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• 

  Mauser_ says:

  "(An excerpt, found by the publisher. Whereabouts of author unknown.)
  
  "... I didn't hear from (Travis) for another three years. Understandable. After the falling out with the Hoxa brothers, things were way too hot to be hanging around Tirana, and besides, the market was oversaturated with cheap (Nikon) replicas. Cost benefit analysis was a no-brainer. Time to move on.
  
  When I finally did hear from (Travis), it was true to form: completely out of the blue. Desperate, perverse. Yet strangely beguiling.
  
  When the message came, I was busy skimming through pages of "marketing copy" - ("Greetings, my most esteemed colleague. I am Dr. Richard Mbutai Seki-Seki, branch manager of Barclays bank, Western Ghana...") it was always the same from my guys. They were creative as an AirChef sandwich, but they were workhorses.
  
  The Western Union delivery boy had slipped past the zhang drinking guards at the door and already helped himself to a handful of freshly pressed and coded Home Depot gift cards. This boy was clearly becoming a bit too familiar for my liking.
  
  "Mister Travus ben get eh GOOD ting going, eh boss?" I deftly sliced the top off the envelope with a 23" titanium brush blade, while shooting a glare at the barefoot lad that let him know quite assuredly that I wouldn't hesitate to... Well, nevermind that.
  
  "DEAR COLLEAGUE STOP HAVE BUSINESS OPPORTUNITY STOP NEED S AGNEW TO MY RM NIXON STOP BRING BUG REPELLANT...
  
  Needless to say, within a week, my 419 shop was... liquidated, and I was on a slow boat to the Amazon. Container ship really is the only way to travel. Especially when you're wanted by Albanians, Kazhaks, Tadjiks, and those Salafist bastards.
  
  After a week of hacking, I finally get to the coordinates that were so generously included in the telegram, and I find... Nothing. Jungle. Disgusted, I chuck the GPS into the underbrush.
  
  Clink.
  
  This was something... I lift up the underhanging branches and find that my discarded nav unit deftly found its mark... A discarded but highly customized Commodore Amiga. This couldn't be coincidence. I pull the machine up out of the muck, and...
  
  It was a full two days till one of his lackeys arrived to cut me out of the jaguar trap. He was a bowl cutted, disk-lipped monkey hunter, 4 feet tall, clad only in a pair of Tevas and a strategically placed tubesock. He carried machete and blowgun. He wore an amulet around his neck on a thin monkeygut cord. It was an eye. A red eye. An all-seeing red eye.
  
  It was another half day hike to the camp, but along the way, I pieced together some facts, courtesy of my monkey hunting guide, jKurkhi. By Jove, (Travis) had set himself up as some kind of God-King among these people, and rebuilt his empire, just as he had done among those Yurt-dwelling yak eaters in Mongolia. Leveraging his post-doctoral anthropology work, he placed himself among a tribe where his magnificent physical description alone was a world-beating asset: He fit to a tee the description of the Lhe tsuruss Zloeng, a sort of legendary warrior-priest-poet-king who would,according to legend, return to save the forest from the devouring beasts and bring peace to the h'Wlai-pyu.
  
  The prophecy was fulfilled easily enough. A nocturnally added cup of sugar to each tractor gas tank saved the jungle from the devouring beasts (and drove up Big Mac prices stateside by $.50). Ethernet Halo III tournaments and airlifted crates of Okie joy juice were enough to pacify the populace. Native army and harem at hand, (Travis) was ready to get to business.
  
  Apparently, that's where I came in...""

  10th August, 2007

Joined:

October 2004

Hometown:

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

Occupation:

Pilot

Website:

http://www.travischurch.net