Chapter 7: King of the Zombie People!!!

Detective Harry Gomez was having a crappy morning. His sister was visiting, which in and of itself was not really a bad thing. But his sister was one of those people that simply had to travel with their pets. Which in and of itself is also not always a bad thing.
But she loved cats.
Which in and of themselves are psychotic little bastards.
Especially these ones.
Especially when Harry was asleep.
And when his face evidently looked like the perfect place to sleep/sharpen claws.
So, two days into the visit, Harry slouched out of the door of his apartment avoiding the looks of people who were having trouble hiding their horror. They were big cats.
Then, as he winced his way into the first bite of a morning bagel (doughnuts are so 1980's) he saw a type 4 criminal* yank a purse from the hands of a woman and take off down the street. At first Harry was shocked. Type 4's were a little rare these days due to a prevailing fear of interfering superheroes. But, unable to resist a chance to live out his childhood dreams, Harry dropped the bagel and hauled ass after number four.
Unfortunately, Harry was living out the childhood dreams of the purse thief** so after about 10 steps he plunged into a manhole that was conveniently missing its cover.
So, after convincing the doctors that most of the damage was from cats and could they just stitch his chin please, Harry finally made it into the precinct.
Which was chaos.
Normally Khaki is not considered a jarring color, but that's cause it's so often seen in watered down chino form or in appropriate settings, like deserts or ancient tunnels. When faced with a horde of chattering khaki clad men crammed in a cell the effect was unsettling. This was coupled by the wildly abrasive tones of the 5 cigar a day sergeant bawling out a uniform.
"Well WHERE the HELL did they get FIREWOOD!?!?!"
"Honestly, sarge, we took all their packs."
"Did you check their POCKETS?"
"Well...sarge..did you look at.."
The sergeant fell silent as he looked at the dense herd of mulitpocketed khaki smiling helpfully at him.
"Damn it. We're going to need more men."
Harry was deeply thankful that this was not his problem and headed for his office.
Waiting in the office as an eager young officer, fairly bouncing up and down on his feet.
"Detective DETECTIVE!!! I GOT HIM!"
Harry considered the current trend of his day and formed severe doubts that the officer had actually gotten this mysterious "HIM".
"Who are we talking about officer?"
"The leader of Los Eruditos sir!"
Harry collapsed into his chair and gazed upward at an unkind god.
Los Eruditos was Harry's current least favorite ( and only) project. I mean, you accidentally shoot a couple of old women and it's like you're not allowed to do real police work anymore? THEY HAD HANDBAGS!!! But that's neither here nor there.
Los Eruditos was a street gang that was seemingly comprised of nothing but type 32 criminals***. They had been terrorizing the city for the last 6 months. Or, at least, they had been terrorizing the city libraries. These jokers had some kind of beef with the Dewey Decimal system. They were breaking into city libraries and reorganizing the library according to the library of congress heading system.
Obviously this was not a life threatening series of events, but it was proving wildly upsetting to the city's librarians, a surprising amount of whom were related city officials. And so, the job of arresting these heinous book reorganizers had fallen into the lap of disgraced detective Harry Gomez.
As it turned out, these guys were fairly sophisticated and had eluded capture for quite some time. But a couple of weeks ago, they had a breakthrough. A terrified librarian cowering in the bathroom described how the band's leader had spent an inordinate amount of time checking himself out in the mirror. Inspired, Harry had cameras and two way mirrors installed in several unscathed libraries. The image they got was of a large brawny man in a duster with a complicated toolbelt and a bandanna stretched across the lower half of his face. He had glossy black hair, strong eyebrows and extremely blue eyes. But that was about it. This lack of truly identifiable features was one of the leading causes that Harry doubted the officer's GOTHIMness.
"Alright officer, let's see your suspect."
"Sure thing detective!" Then the officer surreptitiously placed a tube of antibiotic ointment on Harry's desk and smiled sympathetically. As the officer left, Harry yanked open his gun/maalox/crayon drawer and raided his supply of antacid.
Harry's suspicions that the good lord hated him deepened as the officer led in a towering man in Khaki. The man sat down in the chair across from Harry's desk with an altogether un-prisoneresque air of contentment. Over his shoulder, Harry was could see some of the men assigned to searching pockets wrestling with several spider monkeys.

