6 The gift
Two days in the hands of a vengeful son. Then handed over to an old enemy. To avenge Tarzan’s so-called crimes. A public act of execution. Before the whole tribe. Undoubtedly not something to hang around for.
And Tarzan didn’t intend to. Two days to manage his escape. The vengeful son squeezing every inch of pain out of Tarzan’s being. Others had tried, most had failed.
He’d slip up, this show-off. He’d over-reach himself. This vain strutting young man, high-and-mighty, his head full of his own self-importance. He’d make a mistake. Tarzan was counting on it.
That was what it took. Beat the vain peacock at his own game. That was Tarzan’s goal. Wait it out. Tough it out. Take everything thrown at him. It’d come, his chance. This vain muscle-head would trip himself up. His conceit would undermine him, this big-headed muscle-hunk. He’d over-reach himself. Tarzan had to keep himself ready for that. Keep himself fight-ready. Body and mind constantly primed.
The prick would slip up. Then he’d strike. Then Tarzan would hit out. Attack .. fast as a snake. Hit back .. vicious as a panther’s claws. Explode .. hard as a maddened great ape. That strutting peacock .. that vain-glorious muscle-head .. so full of himself .. puffed-up .. so proud of how eye-catching he looked .. how manly ….. He’d not know what hit him.