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In the field of journalism, one hears a lot of tall tales. There are people claiming to either have been abducted by extraterrestrials or are the beings themselves. Some insist they can see the future or the deceased. Many a young reporter has been burdened with chasing down, exposing, and generally suffering through these idiocies.

Unfortunately, some claims are far more grounded in the real world. The claims of persons who regularly eat rubber and drink gasoline have, sadly, been found completely true, both by this paper and its fellows across the nation.

One such "story" this reporter was required to examine was the tale of an eyewitness story of the most hopelessly mundane kind: a peeping Tom in the swamp.

I had taken the freeway out of the city and into the wild, my destination being just inside a swamp in northern Georgia. The man I was supposed to meet with was a human like myself, and ran a bait-and-tackle shop, which I found after a couple wrong turns. He was a large man, slightly stocky and in his early forties, with a short brown beard and a farmer's tan on his fair skin. He wore a mesh trucker's ball cap that was so faded it was hard for me to tell if it had once been red or not.

"Well, come on 'round the corner here an' I'll get us a cup'a Joe an' we'll talk, 'eh?" he says. He sounded like a lazier Larry the Cable Guy, but seemed friendly enough, and once we were seated at one of the tables on the side of the shop, an assistant minding the register, I began the "interview." I always carried my tape recorder when I was out of the office, it was such a habit, and I placed it on the table between us, letting it ingrain our every syllable.

"Mr. Burnham, you called my paper and requested an interview because you had discovered a voyeur in the area, one whom the authorities presumably did not know about?"

He nodded. "Yessa, tha's right."

"And do you know the identity of this person?"

A second nod.

"Who?"

He leaned forward, his eyes wide and bright and his smile almost proud. "Me, a'course!"

I wasn't sure how to react. Had I been lured into some kind of ambush confession? Being a peeping Tom was not a serious crime in most areas, so the idea of Burnham trying to expose himself as a master criminal prior to being arrested was ludicrous.

"I'm...not sure I understand why you say that."

He gestured. "Well, I think I am. Maybe I ain't, 'cus I wasn't doin' it on poirpose, but when I stumbled across them two gators, well..."

He trailed off, and I had the sinking feeling he did so in as suggestive a manner as possible. Tragically, I had to take the bait.

"'Gators'? You mean alligators?"

"Yessa, tha's right." He leaned in again, and began to tell his sordid experience in earnest detail.

"Y'see, I was gettin' back from seein' my good buddy Vernon when I heard this strange buncha noises. Now, I was in the swamp, which is noisy, an' I was in my little motorboat, which is noisy, so I figerred that whatever was makin' this here buncha noises musta been really goin' hard at it."

I nodded, feigning interest. Having been a journalist for over ten years, I could tell this would end up going only a few ways, and none of them particularly pretty.

"So I cuts the motor and start listenin', an' I hear this mix a'sounds, like someone's stickin' their arm in an' out of a mayonnaise jar, but there's also this really low hissin' sound, like 'Zzzzzzzz' or somethin' 'cus I could jus' make it out, see? But then I heard the growls."

"The growls?"

As I say this, I raise my eyebrow. It works, as Burnham becomes excited again, nodding and grinning like a complete nitwit.

"Yessa, tha's right! But there was two growls, not jus' one! So I pull out the little rubba oar I got with me, and I moved toward the sounds, and then I saw it." He paused dramatically, my prompt to again fake rapture. "Gator sex!"

Oh boy, alligators having sex. I swear, I didn't see this coming from five states away. No wonder this man had to talk to the press; this information could end up clearing the names of dozens of death row inmates.

But I still was required to pretend that I cared, and that through me others would be bowled over by this game-changing find. I blinked and let my mouth silently word disbelief, which Burnham eagerly lapped up.

"Yessa, tha's right! It was jus' the two of 'em, a guy an' a gal. He had her up agains' a tree, bent ova' an' all." He leaned in close for the next part. "An' he was fuckin' da shit outta her!" He sat back down and continued, thankfully. "Her tits was a swingin' an' her tail was twitchin' ova' his shoulder, an' her tongue was jus' hangin' out. She looked like her mind was about to drool right outta her mouth!"

"And the male?" I asked. Amazingly, he didn't notice my flat tone, apparently too wrapped up in the vividness of his erotic encounter.

Burnham began gesturing with his hands, twisting and squeezing motions. He clapped them to his chest as he spoke, for emphasis. "He was huge! Tall, maybe six-nine, an' his chest was jus' covered with muscles, like he spends all his time at the gym! The way he was pumpin' that big ol' cock a'his into her, y'all'd think he was fuckin' her jus' for fun...an' I think he was."

My stomach churning, I asked, "What makes you say that?"

"'Cus he was lookin' at me the whole time. He had this toothy grin on his face, like he knew that was what I wanted. He even paused at one point, lettin' his cockhead stay in her pussy an' makin' sure I was payin' close attention, takin' in all the details." He downed a mouthful of coffee before elaborating. "He jus' stopped, an' stared at me, our eyes meetin' an' lockin'. I thought we was doing that Vulcan mind meld from Star Trek, 'cus I could almost feel my mind an' his become one with gatory desire."

"You're saying he desired you sexually more than the female gator he was rutting with? That he communicated all this with his eyes?"

Burnham nodded slowly, his own eyes wide. "His bedroom eyes, an' his grunts."

Because of the way their vocal chords were formed, many anthros couldn't properly imitate a number of human languages. Some, such as parrots, could do fairly well, but otherwise all anthros were forced to use sign language to get themselves across.

Hopefully, his story was close to ending.

"What happened next?" I prompted.

"Well, after we have our passionate gaze moment, he jus' goes right back to fuckin' that gator-woman. Mind you, he keeps an eye on me as I'm rollin' along, an' I keeps an eye on him, but we don't say nothin' to each other. When I get back here, I got the creepy-crawlies all over me, like it was wrong of me to jus' let a hunka burnin' gator-love like that go." He sighed and shook his head. "I jus' don't know what I shoulda done."

I had to force myself not to openly weep tears of joy at the fact that I was almost a free man again.

"What do you think you'll do now?"

Burnham shook his head again. "All I can do is hope he's still out there, an' that I find him again, 'cus we ain't done, I can tell you that."

I thanked Mr. Burnham for his time and left, glad to be returning to actual civilization. I had thought that he would not make another blip on the radar for some time, if ever again, but the next night, as I was putting the finishing touches on this very piece, word broke that a man matching Burnham's description had been taken to a local hospital. Upon inquiring, I discovered he was being treated for bruises, various cuts (most likely from claws), and pronounced anal tearing. The nurse also let slip that the staff had collected a large amount of semen from his abused orifice, which the staff suspected to be from an alligator.

I would wager that he did indeed find his scaly paramour, and that they went much farther than erotic eyebatting.

[Editor's Note] - Dave, you need to fix the errors in this. It shouldn't be difficult for readers to understand, but your attempt to perfectly imitate the local dialect isn't helping any. You can also do yourself a favor by not coming across as the most antisocial man ever.

[Dave] - I'll fix a few of the words so it doesn't burn when it's read, but I'm not altering anything else. It isn't my fault the man's a complete idiot. Grow a pair, Roger.

[Roger] - We're a newspaper, not Hell's Kitchen. We do not abuse and deride our audience and subjects. Rewrite the article, because the way it is, you'll be fired before Editorial makes such a massive oversight as to allow this dreck to be published.

[Dave] - Your mother's face is a massive Editorial oversight.

[Roger] - Say hi to Frank when he shows up to escort you out of the building--unceremoniously, of course.

The End