Deep in the teeming urban jungle that is New Orleans lives an elusive, yet oddly compelling mammal. Scientifically known as M. Trenticus Reznorus, or alternatively Reznorus vulgaris (depending on whose work you read), the Feral Reznor has proven to be a difficult subject for any dedicated researcher. Field work on this chameleon-like mammal has been nearly non-existent. Frustrated, many scholars of R. vulgaris give up and rely on such fact-based materials as the Weekly World News and Vanity Fair to support their hypotheses. Only the most hardy of individuals dare to enter the seething jungle lands of the Big Easy to locate the reticent creature.
Such expeditions are difficult to undertake, much less fund. When Dr. Robin C. Moore and I agreed to this particular challenge, we had no idea what we were in for, and neither did the National Geographic Society, I suspect. Armed with our travel vouchers, binoculars, and Dr. Moore's ubiquitous Nikon, we advanced into the wonderful world of travel outfitting. Once suitably attired in our jaunty khakis and brand new pith helmets, all courtesy of Banana Republic, we ventured south. As we stepped onto the tarmac at The New Orleans International Airport, I began to feel an excitement I had not felt before. I knew then exactly what my ancestor, Dr. David Livingston, felt as he embarked upon his journey into Africa. That, and I had the faintly queasy feeling that the mystery meat dish served aboard the airplane was not breast of turkey but fanny of turkey vulture.
Our native guide, an elderly professor of anthropology at Tulane by the name of Dr. Augustus Crane, greeted us at the baggage claim area. He escorted us to a waiting car whose upholstery had a scent reminiscent of the underbelly of a rhinoceros. The journey to our campsite was swift. The spring flooding of the Mississippi delta had not yet ceased, and we were advised to pitch our tents on high ground, a task which proved to be futile. Another task which proved futile was the never-ending battle with mosquitoes. This nightly invasion had me wishing I had brought my house gecko along. Our native guide, while he had a disturbing tendency to think he was Marlin Perkins (and would keep repeating "Mutual of Omaha!" at the most inconvenient times), had actually kept a record of all sightings of the Feral Reznor.
Using his information, we learned that the parkland where we were now residing was a favorite haunt of the Feral Reznor. Gathering our resources, namely monetary, we set off in search of a local grocery. There we intended to procure items from the known list of victuals the Feral Reznor preferred. We decided that our best course of action was to set out a variety of items in hopes that the Reznor would become hungry, if lurking nearby, and investigate our offerings. Armed with packages of ramen, jars of peanut butter, several types of gum, and tequila, we picked a small clearing in which to set up. Behind the nearest stand of trees, we constructed a blind in which to photograph the Feral Reznor. Dr. Moore also created some of her well-known hypnotic brownies in which to sedate the creature for tagging.
The Feral Reznor is a curious beast. Some of its habits are well known, such as peculiar migratory routes and a proclivity toward intoxicated mating rituals, the dissatisfaction in which is reflected in the frenzied warblings of its mating calls. We had received copies of these vocalizations from several individuals, who in the interest of the preservation of this unique species had recorded them along the Feral Reznor's meandering migratory path. The genus or family Reznorus were originally bred in captivity but presented an ethical dilemma to researchers. Clearly freedom-loving mammals, they became depressed and apathetic when confined. A small group was released into the wild in the late 1950s into the region around Mercer, Pennsylvania. This test group seemed to fair better outside of confinement. A female, sister to this male we now study, has reproduced and is now raising her own brood.
However, the male's behavior continues to baffle us. He is not confined, yet shows continued signs of depression and apathy. This researcher suspects that this lone male possesses a genetic memory of those Reznors that were once in captivity. For reasons not even he may understand, he longs to return to the safety of a confinement facility. This theory is based on the Feral Reznor's intriguing adornment of himself in various fetish materials, some of which I also suspect contain a spiritual significance. For this reason, I have recommended to the Academy of Naturalistic Research and Croquet that this male be classified as an endangered species and protected from poachers at all costs.
Our clearing had a nice rock on which to place our assorted goodies. We then settled back into our lawn chairs to wait. Dr. Crane had brought along his pet parrot, an annoying and flatulent fowl if there ever was one. Every ten minutes or so, the parrot would shake its head and screech, "Who's a fool! You're a fool!" at the top of its lungs. When I asked Dr. Crane where he had gotten the wretched creature he replied that a Madame Dupasse, a Voudoun Mambo, had given it to him for luck. I suspect she had intended to curse him, but said nothing, so as not to hurt his feelings. The first couple of days passed like this. We kicked back in our lawnchairs and drank the Budweiser we had originally intended to use as Reznor bait. We told a lot of stories, and we got very bored. On the evening of the third day I wandered off to the casinos, intent on raising more funds for the expedition so we could purchase more mosquito repellent. I returned to camp in a torrential downpour.
That night was certainly the most horrific of my life. I awoke about four in the morning with water seeping in on my face and Dr. Moore screaming incoherently at me. At first, I thought she may have eaten too many brownies and was suffering through some sort of sugar intolerance. However, this was not the case. Apparently, something had poked her in the back from outside the tent. Fearing predators, we crept outside to investigate. The rain had let up to a merely annoying drizzle by this time. I was armed with my trusty beanflip, and Dr. Moore carried her camera tripod. I investigated one side of the tent and found nothing. Dr. Moore, however, found what had disturbed her slumber. It was about five feet in length, and it hissed.
