When Furious Winston had been a little ape his Father had taken him foraging in the black and eerie cloud forest valleys below their home. The two of them had tramped through the seeping thickets of thorned and flowering undercanopy, searching for the husked delicacies that grew hidden amongst the starving trees. He had seen centipedes as long as snakes and beetles as big as rats. The leaves of every plant drooping, sick with the shade, branches reaching down to grasp at his sleeves and beg for help. Birds in the tallest almendros spying on Little Winston, thinking about carrying him away. When the flood clouds gathered the forest got so dark they may as well have been underground. They hunted in the pouring, blackness. The creeping scent they followed washing in and out with the rain. His father explained to him that delicacies don’t grow in the sun. That there is an earned sweetness in the struggle, a magic of the despicable hunt.