The man glanced over his shoulder to see what Harry was looking back and then smiled indulgently at the detective.

"I try to keep the men from bringing too many personal effects, but what are you going to do, eh?"

Harry puzzled over that for a moment and then decided to push on.

"Alright, mister...uh."

"Call me Jim."

"oh, oka-"

"Jungle Jim, if you prefer."

"I really don't."

"Just Jim then is fine, though when we're in front of our respective subordinates, Jungle Jim is more appropriate."

This definitely needed to push on.

"Alright. Jim. The officer who brought you in seems to be under the impression that you are leader of a rogue band library vandals."

The man had leaned forward and was studying the detective intensely. Harry had to admit, the eyes and eyebrows were a dead match. Suddenly he spoke,

"You know, many tribes engage in ritual scarring, either as a beautification or as a right of passage. Scars should be be worn with honor and pride."

Harry stared in glassy eyed silence.

The man waved his massive hands around his face. "I mean, that many scars is a bit horrific but in the right light you could look quite the noble savage."

Harry felt a tightening in the veins in his temple.

"Cats. I was scratched by cats."

Surprisingly, the man nodded sympathetically. "Yes I surmised as much. A tabby and a two greys, all three rather large. You know I have some tips on how to deal with such things."

Harry leaned back, "What? Did my sister put you up to this?"

Jim raised his eyebrows, "My good man, I have not had the pleasure of meeting your sister. Not sure it would be appropriate, all things considered."

Harry shook his head, "Whatever, back to the point. Library vandals."

Jim nodded seriously, "Terrible that. And here I thought we had the Vandals all taken care of. I had always supposed that they had just sacked Rome and then gone extinct."

Harry looked down at his desk and wondered whether or not you could hear a gunshot in the next room. Instead he pulled out the picture from the library camera.

"I'd like to show you something, um, Jim."

Jim looked at the picture and then whirled about in his chair, holding a clenched fist up to his mouth.

"You fool!"

*Are you kidding me? We're not going to list all of the categories this detective has for criminals. He always wanted to be a botanist and after failing out university he was left with an obsessive need to classify. He has, like, 656 different types of criminals.

**Who made it home only to find that not only had his ex-girlfriend discovered that he was much better in bed than the aerobics instructor she'd left him for, but that the purse he had snatched was the work bag of the world's finest debutante, multimillionaire diamond thief and that he was now wealthy beyond his dreams and possessed several fine passports. And he never had to do the dishes again, not ever.

***Alright, we relent. Type 32 criminal is listed as "Pain in the Ass student activist."

Chapter 6: The Howling Tunnels of Ur-Kesh!

