Stinky Salvation
I went trekking in the Guatamalan rainforest during my gap-year. All I took with me was my wallett, passport, a swiss-army-knife and a few pictures of Fern Britton posing nude.

It may be thought that I was a little ill-prepared. This was, however, not the case at all. Secreted in the waistband of my underpants, was my last resort. My one wild-card, to be used only if I became stuck in a life or death situation. A phone number. Now, this number wasn't for my mum, it wasn't for the British Embassy, it wasn't even for the local police. The number was for the emergency service that the emergency services call when they're totally fucked.

G.R.A.-S.S. - The Geordie Retrieval Allies - Smokin' Squadron.
These lads are very secretive. Known to only a handful of people across the globe, they are able to do things and go places that no other humans can achieve. I was fortunate to be considered a 'friend-of-a-friend'.

My shit storm started when I angered some tribal natives by seducing their villages most prized virgin. Minjee Chowdown, she was called. She had a sweet arse and a cracking pair of tits (although floppy from the typical bra-less state of tribal ladies). I didn't really suss their lingo, but i got the impression that their witch doctor was going to use every trick up his sleeve to separate me from my testicles. I ran through the jungle for 3 days until I found a road, then another 8 hours until I got to a phone. I pleasured a smelly gashed shopkeeper for a few coins and made my call to 'G.R.A.-S.S.'

I could taste the relief (among the aftertaste of smelly gash) when I was informed that Howway Hinny was in my area on a surveillance job and would pick me up that same day. The wait was tense, especially toward the end when Howway was approaching from one end of the street and the angry tribe advanced from the other while performing some sort of ritual.

When only 50 yards or so separated the two deadly forces, a native catapulted something toward Howway. It left a trail of strange wispy green vapour as it streaked toward its target. Howway didn't even flinch as the object hit and spattered across his torso. I did more than flinch as the weapons effect revealed itself. Howway stunk like a pair of curtains dipped into stagnant pondwater weekly and hung to dry in a YMCA bathroom in between dunkings.

Howway gave a few of those local lads a slap, gave me a telling-off, and seen me safely to the airport. The only payment or thanks he would accept for his life-saving heroic stink-shield actions were the naked piccies of Fern Britton.


I gladly surrendered them to my MUSTY RESCUERS' POSSESSION.
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Thu 15 May 2008, 15:08, Reply)