Tenga Trouble: The Croc Hunter’s Revenge
A Short Tale of Feathers, Fury, and Full Throttle
When the Tenga Warriors prank the legendary Croc Hunter, things spiral into chaos faster than a Suzuki Hayabusa at full throttle. In this high-octane short story inspired by Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, two feathered troublemakers find themselves in a wild chase through city streets—hotly pursued by an angry, juice-covered crocodile with a score to settle. Packed with comedy, action, and a whole lot of flying fruit, this is one ride you won’t forget.
No one remembered who started the prank war. But everyone remembered who ended it.
The Tenga brothers—Zakk and Jett—were known in the darker corners of Rita Repulsa’s domain as aerial menaces, feathered chaos incarnate. One rode a sleek Suzuki Hayabusa, painted silver and sharp as a blade. The other tore down roads on a black GSXR 1000, wings flared and laughter trailing behind like exhaust.
Last week’s target? A grumpy old legend who lived out in the swamp with a warning sign that simply read: “Don’t.”
They should’ve listened.
They didn’t.
Instead, they zip-tied fake snakes to his hammock, swapped his bug repellent for super glue, and replaced all his mosquito netting with cheesecloth. Then they left a rubber duck in his swamp boot—because of course they did.
Today?
Today, they were running for their tailfeathers.
“HE’S GAINING ON US!” screeched Zakk, glancing back with wide eyes, feathers puffed and panic rising. His talons squeezed the GSXR’s throttle like it owed him rent.
“WORTH IT!” Jett hollered over the roar of his Hayabusa, doubling over with laughter as he weaved between potholes. “THE LOOK ON HIS FACE WHEN HE SAT IN THAT GLUE—AAAH! LEGENDARY!”
Behind them, stomping down the cracked concrete like a scaly freight train, came the Croc Hunter. Seven feet of cold-blooded vengeance in a shredded vest and denim that had seen better centuries. His jaws snapped open in fury—or was it joy? Hard to tell with crocs.
“I’M GONNA MAKE BOOTS OUTTA YOU BIRD BRAINS!” he bellowed, each step cracking the pavement.
“BOOTS?!” Zakk squawked. “You’re not even WEARING shoes!”
“I WILL BE WHEN I’M DONE!”
A trash can flew past them. Then a mailbox. Then what might’ve been part of a canoe.
They tore around a corner just as the Croc lunged—missed—and plowed headfirst into a corner produce cart with a glorious SPLAT, sending fruit, crates, and one very angry banana vendor flying.
“Whew,” Zakk panted. “That’ll buy us time.”
“Yeah,” Jett grinned, “until he eats his way out.”
For half a second, there was silence.
Then—
A guttural roar shattered the calm.
The fruit stand exploded.
Out came the Croc—dripping in mango pulp, apple bits plastered to his snout, and wearing a half-smashed watermelon like a battle helmet. Orange juice oozed from his vest. A lone kiwi clung to one nostril.
His eyes? Pure, fruit-sticky murder.
“…He just did, didn’t he.”
“YUP.”
The Tengas exchanged a single glance.
“Next time,” Zakk gasped, “let’s prank Goldar.”
“Deal!”
And with a final burst of throttle and panicked laughter, they disappeared into the city streets—feathers ruffled, hearts racing, and the unmistakable sound of one very angry, juice-covered crocodile echoing behind them.
The Croc shook fruit from his eyes, cracked his knuckles, and bellowed after them:“GUESS WHO’S LEARNING TO RIDE A MOTORCYCLE TONIGHT?!”
– Copyright © 2025