New York! The Big Apple! The City that Never Sleeps!
Ha! Who could sleep in a place like this? A place where nature had been beaten into submission. Where the very earth herself had been wormed into with cold fingers of steel and clad in an icy shroud of concrete. Where the streets were choked with the anonymous hordes of the disinterested.
Where Nigel lived.
These were the thoughts that Jim brooded over as he slouched over the rail. The men stared nervously at his broad back. Ever since they had left Camp Discovery! Jungle Jim had been a different man. Usually he spent the evenings by the fire with the men, swapping stories, sharpening machete, darning khaki. Of course the captain of the cruise ship they had booked passage on was a bit upset when the men had lit a fire on the deck so that had put an end to that.... but even so! Jim could have at least joined them for the 1st class/3rd class shuffleboard competition! What a fiasco that had been.
No. Jim spent his time muttering to himself, wandering about the ship, glaring out at the ocean. If the men tried to approach him he would utter dark, incomprehensible declarations.* He was like AQ, except darker and infinately more capable of tearing you limb from limb. Now as they pulled into the Harbor and the men all posed for a picture as they passed the Statue of Liberty, Jim hunched over the rail, steely blue eyes riveted on the oncoming press of buildings.
The problem, of course, was Nigel.
Nigel was the Second-in-Command's brother. The two had once been thick as thieves but some trauma in the past had sundered their relationship forever. Whenever Nigel came up, Jim was sure to spend days sulking about the canopy, hacking away at whatever came in within machete's reach.** This mysterious rift between Jim and Nigel was at the heart of every harsh word in Jim's life. The men were just dying to meet him.
Once the ship had pulled into New York and the men were all assembled on the pier, Jim straightened his shoulders and turned to address his men.
"Men, I want you all to know that we're not in the Jungle anymore."
The men looked around at the urban sprawl all around them and felt pretty sure that this was true.
"I understand that some of you may never have left the jungle and seen the big city. So I've drawn up a list of things you might see here in the city and equated them to things we've seen on our travels. " With that, Jim distributed a stack of papers. They said:
taxi cab = vine
cabbie = native guide
manhole = scary doorway
streetwalker = panther woman
streetgangs, mafia = cannibals
junkies = zombies (note: do not behead, police will be angry)
and so on. It was bizarrely comprehensive.
All the men folded the lists carefully and put them into the quick-access shoulder-folder pockets they had, for quick access. They then set about unloading the cargo and getting themselves kitted. Not long into the process, an odd piebald car pulled up and a man dressed all in dark blue got out. The men looked critically at his attire. He had very functional boots, rough and ready cotton pants with cargo pockets on the thigh (though only two, I mean, what are you going to do with only two?), a really cool walkie-talking looking thing clipped to his shoulder and, as a piece de resistance an absolutely fantastic toolbet, with guns and mace and nightsticks and ammo. Almost as good as their toolbets. Which, as it turned out, was why the man was there.
"Excuse me gentlemen, NYPD. I'd like to talk to you about your equipment."
Jim looked confused (some of the men noted this with relief), "I'm sorry, in why pee dee?"
The man pulled up short and gave Jim a confused look.
"Yeah, the police."
The "police"man tried to keep talking but was drowned out by the distinctive noise of a large group of men extracting lists from quick-access shoulder-folder pockets.
Police = Soldiers of local British Garrison ( not the drunk womanizing ones, the good ones)
The men all turned helpful eyes on the policeman.
Jim said "How can we help you officer?"
The police man pointed at Jim's toolbelt.
"What's that?"
"Toolbelt."
"I see that. I meant that there on the toolbelt."
"You mean the compass?"
"No, that."
"Ah, my canteen."
"No. That."
"Voodoo fetish wanga?"
"Oh my god. No. That."
"Ah, blowtorch."
"WHAT? THAT! THE MACHETE!"
Jim looked irritated. Maybe this man was thick.
"Well, officer. It's a machete. But if you already knew what it was, why did you ask?"
The officer pursed his mouth. It wasn't a good look.
"I wanted to see if you knew what it was, lunchbox breath. You are aware that machetes are illegal to carry on the streets of New York, right?'
All the men looked shocked. Chopper Charlie spoke up.
"But what if you need to clear your way?"
This didn't seem to make the officer happy, he muttered something into his shoulder mic.
Some of the other men piped up.
"Well, Charlie, we can always blast our way through with these handy elephant guns."
"Or this dynamite!"
"OR WITH SCIENCE."
Jim sighed as more pinto cars pulled up. He knew they should have gotten a native guide.

*e.g. "You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?"
** A fact stumpy Stu knew all too well.

Chapter 5: Knife Dance on Irian Jaya!

