Burt rechecked the bindings. The
only thing worse than an improperly waxed crocodile was losing footing mid-slalom.
The bell sounded. Burt launched
himself forward. His crocodile grinned
as ice chips and powdery snow sheared from its scales, stinging Burt’s face.
Flags passed in a blur. Burt
couldn’t remember how far he’d come; there was only the present: the slope, the
ice, and the crocodile.
He barely realized he had come to a halt until he heard the murmurs of
the crowd.
Murmurs? Not cheers?
He saw his time and gasped. A
personal best. Maybe a record!
Why were they so quiet?
The judge approached, grim-faced.
“Disqualified,” he rumbled. He
pointed down. Burt’s croc gazed at him,
reptilian eyes hooded and impassive.
“That,” said the judge, “is an alligator.”
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