A curious tale of folly, bush craft and the rudimentary principles of flight

So… I’m back! You missed me?

I’ve been out of the loop for over three months more or less and so much has changed in that time that it made me wonder if anybody would remember me? Have you forgotten me? Please say you haven’t. I’m Blondie…the Commish? You know…the kooky, crazy, hottie with a penchant for vehicular mayhem?

Regardless of whether you knew me from before or have only just met me, I’d like to think we’re gonna get on even if it means me plying you with booze and showing you a good time at Bahama Mamas. The good news for everybody is that I’m b.a.c.k… BACK… and I have no plans of going away again anytime soon. Promise!!!

So where have I been? Are you sitting comfortably? Well… let me tell you my story…

It all began with a phone call. I get a few of those occasionally, so that in itself is not very exciting or unusual. However, this was different. As I swiped the receive button I was greeted by the sound of screaming, a donkey braying and the sound of a mariachi band. I was about to ask Gaga Golightly how her family holiday was going, when the Boss’s unmistakable voice cut through the din.

Backof and Randy were in Mexico putting the finishing touches to a deal that was gonna make all of us supa-dupa rich. After months of protracted negotiations, she’d scored a warehouse full of faux Chihuahua fur negligee’s and apparently the seller said they were gonna be the next ‘must have’ item with the rich and famous of Los Santos. There was one problem though… they’d spent all of the money they’d taken with them on tequila, tacos and luchador masks. I’d need to bring them another leopard print briefcase full of money asap and that meant flying it down there.

Before I could protest/whine/stamp my feet/cry like a baby, the boss said I was the only person with a flying licence they could call on, presumably because everyone else was off buying the new flight suits and head gear that had recently arrived at stores across the city. She also added, perhaps unnecessarily, that I would be the last person she would choose for such a task ordinarily but she was drunk and desperate. So, reluctantly I agreed and rang creepy Lester and asked him to score me a plane that I could ‘borrow’. He agreed but there were some conditions… he insisted that I meet him at the Sandy Shores airfield, dressed as Lara Croft and hug him to say thank you! Now although this seemed a little odd at the time, I’d done worse in my life and as luck would have it the attire proved rather fortuitous given what happened next.

Now any time I get behind the controls of an aeroplane, something terrible happens. I can get the plane airborne, get it to fly in a particular direction but I’m not so good at the complicated stuff such as navigating and erm… landing. So, I take off and I’m flying toward Mexico and everything’s going great when a light on the console starts winking at me suggestively and then a high pitch claxon starts whining at me like an aging diva starved of wine. It was at that moment I realised I’ve taken off without fuelling the plane. Eeeek! Panic mode takes over and through some adrenalin fuelled miracle I manage to ditch the plane in a muddy ol’ creek without it folding up like a concertina.

I’ve got seconds to get my head together. Water is pouring in to the cockpit and the windows are threatening to buckle inward and shatter. I focus and force my way out of the doorway, swimming to safety before the plane sank in to its watery grave.

I collapse on the bank and look around. I’ve literally no idea where I am, although I reason that I must be in Mexico by virtue of the fact it’s hot and that I pointed the plane roughly in that direction upon take off.

With the briefcase full of bills now bobbing about at the bottom of the creek with its contents being counted and invested by fishy accountants, I realise the only thing I can do is try and make my way back to civilisation and prepare for the ear bashing when I explain to the boss where the money is. So I start walking…in no particular direction… towards where the dirt seems less wet, and where a few trees break up the landscape.

 It starts off pretty cool. I’m clambering over rocks and stumbling through the pointy undergrowth like a more glam Lara Croft. As I bumble about soaking it all in and unwittingly losing my bearings, I’m kinda living the dream as a sort of old school explorer. I say it was pretty cool. Well, it was pretty cool for about the first week but by the fourth month it had kinda lost its appeal. I began to feel incredibly alone. The mobile battery didn’t last long either. The combination of water logged circuitry and relentless selfie taking soon drained the battery.

It wasn’t long either before I went feral. I started eating twigs, rocks… anything I could lay my hands on that I could pretend was the contents of a bonus bucket from Clucking Bell. Time lost all meaning for me and my mind began to play tricks. For three months out of the four, I felt like I was falling up and down a mountain… then it occurred to me that I’d been eating cactus for its water content and ended up on one massive hallucination filled trip! During one particularly bizarre episode I actually thought I was a spokesperson campaigning for the rights of cacti everywhere, ranting at length at bemused animals, clouds and the ever silent stick people I’d made for company.

 All the while my life was haunted by the beasts. My nights were filled with their howls and I often caught sight of them stalking the peripheries of my camp. My gold plated pistol kept them at bay though as did my increasingly odorous scent.

This sorry existence dragged on and on until I was on the verge of giving up hope. Then finally I stumbled upon a road. It was a real road. Not an imaginary road made of chicken legs and curly fries, but a real tarmac road…with white lines and everything. I couldn’t believe it! It was like Christmas coming early but less festive and with less knitwear. I followed it for some time until it finally reached a bridge spanning a vast waterway and then I saw it – A sign! Not a metaphorical sign, but a metal one with writing on it. I ran toward it like a bag lady chasing a stray beer can and strained my blood shot eyes to read it. Where was I? – Cancun? Tijuana? Mexico City?

The letters stared back at me mockingly. Lake Zancudo. 1 mile.

I wept like a child who’d been told their cat had been run over by their drunken father. I’d been lost and stumbling around the marshes near the military base for four months….