CRASH SITE AMAZON P. 7

Nossa Senhora Das Orelhas is the best hospital in Sao Paulo. Benvolio’s room has a view of the city’s trademark sprawling squalor and the surgical instruments used in his operation were fairly clean. Benvolio is incompetent when it comes to simple tasks such as neutralizing murderous psychopaths but he still deserves to live and so it is with a heavy heart that I wait by his bedside and the adjacent nine miles that includes the Hotel da Grande Riqueza and my four-person whirlpool jacuzzi where I am currently composing this dispatch.

Chicago Dan, our Brasil expert, has spent every second since we arrived planning our route out of the city. The kidnapping rate in Sao Paulo is higher than the literacy rate in Norway. A recent survey by Sao Paulo Diário had only 5% of the city council with both natural ears. We had originally planned to land in the middle of the night at Praia do Estrume west of here and tie our supplies to the back of black market camels imported from Morocco for the 68 mile trek to an abandoned CIA landing strip where the up-armored humvees we will be taking to the Amazon would be airdropped at which point we would shoot the camels and feast all night on their delicious meat. This plan was abandoned when we received a Travelocity price alert for the Hotel da Granda Riqueza.

Chicago Dan had hired several dozen locals to run test routes through the city trying to find a path that was only lightly coated with gooey kidnappers. So far we’ve received ransom notes for 25 of them. The others are currently missing. I must admit it’s disconcerting but we’re not going anywhere without Benvolio and the recovery time for his punctured organ is expected to be covered by his HMO for 36 hours. So there’s time.

Oh, warm bubbly jets, I shall miss thee when I’m traipsing through the Amazon, trying to protect my genitals from the jaws of venomous snakes and my fingertips from those fish that jump out of the water, pausing only a second to snap off a bit of your digit. We had discussed bringing a jacuzzi with us but unfortunately it was deemed infeasible by the number crunchers. Those horse-ass-fucking pieces of cum-shit! They don’t know a single solitary thing about true adventuring.

There was an expedition led by my mentor, Professor Alastair MacNolte, deep into the highest plains of the Himalayas. We encountered a tribe known as the Sforzo. The Sforzo are a hard-weathered people living in conditions most snow leopards would find intolerable. Conditions are so harsh when a new baby is born its mother is beheaded and her womb is opened and the baby reinserted for warmth. The difficult living conditions had made the Sforzo incredibly tense and they were weary of outsiders. Also, we had just stolen and desecrated one of their gods, an ice sculpture that vaguely resembles Heat Miser (ironically). Our entire crew including Prof. MacNolte and myself would have been mercilessly ground to dust in a gigantic mortar & pestle had it not been for the fact that among our affects was a five-man jacuzzi with eleven independently firing jets and seven comfort settings. Once they had relaxed we were able to explain the importance of our mission through their territory and were able to move on without incident. The elephant-anus-while-defecating accountants never believe that story. Oh, by the way, it was Christmas Day.

God bless us, everyone.





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