"Behold!" Cried Jungle Jim. Reaching deep into the voluminous folds of his khaki he drew forth an ancient clay jar.
"Within lies the clue that will lead us to Discovery!" and with the precise archaeological technique he was famed for, Jim reached high into the hair and hurled the jar to the ground. All the men rushed in to see. Quick-hands Quigley made it first (obviously) and pulled the delicate parchment from the shards. He frowned in concentration and began to read the words.
"1) Six Yards Khaki. 2) Sharpening stone. 3) Hair gel. 4) Native Gui-"
Jim hastily interrupted. "Whoa! Guess that's my shopping list. Sorry boys. After the incident in the Himalayas I took to carrying important notes in small clay jars. It's really neat and besides it makes a great sound when you wiggle your hips."
Jim shimmied his hips and the clinking sounds of ( many) clay jars came from the complicated network of his pockets.
All the men stared.
"Right. Anyway. Let me get the right jar." Jim dove back into one of his pockets and started rummaging around. Sometimes he got like this. All giddy before an expedition. It wasn't exactly in keeping with the virile, paragon of masculinity persona he usually tried to cultivate but the men loved him for his enthusiasm.
Suddenly vast swooping noises came from the sky above the canopy. The darkness of the jungle floor grew even darker as a round and hairy shape blotted out the sun for a moment.
"Chi! Chi!" it cried.
Some of the men clung to each other. Jim narrowed his steely blue eyes at the sky*.
"Yoga student. Stay still."
After a moment the vast shape winged westward in its fruitless search for Camp Discovery!
All the men breathed a sigh of relief. Jim shook his head. Those wacky yoga students!
"All right men. Here's the right jar. You can tell because it's definitely more ancient than the last one. Let's see what we g-Hey, you two in the back! Quit clinging to each other! There's a time and place for that sort of thing but not when I'm on the dais!**"
Two of the men reluctantly parted.
"Right, let's see what we got here." This time Jim decided to ease the lid open for a quick peek. He really did have a lot of jars in there and some of them contained some sensitive information so, while hurling the jar to the ground was certainly more in keeping with the whole ethos of the Explorista! he really felt that this was more sensible.
"AH HA!" he cried, "this is what we're looking for! Behold men! Our salvation!" And with a flourish, Jim unrolled a piece of ancient parchment.
All the men stared, and the dreaded throat cleared. Jim knew that, someday, he would kill this man.
"Um, Jim?"
"Yes. Daniel."
If this is really a secret document from a Himalayan holy man, why is it in pencil?"
"Oh for GOD'S SAKE DAN! The man had some kind of... thing about pens. They screwed with his chi or something. I don't know! We never really got into it.*** But this really is the document. Do you think I could draw all these wild-ass heiroglyphs?"
All the men nodded thoughtfully, their beloved second in command was many things, but draftsman he was not.
"Now all we have to do is translate these things and we'll be well on our way." Jim turned looked at the parchment thoughtfully.
"Okay, while I am an expert in cuneiform and Estrangelan Syriac****, this particular script is somewhat beyond me. Hank?"
Heiroglyph Hank stepped forward. Truth be told, some of the men didn't care for Hank all that much. He was kind of snobby. Wore a monocle. Wet the bed... that kind of thing. But he did live up to his name.
"Well this is most interesting. Some of it appears to be heiroglyphs from ancient mesoamerica and some appears to be some sort of Ethiopic script. Very hodgepodge sort of writing. Most likely a hoax."
Jim cranked up the steeliness in his steely blues and let them shine down on Hank.
"Or rather, it would be a hoax if it was from anyone other than your beloved guru, Jungle Jim. In this case I would say that we have a fine example of hithero unknown cultural intercourse."
Some of the men sniggered.
"But whatever it is, I'm not sure I can read it."
Jim sighed miserably. "Alright men, I think we all know what this means."
They nodded sympathetically.
Jim spat out the word.
"Nigel."

*Lately Jim had been thinking that while flinty blue was pretty good, steely blue just had to be better. I mean, with steel, you can make Fire!
**There is no place for homophobia on expeditions, where long cold nights spent in wild reaches or python infested ruins can catch up with any man. That being said, don't do that kind of thing when Jim is on the dais trying to talk to you.
*** Actually, Jim was one of those men with an odd fetish for pens, watches, pocket knives and other Man-Jewelry and his guru's steadfast refusal to use pens baffled him. Many a night Jim tried to prise the secret from the old man, and all he got was some crap out of a fortune cookie. The old man died with the secret that he was deathly afraid of ink ( nasty incident with a Himalayan Mountain Squid).
****As hard as it may be to believe, this is true.

Chapter Four: Footprints in the Underbrush!

