J. Paddington Shakir stood on the precipice and looked down, steadying himself on the head of the pygmy midget who had been his guide since the day before yesterday. He thought the pygmy told him his name was Oompa – but that wasn't his name. That was just the name that J. Paddington Shakir had wanted to be his name ever since he left home in search of adventure. He'd always thought that when he went off into the jungle to seek his fame, his fortune, and the love of a beautiful blonde nymphomaniac with large breasts and big blue eyes, that he would have a pygmy guide named Oompa who was absolutely dedicated to him and would – if need be – die for him.
The pygmy's name was Stanley, and no matter how many times he said this to Shakir, he always called the pygmy Oompa. Stanley was not a jungle guide, but an accountant that Shakir had accosted on the street and insisted be his guide. Also, Stanley was not a pygmy; he was just a very short man among men who are generally not tall to being with. At first, Stanley thought he would amuse the dumbass, who he was sure had to be high or one of those western men who travel to the far east in search of young boys. But that had been 10 days ago and Stanley was sure he'd lost his job – which was very lucrative, certainly more than the $2 a day J. Paddington Shakir was paying him and insisting those were the going rates for jungle guides in that part of the world – and he was sure that his wife didn't even notice he was missing since she was having an affair with the sumo-wrestler who lived downstairs and stank like rotten cheese.
Oompa – that is to say, Stanley – absolutely hated J. Paddington Shakir, even more than he hated the sumo-wrestler who had given his wife herpes.
“This is the place, Oompa,” Shakir said using a grand tone. His tone was always grand, even when he told his guide to start a fire or announced that he was going to take a shit.
“You sure?”
Shakir looked down, laughed, and patted his guide on head – which Stanley detested. “Have no fear,” he said – again, grandly – “your crude superstitions hold no sway in this modern world.”
“Are we going down into the canyon or are we going to stay here?” Stanley sounded impatient. His bad knee had been bothering him, which he knew meant rain. He didn't especially want to trek down into the canyon. First of all, it looked really unpleasant; and for another, he knew that Shakir would make his “guide” go first.
J. Paddington Shakir laughed again and (again) patted Stanley on the head. “You're a silly little pygmy, Oompa,” he said. “Of course we're going down there.”