Hello,
We Ex-Special Forces have a saying. “If at first you don’t succeed – garrote.”
I am able to adapt to my surroundings through disguise, evasion techniques and a profound knowledge of knitting.
My latest book “Scratchy Eczema, Tangy Onion” is a no holds barred account of my work in Chechnya working for the secret Jazz Hands Jolson Death Squad.
Here is an extract from Chapter 5 “Way Up On The Swanny – I Ripped His Ears Off”.
…………………..I take my hat off to my #2 “Fungus” Thompson. There aren’t many who would have figured that only surefire way of yomping through the Russian Taiga unmolested, was disguised as a Jolson tribute act. Time after time, taciturn lock jawed Ruskies and their misshapen wives would throw off the shackles of perennial Slavic Cyrillic laden doom and apply Jazz Hands! when they saw the JHJDS sashay through the woods.
The journey was tough. With food supplies gone I was forced to fellate a large brown bear just to have a nibble on his berries. Yummy they were too. I made off with the berries (the bear was in a state of erotic high dudgeon) and made a tasty broth from them. To add flavour I used the chicken stock cubes and herb garland (Tarragon, Rosemary and Bay Leaf) I carry in my Ammo Belt. Boy, did the lads lap it up!
Finally after days of searching we reached the den of the Evil Lad who had stolen Uranium from the Plinkyplonkastok Nuclear Reactor and was planning to sell it to evil Islamic fundamentalistsalistsalists.
Evil Lad was lounging on his sofa watching a box set of The Wonder Years (whatever happened to Winnie?) cackling evilly to himself as the show spun its flavoursome and wholesome view of 1960′s America. He was eating cake. Sponge cake.
Whilst Gurkha Tenpin Bowling reccied the compound and our misanthropic Sioux Brave, Itchy Scalp performed a rain dance – I inched my way towards Evil Lad. My undercover eagle eyed training kicked in and I learned one thing.
He was a messy eater. Crumbs everywhere.
I had to think. Fast. On my feet (whilst lying down). My blend-in terrain training kicked in.
I disguised myself as a Victoria Sponge and lay on the table next to Evil Lad’s cake. The plan nearly backfired when, glimpsing the schmaltzy ending of the Wonder Years, a tear fell from my eye into the sponge’s cream filling causing it to split.
Scary
I reconstituted myself, shouted ”Mammy!” with a breath so putrid and foul, due to brown bear discharge, the flesh was stripped from his face.
Halitosis – the silent killer. More deadly than sarcasm.
Job done. I pocketed the Wonder Years box set and we set off through the Taiga to make our Chopper rendezvous. We left the Uranium in left luggage at the local train station.
The Station Manager was a Gene Kelly fan. So we killed him.