Deep in the heart of an unnamed jungle, the men of Camp Discovery gathered together to hear their beloved second-in-command speak. Things had been tough over the last few days. Demoted from being the Her Majesty's Most Faithful and Daring Exploration Association, then promoted to Exploristas! the men of Camp Discovery had discovered that due to their outlandish and overwhelming fame and success, the Queen had decided to cut off their funding. Money is pulsing Khaki heart of a good expedition, no matter what people say about pushing back the frontiers of human ignorance. And so, the good men of the Exploristas! had set about trying to raise money. A few unorthodox and unsuccessful experiments later their second in command, Jungle Jim, had decided, all on his own, that they would scrape together their funds and hazard it all on one more expedition. The mind-boggling success of this expedition would lead to more funding and so on and so forth ad nauseum. Caught up? Good.
Jungle Jim stepped out the underbrush onto the raised dais* that served as the main podium of Camp Discovery! and cast his flinty blue gaze over the expectant faces of the men. They in turned gazed adoringly at him and he marvelled at the loyalty of these good men. The harrowing attempts to raise funds had strained the team to its very limits the but rock hard bedrock of loyalty that held these men together like glue. Or something like that. Maybe not glue. hmmmmm......
One of the men cleared his throat pointedly, startling Jim out his revelry.
"Oh sorry men, I got lost turning over appropriate metaphors and similes for this moment."
The men nodded. They loved grammar!
"Right. Here's the situation men. I've looked things over with Financial Fred" Jim pointed to an obsessive little man with a clipboard " and it seems that we have enough funds for one proper expedition. We need one expedition, so fabulous, so groundbreaking that we will either reap the proceeds of the expedition or the Queen will be forced to give us our funding back."
"But Jim, I thought you said that the Queen cut off our funding because we were already too successful."
"Yes, thank you Daniel. What I meant is that this expedition has to be so successful that she doesn't really see the point in squandering the crown's resources on any lesser band of explorers. Savvy?"
The men nodded. They loved crushing the competition!
"So men, any ideas?"
The men all started jumping up and down shouting out ideas.
"How about one with pyramids!"
"How about one with dinosaurs!"
"How about skulls!"
All the men groaned.**
Jim held up hands that had caressed a thousand ancient ruins and spoke.
"Good men! Good! You're all thinking. But I think I have the answer. Have I ever told you men about how I became one of the greatest explorers in history?"
All the men shook their heads and settled in for a good story. There was a slight rustling as several of the men opened delicious little cartons of milk.
"At one time I was not the paragon of exploration you see before you. I was a lowly archaeologist trapped in the mediocrity of his own position."
Archaeological Andy's face fell.
"Then one day I decided that I had had enough. I set out to find my true calling and soon I found myself wandering through the burning deserts of the Himalayas."
Cartographer Chris frowned and made a mental note to cross out all those pesky mountain marks from his map of Nepal.
"For days I strode through the burning sands until I came to the foothills of a vast mountain range."
Chris sighed.
"I began to climb the tallest mountain that I could see. It seemed as though I climbed for ages, enduring burning hot days and freezing nights. At one point I was forced to strangle a snow leopard for food."
All the men sniffled. They loved endangered animals!
"Finally I came to the top of the mountain and I found a wise and ancient explorer sitting in medication."
Some of the men frowned, maybe that was a typo.
"I prostrated myself before the man and cried out, 'How can I become the greatest expolorer the world has ever seen?' The old man looked down at my humbled but still mighty frame and said, 'It's not getting what you want. It's wanting what you've got.'"
All the men sighed. They loved wisdom!
"And I cried out, 'All I have is Khaki!' And at this, the old man smiled at me and gave me a blue flower to eat. It was not as delicious as the snow leopard but it had more fiber."
A few of the men smiled wryly. All to well did they understand the importance of staying regular while on an expedition.
"After that I studied with the man for several years. He taught me all I know about history, archaeology, swinging from vines, arcane languages and everything else that I know about exploration. But finally the day came when my great mentor was bowed with age and the winds of death blew coldy on his neck."
The men sighed. How poetic!
"With his last breath, he pressed a clay jar into my hand, claiming that it held the secret to one of the greatest secrets of mankind! This is where we'll find the expedition we need, men!"
And with that, Jim reached into one of his many, many pockets.

*This dais was leftover from a previous edition. Apart from the odd bloodstain, it was a perfectly serviceable 3 ton block of marble carved with skulls and demons. Jim thought that it was totally awesome to speak from the dais.
**This last came from Nasty Nick. He used to called just Nocturnal Nick until they found out what he was up to with the skull collection at night.

