The Samoan, whose real name is Smithy but is also known as the Shaman, handed me something and declared it to be camel piss. I couldn't help but think to myself, "Here we go again. Am I being irresponsible?" But I knew deep down that he had my back. As the rain poured and the thick fog settled around us on the steep mountain pass, I realized we were venturing into Bagwani Rajeesh territory in the highlands. It was too late to turn back now.
Suddenly, headlights flashed and horns blared as a car approached us. "Get off the middle of the road," Smithy warned. I cautiously moved to my side, grateful that the oncoming driver didn't wipe me out. For all I knew, she might have been driving on my side of the road. "Nah," Smithy said, dismissing my concern. Perhaps he was right.
But as the journey continued, Smithy's enthusiasm grew a little too intense. I had to draw the line. It was either him or the tour, and sacrificing him seemed like the only option to save it. His loyalty lay with Jim Beam and his poisons of crack and dope. He was a user, sucking everything and everyone around him into his sinkhole. Sorry wasn't in his vocabulary. He used alcohol to fuel his anger and keep others in fear. At only 24 years old, I couldn't fathom being terrorized by this delinquent after escaping terrorists in the past.
Enough was enough. I couldn't allow myself to be used any longer. When I realized the extent of his selfishness, I had to declare "Mayday" and eject from the cockpit. He brought nothing positive to the mix; he was high maintenance without even having a vagina. And to top it off, he had a small dick. Even if I were gay, I would be thoroughly disappointed by that revelation.