Oompa: Part, The 2nd

 There was nothing at the bottom – at least, nothing that Stanley could see. He was exhausted and he could feel his bad knee swelling up: if felt the size of a softball. Shakir had to stop fifteen times on the way down the steep wall, and nearly fell half a dozen times. And each time he nearly fell, Shakir steadied himself using his trusted guide – nearly causing both of them to tumble to their deaths.

“Well, Oompa,” J. Paddington Shakir panted, looking around the valley. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Stanley squinted and looked around just in case he missed something; he hadn't. There was some scrub brush along the edge and rocky sand at the bottom that was cut by a muddy creek bed that hadn't seen a fish or a frog or even a dragonfly in months. The brush that seemed to line the bottom like a ring of hair had nothing on them that looked at all edible – and Shakir had burned through most of the water and the rest of the food on the previous day. “I think I'll be lucky if I don't break my neck walking out of here.”

Shakir laughed – and shook his head. “One of these days you'll learn to trust me, Oompa.”

Stanley shook his head and let himself sit on the sharp, uncomfortable ground. How did he get here? He'd lost his watch some time during the short crossing from the city to the sparse desert they were now in the middle of. He had no idea where they were; and he was pretty damn sure that J. Paddington Shakir didn't know either. He thought of the two dozen times he could've gotten away from his erstwhile “master” in the previous couple of days. I should've just pushed him, Stanley thought. When we were standing at the top of the gorge, I should've just pushed him. He would have fallen and broken his neck and no one would have missed him.

“We ought to find shelter, Oompa,” Shakir said. Stanley knew what that meant; it meant that HE needed to find them shelter. But there was nothing, not even a tall tree to stand under and get out of the hot late afternoon sun. In the three days that Stanley had let himself be led on by Mr. J. Paddington Shakir, he had not really been able to figure out anything about the man who would, in all likelihood, lead Stanley to his death. He gave no indication of who he was or where he was from or what he was looking for; it was as if the man simply thought that Stanley knew exactly where they were heading. If he had been thinking straight, Stanley told himself that he would have led the poor fool back to civilization and deserted him. That was what he SHOULD HAVE done; but he also told himself there was no point in trying to rethink his past mistakes with this man. What mattered, Stanley told himself, was that at some point in the future, when the opportunity presented itself, he would desert this sun-stroked idiot and make his way – somehow – back to his cheating wife, his safe air-conditioned cubicle, and the collection of internet porn that kept him satisfied while his wife fucked Fuji the sumo-wrestler.

“We ought to find shelter, Oompa.” When he repeated himself, it meant that Shakir was getting annoyed at his guide.

“Well I don't see anything,” Stanley said, “that we could use. “No trees. No overhangs. Nothing. You've found us a really good spot to die.”

Shakir shook his head. “You must have faith, pygmy. The Lord will provide. He even provides for pagan pygmies like you.”

“I'm a Lutheran,” Stanley said.

“We don't have time to exchange philosophies,” Shakir said. “We need to find shelter.”

“Why?”

“It's going to rain soon,” Shakir said. “And if we don't do something, the rain will flood this hole and we will drown.”

“If it was going to rain,” Stanley asked through gritted teeth, “then WHY did we come down here?”

Shakir shook his head and smiled. “You must have faith.”

“You must be kidding.”

“No,” Shakir said. “I am not.”

Oompa, Part 1

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.”