On Choosing Native Guides

Confession time. Have you ever been up to your neck in impenetrable, heart-of-darkness, Kurtz is going to eat me jungle, seemingly lost? Have you then confidently reached into your rucksack (or over-the-shoulder bag or man-purse or whatever you use, we don't judge) to pull out a map, then set about working the map over with compass and ruler, only to find that this map wasn't quite as accurate as you thought and you have moved quickly from seemingly lost to most definitely lost? Don't worry, so have we all! And most of us have made it out to tell the tale. We here at Exploristas! understand, and that's why today's column concerns the importance of carefully choosing your native guide.
Native guides, similar to machetes, blankies, compasses and canteens are an indispensable part of any Exploristas! equipment list. Without them you run the risk of not only getting lost but blundering past certain warning signs, glaringly obvious to the native but not so to you, telling of doom, destruction and/or dismemberment should anyone be so brash as to proceed (more on that later). This can result in all sorts of inconveniences. Not only might any of the aforementioned fates come to pass but you will be assured of unpleasant jokes from any Exploring Association once word of your little faux pas gets around. So obviously, Natives guides are a must-have.
However, not all native guides are equal and there are certain attributes that one should look out for. Follow the checklist below and you'll be hacking your way through dark continents with confidence.
1) Nativity. Be sure that your native guide is actually from the area you are exploring. In today's jetsetting age, it's quite easy to find transplants to an area that claim local lineage but are bound to blunder their (and your) way into some blood soaked gully somewhere that a true native would know to avoid. Certain areas are extremely difficult to explore for this reason. Most of the state of Arizona, for instance, is teeming with non Arizonites just frothing at the mouth to show you their 'favorite' box-canyon. If you have doubts of your native guide, check in with the local Exploristas! field office and we'll be happy to furnish you with either authenticated natives, or if you prefer to go it on your own, a set of test questions to pose your guide (e.g. "Arizona Native, if I should place some sort of belligerent insignia on a flag, one that might provoke some sort of physical retaliation, will I be in any trouble. " Answer: "Yes sir, that would constitute a class 2 misdemeanor, similar to allowing a donkey sleep in a bathtub." "Excellent, Arizona Native! Guide away!")
2) Local specialization. Some areas of the country are know for having several different environmental strata. One might think that nativity alone guarantees knowledge of the area that you're exploring. Not so! One must also find a native who understands the customs and environment of the precise area you're exploring. As an example, one Explorista! was interested in combing through the dark and uncharted alleys of New Haven, Connecticut. Thinking that an Ivy league education would carry a certain expertise with the local customs, they hired the services of a sophomore from Yale University and then confidently set out from the walled confines of that particular palace of learning. And that's the last we ever heard of them.
3) Loyalty. This and the next quality are really the gravy. These qualities are what distinguish the average native guide from the stalwart expedition companion. Loyalty is often hard to come by. Native guides generally have some sort of silly qualms about their countries being explored by Exploristas!, it seems that they have a fear that boatloads of Conqueristas are sure to follow. You and I know that this is silly but nonetheless it does pose a bit of a problem when finding guides. If you can try to find a cross breed between your people and the locals. This usually muddies the picture somewhat and allows you to use subtle psychological tricks to win them over to your side. You can also give them trinkets. Many natives are just crazy about shiny trinkets. We suggest making a few bottlecap necklaces. They are shiny, attractive, and come from beer, which is fun to drink while making bottlecap necklaces. Failing that you could always just cut them in on the glory by making them actual partners. This is bit radical, a bit new age and anti-establishment but what the hell, we're Exploristas! not lemmingistas.
4) Intrepidity. All too often Explorers have come across some foreboding doorway in the heart of the jungle only to find that their native guide flat-out refuses to cross the threshold. Usually this is due to some horrifying local legend about the consequences, which can range from a wasting disease to frequent tax audits. Finding a guide who is ready to spit in the face of their upbringing and leap headlong into the aforementioned doorway can be very difficult. Luckily, puberty tends to bring out this quality. So, for most areas finding a teenager with a rebellious sneer usually means you're set. In the developed world, puberty lasts (at least mentally) much longer and so with most college campuses can furnish a number of likely candidates. However be sure to refer to rule # 2.
Obviously there are a host of other qualities that you may or may not find important but we here find that those are generally just garnish. Find a guide with the four qualities above and you'll be all set. Until next time.

Chapter 3: The Bells of Great Zim!

