It was at this point, soiled in shame by the pygmy tree, that our hero heard an odd sound for the jungle: bass. Beats thumping and dropping. Trebles and plucks. Falsettos and raps. A deep, throbbing pulse that, to his tastes, was actually quite annoying. Then another sound: laughter.

[I must investigate.] So he followed the bass and the polylaugh to a clearing near a hidden pond, where a tribe of Moderately Attractive Young Women, four in total, danced with violent abandon. Back in the city, he would never have the nerve to approach women even a quarter as attractive as these four, but his circumstances had changed. He had changed. These Young Women seemed familiar to him, and not dressed for life in the jungle whatsoever. [What happened?] the Young Man cried out. [Have you been here this whole time? Can you help me?]

As if on cue, the Young Women turned at once and disappeared into the jungle walls, rushing in four different directions. Begging that they wait, the Young Man picked one at random (the West Indian redhead with the orange-and-black striped dress and black leather heeled boots) and followed, dripping from his lower back cheeks as he ran, pushing through a pillar of waxy alocasia leaves — only to find no ground beneath his outstretched foot.

The Young Man’s weak body rolled down the hillside to a sun-drenched valley below, which he found bereft of heeled redheads. No bespectacled Northeast Africans either, nor tattooed South Asians or hoodie-wearing Polynesians. Only birds overhead, objecting to the commotion by causing some of their own. Our hero fainted into the sleep of ages.

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