The Irish Tales

Second Life 7, Part Two.
　
Where was I ? Oh yes. Halfway up an active volcano, struggling to breathe, with a Harriet Harman of a nurse, a stinking hangover and no brandy left.
Things then got even worse. With a sudden lurch which threw me onto Harriet’s primly brassiered breasts, the van stopped dead.
Apparently, it could go no further. But we could and we did. Humping our bags and coats and various items of camera gear, we somehow struggled on up to the selected site and collapsed.
Well I did, anyway. This was no longer fun, if it ever had been. I was now desperately struggling to breathe and the inhaler was useless. I tried a Marlboro and coughed up blood before I threw it away.
"You need oxygen. You wait here, I get," squawked Nurse Harman in my ear. I could have kissed her, except that even at 18,000ft above sea-level and going blue in the face, I have standards. Also, I hadn’t brushed my teeth.
I went a bit woozy here, but I can distinctly recall a furious argument, conducted in Spanish, between Nurse Harman and the second A.D.
Apparently, there was no oxygen. I think I slept for a bit and woke up feeling distinctly better. Until Harriet stuck her nose in my face.
"They come now, Mister David. You be not so ill soon." I gazed at her with a look which could be interpreted as either pure adoration or simple ignorance. I’m quite shameless about such things, you know.
Then "they" arrived. In a whirlwind of volcanic ash and head-splitting noise, two rather battered helicopters, emblazoned with the Mexican flag and some graffiti, which I later learned was Spanish for Mountain Rescue.
A short, squat, muscular type, in full rig and carrying a sidearm, jumped out and looked around. Nurse Harman, (whose real name, by the way, was Juliet dos Fleures. Yes, really) hailed him excitedly, pointing down at me.
He stomped up and stared down at me. His face was carved out of pig-iron, he had a 7-day growth of stubble, one blue eye and one brown eye. Both seemed as if they’d been ripped from the head of a poisonous snake.
He moved his head slowly to one side and he spat, very deliberately.
Then he threw a grenade at me. Okay, it looked like a grenade at the time. It was grenade-sized, grenade-shaped and had those pineapple-ly kind of tiles around it.
It was, in fact, an oxygen bottle, as Juliet kindly demonstrated to me.
And jolly nice it was too, although what I really wanted was a smoke. And a brandy.
Then my new best-friend decided to introduce himself to me.
"I am Midge. You wish to see my chopper ?"
Now. There places in the world where such an invitation could be dangerous, not say illegal, to accept.
I had no choice in the matter, as it turned out, for leant down and grabbed my arm with a grip of iron, helping me to my feet and towards the "chopper" in question.
Closer examination proved it to be as ancient as I thought initially and just about everything seemed to be broken or scratched or stained. It stank of aviation fuel and brandy, if that makes sense?
Well, it made sense to me seconds later, when Midge opened a cabinet and produced a bottle of something which looked hideously good to me.
In return, I found a crumpled pack of cigarettes and offered them to him. He beamed and lit up, whilst also making sure I sucked into the oxygen bulb.
Eventually, he coughed deeply, then said to me,"You not here should be."
I nodded vigorously. I definitely agreed that I not here should be.
He sighed, took a swig of brandy and a lungful of smoke.
"Ospital, for you." The he nodded slowly.
Now this didn’t suit me at all. I’ve been in Mexican hospitals, God forgive me. I prefer their hotels. Just.
I pondered. I smoked and sucked at whatever horrible potion I was sucking on.
"Where ‘ospital ?" I asked eventually. Midge coughed up blood for a minute or so.
"Puebla," he gasped. I began to smile, a lovely, big, happiness-filled smile that you don’t often get to do.
"Near the Hotel Grande, with the….lovely putans?" I suggested.
His face lit up and he began to splutter with laughter in a way that, quite frankly, alarmed me. Someone still had to fly this thing.
All my clothes, my money, my passport and my brandy were at the Hotel Grande.
I stuck out a hand and he shook it firmly. Minutes later, as the blades whirled, Nurse Harriet appeared at the steps, screaming obscurely.
I looked at Midge. He shrugged. "It says you are very bad smoker." He thought some more. "I know not…you seem okay smoker to me."
That night, I slept the sleep of the truly wicked and – as far as I know, I didn’t fart once.
These things no longer happen to me in Second Life.
I am truly grateful.