Deep in the pulsing heart of the jungle, swanky techno throbbed as torches lit the bamboo catwalk. All the men gathered in the flickering light and watched expectantly. Just as the house music reached a crescendo, the bushes parted and one, well turned khaki clad calf peeked out. The men erupted into appluase as the calf was followed by the attending thigh and then prompty by the seductive form of Suspiciously Svelte "Sam". "Sam" sucked in his (always) clean shaven cheeks, silenced the crowed with a hooded gaze, paced out the end of the catwalk, gave a spin and struck a pose.
"Excellent! Excellent "Sam"!" cried Jim,"We just need a bit more naughty, a bit more predator. Your the big cat, we're the gazelles!" Jim made a note on his clipboard and then froze as a familiar throat cleared itself by his elbow.
"Yes, Daniel?"
"Um sir, not to question your creative genius, but what exactly is the plan here?"
"As I have explained before Daniel, we need to raise funds so that our little Exploristation outfit here can keep afloat."
"No no, I know that sir. But...what is the plan here?"
"Ah. This, Daniel, is a fashion show. Did you know that some of those so-called "Designers" out there make absolutely ridiculous profits? Hmm. That's a pie we need a slice of, Daniel, so I have put my very best creative juices into the blender and whipped us up a Fashion Frappe!" Jim wasn't completely convinced of the eloquence of his analogy but he decided to muscle through it anyway.
Doubting Daniel pursed his lips and looked thoughtfully as Suspiciously Svelte "Sam" paced down the runway flapping a large Khaki cape like gigantic pterodactyl wings.
"So what would you same the theme is for this show?"
"Urban Explorista: The Concrete Jungle! Genius isn't it?"
"Well sir, it is promising but don't you think we might, I don't know, just...try using another color besides Khaki? I'm just throwing it out there."
Jim turned a blank face to Dan and blinked.
"Daniel. What does that even mean?"
"Look, Daniel, where were your smart suggestions before? Huh? It's not like this is the first scheme we tried."
"Sir if you're referring to the bake-sale I specifically warned you to keep the Cook away from any zoos."
Jim sighed bitterly, it was really amazing how much black rhino didn't taste like chicken.
"And if you're talking about the machete throwing routine I definately told you that One-Eyed Wally was not the man to use, especially with volunteers."
"Alright fine Daniel!" Jim snarled, "What kind of ideas do you have?"
"Well I don't know Jim, what about some actual exploring?"
"Explorista-ing."
"Whatever."
Jim sighed, "Daniel, you may never fully understand how much it pains me to say this, but....you're right." Jim turned to the darkness and clenched his fist.
"Now is the time for Action!"
Dan rolled his eyes. Quietly.

Chapter 2: Death Song of the Panther Women!

History Hal was was just getting warmed up. The rest of the men had finally settled on an amphibious Great White versus a pack of those fluffy, vicious little rich dogs. Hal figured that if they were going to bend the rules a bit, then he could open up the field to Megafauna! Just imagine how those dogs would fare against the mighty Glyptodon! Or even the deceptively peaceful Beast of Baluchistan! He opened his mouth to speak and was immediately interrupted by the manly thud of Jungle Jim landing on the conference deck of Camp Discovery!
All the men fell silent and gazed adoringly at their second in command. Tall and broad, Jungle Jim exuded the kind of masculine virility that held the men in thrall. Even kept some of them up on summer nights. A couple of the men in the back stared at the delicate curls of virile chest hair that sprung forth from the artfully unbuttoned collar of his shirt. But even the raw physical manhood of the man held them in sway, it was his character that truly captured their loyalty.
Strictly speaking the actual leader of the Her Majesty's Most Faithful and Daring Explorer's Association was the legendary AQ. But the men found him difficult to approach. Not only literally (his bungalow was at the very top of the canopy with only a manky knotted rope as access), but figuratively. Even if you approached him with the simplest of questions (e.g "AQ? Quick question. Purely theoretical. What is the best way to kill a zombie?"), he would glare over his wire rims and fix you with a gaze that spoke volumes. And not those slightly repetitive but entertaining Tom Clancy volumes, where all the women were doctors and knew wicked card tricks. NO! They were dusty, "Rise and Fall of the blah blah blah" volumes. Then he would draw in a deep breath and begin lecturing the questioner about something entirely unrelated, leaving the questioner to nervously ponder the uses the cook would find for the zombie rummaging around in the mess hall.*
Jungle Jim, on the other hand, was easily approached by even the lowliest of the crew. They all remembered how Jim would sit up nights holding the hands of Homesick Harry! And so humble! Why lately, Jim had even taking to calling his jawline fat!** Yes the men of Camp Discovery! would have followed Jim to hell and back. Even to Discovery! Now Jim held up hands that could choke the life from a yangtze river dolphin (and HAD!). Their leader wanted their attention.
"Men, I know there have been some rumors flying around of late."
The men looked furtively at Damp Dennis.
"And I thought I would cut right to the chase. The Queen herself has written to us!"
The men all stood at attention. They loved the Queen!
"She has decided that we are no longer the Her Majesty's Most Faithful and Daring Exploration Association."
The men stood shocked, one or two of them began to tremble at the lip. Jim knew he had to act fast before he lost them!
"Hold on men, I have here her letter" there was a pause as Jim dug around in the cavernous recesses of his stylish yet utilitarian cargo pants, "in which she outlines her knew vision for us."
He held up the letter for all to see; immediately a hand went up. Jim's eyes narrowed when he saw whose hand it was.
"Yes Daniel?"
Doubting Dan cleared his throat "Jim if that's the Queen's letter, why is it written in pencil?"
Jim mentally moved Dan to the top of his "First Into the Scary Hole" list, and continued.
"Well Dan, I'm not the leader of the Her Majesty's Most Faithful and Daring Exploration Association, am I? The letter was sent to AQ, wasn't it? I wanted to get take the letter itself but we all know how possessive AQ is of his desk, so I had to make a copy."
All the men nodded knowingly; Stumpy Stu looked ruefully at the place his fingers had been.
"At any rate, the Queen, after thoughtful review of our glorious history, has decided that we are too maverick, to outside-the-box to be referred to as an Exploring Association and instead has dubbed us....The Exploristas!"***
All the men cheered. They loved Mexican Food! Jim basked in their cheering for moment and then held up his hands again. The glare off of his broad palms dazzled the men into silence.
"That's the good news men. The bad news is that since we have been so disgustingly successful and daring with our exploring, she has decided to cut our funding."
The men looked around at each other; this was not a part of exploring that they usually handled but it definitely sounded like there would be trouble.
"But men, I'm not worried. All we have to do is raise the money ourselves. What he need here is not blank stares!" Jim drove one massive fist into his palm,"We need Ideas!"

