CRASH SITE AMAZON P. 1

In my first memoir: Deepest Depth of a Dark Dragon Called Adventure I described adventuring thusly:

The true adventurer is the man who eschews all respect for man and beast, for decency and morality, for intellect and truth. The true adventurer travels and subdues for one reason and only one reason – the adventure itself.

I stole this quote from a man I knew and had the pleasure of traveling with – Horace P. Trumbull. A true intrepid spirit, he inspired me up to the moment his corpse was ript apart by a pack of uncouth Omilia Panthers in the darkest region of Bolivia. Almost every word of the memoir is in one way or another directly plagiarized from things Trumbull said, thought or published in the years I knew him. The book is currently out of print because of an unrelated legal dispute with the royal family of Uruguay.

My plane had just touched down at Heathrow when I received word from the home office that the expedition to the Amazon had been cleared by the relevant governmental agencies. All that was left was my insurance physical. On my last voyage I was stabbed through the chest by the snout of a swordshark in the Crystal Waters off the coast of Madagascar. The scaly sword passed through my body just south of my heart, collapsed a lung but missed my major organs. (Unless the lung can be considered a major organ and I hope, based on my years of Peyote endulgance that isn't the case.) The worst part was the thrashing, my body like an olive at the end of a toothpick being carelessly flailed by an older drunk woman wearing too much lipstick. Luckily I was able to strangle the shark into submission with my vice-like grip. But it definitely called into question the cost of insurance for my next trip. I needed a solid gold bill of health or Bernstein, Goldman & Juex would not allow me to venture deep into the moistest jungles of the Amazon.

Dr. Klem Von Rogula is my favorite doctor in the Kingdom. His offices are in an 400-year-old castle south of Holtonshire on the top of rolling green hills fully roamed with livestock. His man-servant, Whol, welcomed me and my assistant, Penelope Atwood, at the draw-bridge. Whol is a 24 year old Dr. Rogula rescued from an orphanage in southern Prussia that was set aflame by an angry mob of anti-orphan protesters. Whol was badly burnt and crushed in the collapse of the building. Dr. Rogula has been slowly and carefully replacing the boy's charred and gristled flesh with soft, vibrant skin. He had already finished half the face, most of the left arm and the right foot. His beautifully pedicured toes poked out from his designer sandal. His other foot was in a heavy black boot.

Whol showed us into the stone great hall. It was a long drive from London and we were very hungry so before my physical we had a succulent feast prepared by Chuczink, Dr. Rogula's personal chef and a former Serbian body-builder. As we ate Chuczink and Whol crouched at Dr. Rogula's feet. He fed them from hand like masculine, obedient birds.

After dinner Dr. Rogula examined me extremely thoroughly. He films every examination for his archives. I have to admit there were moments of pain and discomfort but it's always worth a sacrifice to maintain a high standard of physical well-being. With my clean bill of health in Ms. Atwood's brief-case we declined Dr. Rogula's generous offer of staying the night at the castle and started down the twisting road back to civilisation. In the night the haunting cries of the nocturnal cows almost sounded like human moans of pain.