You shake your head, then glance at Willie.
    “Yeah, he does have a point,” Willie says.
    “What?” Cole exclaims.
    The