A red ant raced by the amphibian. The toad peered as it passed, but elected not to try to trap the ant who seemed not to note the toad. Sensing the toad's impotence, the ant dismissed it as a scrap of landscape and continued on its own smaller-scale search for sustenance.
The campfire still smoldered not ten strides from the toad. A trail in the loose dirt, resembling one which a lagging frog leg might leave, led linearly from the fire to the toad with only intermittent interruptions indicating where the wounded animal had achieved the air. Laughter could be heard in the distance just before a motor boat engine drowned it out. The amphibian suffered a series of quick vaults after the laughter launched and stopped only after the laughter lulled. Spent, it achieved the brush with awful effort. The red ant had disappeared, its trifling tracks paralleling the toad's in a diametric direction. A lick of flame flicked out and consumed the ant.
The motor boat was now in the middle of the lake, its nine occupants still chuckling drunkenly. A trail of beer cans followed in the boat's wake with only intermittent interruptions where the people had pulled their ring tabs and giggled at the spray, not knowing if it was water or beer. The helmsman dragged his right hand in the water ridding it of the toad smell. The occupants laughed at his action remarking at his cleverness and fearlessness, and how he always stoked the party even if at the expense of a frog leg.
A detachment of ducks took to the air as the boat flashed by. The wake had suddenly taken a sharp swerve in their direction. The occupants roared with laughter and shouted their better-luck-next-times and told the helmsman that he was much better with toads than ducks. He shrugged it off spotting another group directly ahead. Moments later, the wake carried a stream of feathers in its center resembling those in the helmsman's wife's hat from Paris. The laughter rose to a roar.
Two of the boat's group were putting on skis with one hand and drinking with the other. The boat slowed to a stop as the two splashed into the muddy water and grinned with one arm held straight up to keep their beer cans dry. The ropes were loosely fastened, and the boat dug into the water as more laughter mingled with some ooh's and ah's.
The two skiers were up, each on one ski, each using one hand, each drinking one beer. The pair staggered across the water crossing each other's wake, giggling as they did.
When the ropes tangled, the skiers were thrown into each other. The impact, combined with the effects of the beer, rendered the pair helpless. By the time the helmsman realized what had happened and had turned the boat around, the skiers were submerged, out of sight.
Darkness was near as the boats cruised the lake, some in straight lines, some in circles, some in ellipses, and some stopped or bobbing in the wakes of others. The stream of beer cans was obvious to the searchers. Most were floating on their sides: two were floating top up, half submerged in the water, as if still containing some of the urine-colored liquid.
The occupants of the party, save the helmsman, were grouped on the opposite shore. The police had stowed the helmsman in their backseat for questioning, but all he did was hold his head in his hands with his elbows supported by his knees. None of the group was laughing; in fact, most were crying, even the helmsman with the lingering smell of toad on his right hand.
Across the lake, the toad struggled out of the brush toward the now dead campfire. He paralleled his own trail and the path of the red ant until he reached the edge of the circle of charred logs. His leg dragged behind, lifeless. His tongue darted out and scooped in the burnt body of the red ant. He no longer could be choosy about his diet. Instinctively adjusting to his handicap, he turned and retraced his tracks into the brush.
"Give them pleasure - the same pleasure they havewhen they wake up from a nightmare."
ALFRED HITCHCOCK
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