So there I was, hip deep in the tropical swamps of the upper Baboon’s Asshole, me and my mates Darryl, Hanna, Jorje and Sarsaparilla Goddzilla. We’d been sent to deliver a payment of diamonds and cocaine to some Moroccan gents who ran server farm out in the boonies, specialized in sending out email adverts for penis pills and shit like that.
The client was this French fuck, went by the name Mike Hunt which just shows you how sophisticated his sense of humor was. Made his fortune selling placentas laced with methadone to fast food chains. He was looking to expand his trade into internet spam and scams and us being a reputable firm were the bag men to seal the deal.
You need good mercs when you’re working in the Baboon’s Asshole. The place is bloody over run with all sorts of deplorable characters from the Anexian army and Islam Inc. operatives, to the bloody Tcho Tcho guerrillas. I swear the bastards can smell an ounce of coke and bloody mile off.
The Tcho Tcho were the big problem here, jump out from under the water with blowguns that’ll put you six feet under before you can blink. Seen people die from them, their faces go all green and they star babbling about their parents before they shit out their intestines and dissolve into a revolting paste which of course forms the basis of all Tcho Tcho cooking. Mind you, the stuff isn’t bad on crackers.
I was the point man on this op, dressed in drag of course. You see the Tcho Tcho have a rigidly binary way of looking at gender, so much so that they literally cannot process the concept of someone even being disguised as the sex they aren’t.
Thus we have the tactic of sending men out in dresses, wigs and make up so that when the Tcho Tcho jump out to ravage what they think is a comely young gash they instead find themselves staring down the ole meat and two veg, makes them freeze right up and then its all a matter of unloading on them.
Hanna had a thing where after wards she’d cut off their cock, had herself a right lovely necklace of them. Said the Tcho Tcho cocks were best for jewelry, because they wear too tough to make good eating. Lovely woman, shame about what happened to her in Interzone. Bloody liquifactionists.
So anyways we’d had things going pretty simple so far till we got to the server farm and found we’d been set right the fuck up. A whole fucking regiment of the bloody Anexian army was there, turns out good ole Mike was trying to get in tight with them so he fed them us and the Moroccan gents.
They only got me, I went in first to check it out. Fortunately I was able to use my sexual wiles and distract them. Sort of seduction sort of thing. Let me tell you that not one of those commy fucks was worth a damn in bed, I had to take on six or seven before I finally got off.
Like I said, me mates and I are a reputable firm, and part of that means you don’t leave your point man behind even if the dickless shits couldn’t bugger him proper with a fucking road map, and they come in to get my arse out and get them out of my arse.
God, it was bloody glorious. Saparilla coming in with her m60 like Rambo, shouting her bloody head off. I tell you, old Harry Godzilla married one fine woman, even if she is an avowed cannibal. Darryl and Jorje castrated Anexian’s left and right with their machetes and I joined in after Hanna tossed me hers.
Well fun is fun, but all we got out of the deal is the diamonds. Being reputable the only drugs we dealt in was pot and magic mushrooms, and of course there was the little matter of dealing proper with the French fuck. Gave him a lovely neck tie as a parting gift, the Colombian sort.