The world’s a dangerous place.

Especially when you get away from civilization, because well.. the deadliest places on Earth are squarely in the middle of nowhere. Nature’s good at killing off any stranger wandering into its domain. But then again those kind of places are where the best stories come from.

Our story begins with Jeff Pratt, just a boy living in rural Louisiana. He didn’t fit the profile of your stereotypical bayou billy. He wasn’t a Zydeco blues musician, he wasn’t nicknamed “Bubba”, and he didn’t speak the local creole language, which sounds like complete gibberish unless you got an ear for it.

He was just Jeff Pratt.

Jeff was a tall and lanky thirteen-year-old boy, with a tuft of curly red hair atop his head. He lived with his father somewhere along the Atchafalaya River possibly around the Hooppole Bayou… boy that’s a mouthful. Anyway, I’m not at liberty to say where they were on that river partially because they weren’t really supposed to be there and partially because I didn’t know exactly where they actually were; I mean out there in the swamps it all starts to look the same after a while. Anyway Jeff and his father, whom he referred to simply as “Yes, Sir”, lived in a tree-shaded makeshift shack, though I imagine with the money they were making they could’ve afforded a pretty respectable RV or prefabricated home, however it’s hard to get one of those things that far into the sticks without causing a noticeable amount of damage to the surrounding wilderness.

And I’ve said too much already.

But actually I’m here to tell you about Jeff’s adventure.

Now most adventures begin one of two ways: either something tragic and life-changing happens or someone gets really bored.

Let’s go with the latter.

There wasn’t much to do out in the bayou so boredom was a pretty common problem. One hot summer’s day Jeff was hanging around the shack with, not surprisingly, nothing to do. His father was out in the woods checking on the distillery equipment… I mean hunting. He was hunting.

Suddenly Jeff had an idea to help alleviate this menacing boredom. He’d take a float down the river and have a picnic. Sure it’s not as exciting as an XBox or whatever the kids are playing these days, but when you’re this bored you’ll take whatever you can get. Jeff figured it’d be at least a couple hours before his father got home so he grabbed some peanut butter, bread and his trusty bowie knife; stuffed them into his backpack; and ran down to the raft. It’s called “the raft” because they only had one of them. It was little more than a large collection of wooden planks resting on polystyrene blocks. There was also a long metal pole attached to one side in case he got stuck. The raft floated about a foot above the water, which was perfectly fine for a gentle river ride; just don’t go taking it to the rapids.

Jeff untied the ropes holding the raft to the dock and pushed it out to open water taking care not to fall off in the process. The last thing you want when rafting is to tumble headfirst into the muck at the bottom of a four-foot-deep pool of stagnant water.

Jeff rode the floating platform across the murky water until it slowly crept to a halt. He then took the pole and got himself some more momentum, digging the pole into the muck on the riverbed, pushing the raft forward trying to get it going on the river’s current. There was about a mile of swamp water before it would catch onto the river’s gentle current. Now using a metal pole to guide a large wooden raft through the muggy waters of the bayou is fine as long as you remember to take it slow. The minute you start to rush it that pole’s gonna get stuck in the mud and…

*SPLASH!*

Jeff slowly crawled back onto the raft. It was a good thing he didn’t go into the water face-first, though he would have preferred not to go in at all. His clothes were completely covered in… whatever was in that swamp water. By this point in the journey he was almost a mile away from home and a considerable amount of slimy swamp water was thoroughly entrenched in his britches. So doing the most logical thing he could think of he stripped down to his bare necessities, which in the middle of the waterlogged woodlands is completely nude. Well it was certainly better than wearing some muck-filled trousers.

He fastened the pole to the side of the raft, sat down, and took a deep breath. This river ride was a good idea to pass the time. The only problem with this idea was that when he wanted to go home he would have to either paddle against the current or ditch the raft and make a trek through the woods. Of course all that wasn't really on his mind at the moment as he improvised a pillow out of his lumpy belongings, stretched out onto his back, and got comfortable for a quick nap.

Now you might think that taking a nap in the nude on a rickety raft floating aimlessly down a winding river is a bad idea… and you would be right. Jeff didn’t have any natural camouflage so his pink naked body stood out on that raft like a sore thumb, making him a ripe target for any wandering predators. For all the time he spent outside Jeff really should’ve had more of a tan than he did, since his skin was almost as pale as a ghost. Maybe it was his Irish heritage, or maybe he was anemic; he should probably see a doctor about that… the anemic part I mean. Of course that also wasn’t really a concern of Jeff at the moment as he drifted off to sleep.

It only was a minute, or at least seemed like a minute before...

*THUMP!*

Jeff’s eyes popped open; his heart was pounding from such a startle. Although it wasn’t really the sound that woke him up as much as the massive amount of rocking the raft endured as the polystyrene blocks bobbed up and down in the water. And then he saw it…