━━ ⬩ JUNGLE HEAT: CHAPTER 1 ⬩ ━━
A subtropical melodrama — crafted by artificial intelligence,
then made worse by genuine stupidity
THE JUNGLE ✦ THE ROARING 20s
WHERE THE UNDERWORLD MEETS THE ELITE
AND WHERE ELEGANCE MEETS ABSURDITY
It was the summer of 1926, and the Jungle Country Club buzzed with more than just mosquitoes and mis-hit tee shots. Every veranda whispered with rumor. A visitor had arrived — a Mrs. Eleanor Bellamy — widowed, well-heeled, and far too glamorous for a place like Park Street.
She claimed to have come from Palm Beach, but Mrs. Vandermelon swore she’d seen her boarding a train from Jacksonville — under a different name. And why did Eleanor keep disappearing into the old maintenance shed near the creek with that leather-bound notebook clutched to her chest?
Meanwhile, young caddy Tommy Doyle found a loose brick behind the pro shop and — underneath — a flask, a faded photo of Babe Ruth, and a folded note that simply read: “He never made the shot. It’s still out there.”
Was it about the legendary drive Ruth was said to have hit clear across the bay? Or something more sinister?
That night, Eleanor Bellamy was seen standing alone by the old 8th hole fountain, lighting a cigarette, her hands shaking.
The next morning, the head groundskeeper was missing.
Over a crackling radio, a baritone voice declares:
Who was it that gave the order to dig under the old fountain?
Why are Capone's henchmen guests at the hotel?
What happened to the groundskeeper?
And… what about Naomi?
For the answer to these and other questions, tune in next month for
Chapter 2: "The Little Old Lemur from Pasadena"
Don’t touch that dial! The drama returns next month…
━━ ⬩ JUNGLE HEAT: CHAPTER 2 ⬩ ━━
A subtropical melodrama — crafted by artificial intelligence,
then made worse by genuine stupidity
THE JUNGLE COUNTRY CLUB ✦ THE ROARING 20s
WHERE THE UNDERWORLD MEETS THE ELITE
AND WHERE ELEGANCE MEETS ABSURDITY
Chapter 2: The Little Old Lemur from Pasadena
The summer sun hung thick over the Jungle Country Club, baking the tennis courts and igniting tempers. Tempers, and something else.
On the croquet lawn, Mrs. Vandermelon fainted — not from heat, but from shock. A ring-tailed lemur had just scurried past her wearing what appeared to be… a monocle. Was he a fugitive from Monkey Island, just a few miles south in Pasadena?
Room 302 was no longer available for guests — not since the morning the sign appeared on the door. Printed on thick, off-white cardstock and taped just slightly crooked, it read:
THIS ROOM IS PART OF AN ONGOING INVESTIGATION
Access prohibited.
No one knew who authorized the sign. But everyone had a theory.
Miss Cordelia Thorne, self-proclaimed mezzo-soprano and traveling revivalist, arrived wearing a white cloche hat and humming “Nearer, My God, to Thee” slightly off-key. She set up a temporary chapel in the east ballroom and preached nightly to polite but increasingly tipsy crowds. Her sermons were brief, her parables confusing, and her punchbowl suspiciously strong. She often misquoted scripture, once insisting that “For Everything There Is a Season… Especially Shrimp Cocktail.”
Hotel staff complained of headaches. A bellhop reported seeing double. Miss Thorne called it a spiritual awakening.
Guests whispered that the bootleg gin Cordelia was serving came from the same batch that had sickened Babe Ruth during spring training the year before — the infamous “bellyache heard ’round the world” that landed him in the hospital and sidelined him for much of the 1925 Yankee season.
Suddenly that deep baritone voice that comes from out of nowhere to end each chapter declares:
Who replaced the communion wine with vermouth?
Why was Room 302 never cleaned after the guests checked out?
What happened to the groundskeeper’s bicycle?
And… what about Naomi?
For the answer to these and other questions, tune in next month for
Chapter 3: Let There Be Light… Appetizers.
