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Pastimes : Don't Ask Rambi -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Rambi who wrote (8444)	3/3/1998 6:23:00 PM
From: Jacques Chitte	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 71178

As Bub felt the forest thicken around him, he felt an unfamiliar pinch in his harness. he reached into his vest and hauled out the RPG Rambi had given him. It was a bit too much to carry for long distances, and the Pearl White gloss paint with cursive lavender lettering might raise the odd eyebrow at any half-decent weapons bazaar. Inspired, Bub went back to the edge of the airfield. There, a few of Juan's goons were desultorily doing mouth-to-beak on the quite thoroughly dead thunderchicken. Three women were emerging from the Casa's portico: Angina something, Eeemelda and Rambi. All were holding weapons at the ready, except Angie, who was looking at her ivory-stocked Combat Masterpiece .38 with some doubts. Bub removed the safeties from his weapon. He let the sights drift over the house, the shed, and the strange aircraft behind the house. None were his intended target. At the end of the airstrip, the sole airworthy DC-3 nestled next to the pair of patchwork MiG-15s that had drizzled his hair with ersatz poultry-based hydraulic fluid. He centered the larger plane in the sights and slapped the trigger. The rocket whooshed across the open space, startling the women. Rambi and Eeemelda hit the deck without wasting a second. Angie didn't bother moving, looked bored and flicked an obscene gesture in Bub's general direction. The grenade connected with the DC-3. It tore apart with a satisfying whoomph. Burning fuel ran under the two MiGs, and flames slowly licked uo the landing gear. A heavy cloud of smoke rolled across the clearing. It smelled of diesel and McNuggets. Thw two women picked themselves up and began removing mud from their torsos with obvious disgust. Bub grinned to himself, dropped the spent launcher tube and trotted off into the swamp.

To: Rambi who wrote (8444)	3/4/1998 7:09:00 PM
From: Thomas C. White	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 71178

The scene: an ampitheater hewn from the muddy red-brown jungle floor of Paratour. Growing darkness. The locals parade in steadily, carrying pitch torches, howling for blood and sport. Itinerant vendors work the crowd, passing out potent sugar cane potion and footlong leeches in hot dog buns. Three village maidens in homespun cheerleader outfits and enormous red rooster comb hats practice their cheerleading routines. The pyramid attempt is something of a failure. A roar from the bloodthirsty crowd builds to deafening crescendo from the bleachers as the solemn procession works its way into the clearing. Behind the foremost banners and great drums of the procession staggers the pitiable figure of one grizzled, drooling, incoherent prospector dressed in the resplendent white and gold raiment and distinctive cap of a Granada toreador, but with the head of what appears to be a Rhode Island Red emblazoned on the breast. The hapless and unwilling celebrity is simultaneously supported and restrained from flight by two particularly burly men of Paratour. In the box seat glowers the infamous cocaine merchant from Medellin. Having now actually seen the prospective cluckeador, he is frenziedly attempting to retract his many side bets, knowing he stands to lose a considerable sum on the wagers he placed at long odds on the fellow, who appears to be incapable of even deboning the legendary Sumo chicken's diminutive domesticated cousins, never mind taking out a three hundred pound chicken trained by the instinct of ages to unerringly seek the jugular. Suddenly, as if by the telepathic commandment of a malevolent jungle god, the crowd grows hushed. A great rustling and breaking of branches can be heard at the side of the ampitheater. Young palm trees can be seen to bend in anguish under the terrible weight of some unseen powerful supernatural beast that heaves and tears its way towards the killing ground. The two flunkies in the ring scrabble in abject terror into the bleachers, leaving the benighted old fortune hunter, armed with but a red cape and a pointed wooden stick, to face his dark fate in the pit, alone. "Huh?? What th-?? Hey, whar in tarnation is this anyhoo? Musta done a wrong turn in the Cordillera agin. Say, any you folks knows which way ta Tijuana? Seen maybe a stray mule 'round these parts, sweet dispersishun, answers ta namea Sal? Seen hide nor hair of a cute lil' ol' gal by namea Miz' Rambi?"