She, of course, did the most logical thing when confronted by a testy Cayman. She screamed "FORE!" and teed off on the poor toothy beast with her tripod. The Cayman sailed down St. Charles Avenue and landed in an uncovered sewer outlet. I congratulated Dr. Moore on her hole in one. We went to the outlet, found the hole cover, and carefully placed it over the outlet, just in case. The rest of the night was spent rather sleeplessly, as we tried to figure out what sort of merit badge you could receive for treating a member of the alligator family as a golf ball. We figured this must certainly qualify for something -- after all, I had gotten one for poking a wild coyote in the nose, and a fellow researcher had gotten one for taking a whiz on a live rattlesnake. Eventually, we dozed off.
The next day, I was out scrounging for firewood when I came across a distinctive track in the mud. The print was of a combat shoe, roughly about a size eight. Uncertain if this was a Feral Reznor print, I followed the tracks into a nearby copse of trees. There, under some bushes, I found a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I picked up the sandwich and examined it. The peanut butter was creamy. Excited, I ran back to camp and informed Dr. Moore that the Feral Reznor was somewhere nearby. We scurried to our blind, and discovered that the Reznor had found our little gifts and was cheerfully chomping on the brownies and slugging the tequila. We waited. The Reznor investigated the rest of our offerings, gave the Reese's an experimental sniff, and popped them into his mouth. The Reznor gave no sign of being the least bit sleepy, so Dr. Moore loaded her tranquilizer gun and shot him in the fanny with one of the darts. After mumbling, "Fuck! That must have been a superhuge mosquito," the Reznor curled up and promptly went to sleep. (My goodness, how it can snore!)
We were out of the blind in seconds. I weighed him and checked the condition of his teeth (not a great many fillings, unusual for a creature that lives on a steady diet of junk food), pelt (dyed and quite dry, could use a good hot oil treatment), and earwax (nominal). Dr. Moore measured our specimen. Expertly, she measured the length of his fingers and beak. The purpose of making so many measurements is twofold. The process 1) allows us to chart the general health of R. vulgaris and 2) provides data for our postulation that one can never have too many references. We tagged the Reznor with a small radio earcuff so that we could monitor his movements once he woke up.
Several hours later, we found ourselves traipsing through the steamy underbelly of the French Quarter, radio gear in hand. Through a sophisticated satellite tracking system, we were able to follow the Reznor from seedy bars and strip clubs to candlelit recording studios with no problems. Somehow, in the midst of this merry chase, we lost Dr. Crane. The last we saw of him, he was dancing with a five foot polar bear who was apparently a refugee from Mardi Gras. The Reznor's meanderings were just as confused as its migratory route. We followed as it staggered drunkenly back to its den.
The cave of the Feral Reznor resembles the nest of the notorious bower bird. While the bower bird may decorate in a specific color to attract a mate, usually blue, we noted that the Feral Reznor seemed to prefer the color green. We were also startled by the appearance of the short-plumed Vrenna. The Vrenna apparently cohabited with the Feral Reznor in a symbiotic relationship. We recommend that more research be done on the short-plumed Vrenna, as this unusual relationship is somewhat outside the scope of this study. We watched from a neighboring tree as the faithful Vrenna stalked and killed a Supreme Pizza and, with predatory grace, brought a portion of it to the Feral Reznor. The Reznor seemed distracted and merely gnawed at the pizza, absently muttering to himself. The Vrenna paid no attention to this and consumed the majority of the pizza with gusto.
When darkness fell, we continued our vigil with nightscope goggles, provided by our colleague, Dr. William Brown (of the Kotaro Institute for Television and Explosives, K.I.T.E. for short). To amuse ourselves, Dr. Moore and I debated the existence of raptor genomes within the Reznor's genetic structure. The creature demonstrates both avian and mammalian characteristics, leading us to conclude that it is very possible a later member of the velociraptor species must have crossbred with members of a family of Tasmanian Devils, and so produced the fossil record of Australopithecus Reznorus (aptly named since no other fossils of this particular kind have been found outside of the Australian Outback).
How members of the Reznor species came to live in the wilds of the North American Continent is a mystery. A current theory suggests that Australopithecus Reznorus may have been established as a community as far north as the Siberian peninsula, and that the Reznorus migrated to North America after the last ice age, via the Alaskan land bridge. Another, more unique theory suggests that aliens from a region in Canis Minor beamed the Reznorus ancientus to the continent. We hotly debated the validity of these arguments for some time. So distracted, we nearly fell out of the tree and almost missed the Reznor's exodus from his domicile.
We quickly regrouped and prepared to follow, but the Reznor apparently decided not to go anywhere. Instead, it wandered into its garden and plonked itself down on a patch of petunias. In the moonlight it seemed forlorn and quite pitiful. I had to restrain Dr. Moore, else she would have cuddled it to death. Instead, we approached carefully and hid under a stand of bougainvillea. I thought the creature had gone to sleep again, so I tiptoed over to it to make sure it was no worse for its exertions of the day. Instead, it rolled over, blinked, and stared at me. The Reznor said quite clearly, "Dr. Livingston, I presume?" It laughed at its puerile joke, then passed out face down into the petunias.
I knew then it was time to go home.