*Generally the best way of dealing with a Zombie is a bullet to the head. If you want more information, consult Max Brooks' "The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Undead" now available in paperback from Amazon for $11.16.

**All the men knew this was ridiculous. Long ago the Gods had carved Jungle Jim's Jaw from a single piece of flawless diamond and then smoked it with the kind of virile stubble that could only be tamed with a hideously sharp machete.

***Actually what the Queen had said when she heard about the Her Majesty's Most Faithful and Daring Exploration Association was "The What?" This was followed by short but pointed discussion of some received expense reports, after which the Queen had dubbed them several things both less Queenly and less flattering than Exploristas.

Chapter 1: Sunrise in the Yucatan!

Jungle Jim came slowly awake to the idyllic sounds of the men discussing the lineup for their fantasy reality show "Animal Smackdown!"
"What about a Grizzly bear and a wolverine?"
"Weeeeelll, I guess that'd be alright. Though, it is a bit tired, really. They're always chucking wolverines and Grizzlies into the same forest and seeing what would happen. I think we need something a bit spicier."
Another voice chimed in. "How about wolverines and Hikers!"
Jim sighed; Violent Vic really hated those hikers. Ever since the accident with his mother.... Luckily cooler heads prevailed.
"How about Wolverines and a Great White Shark!"
There was a pause as the men (and Jim for that matter) envisioned it. Truth be told, some of the men who were more on the "Ancient Ruins" and "Deciphering Hieroglyphs" side of exploring weren't all that familiar with the world's fauna and were envisioning some sort of land battle. Zoologist Zach set them straight.
"No No. You can't go pitching land animals versus sea animals. "
"Alright, how about a shark that could breathe underwater?"
Zach sighed.
Jim thought that Zach was a good man but sometimes a little impatient. That was a good idea! He knew that they'd figure it out. Jim rolled out of plush feather hammock and went on the deck of his bunglow.
High in the canopy of the undisclosed jungle that was the home of Camp Discovery! Jungle Jim, second in command of Her Majesty's Most Faithful and Daring Exploration Association, leaned over the balcony of his arboreal home and brooded over the fate of his men. His flinty blue eyes, normally so piercing, deepened to a rich and troubled azure. At least, he thought it was azure, the light on the mirror he had mounted on his balcony was a bit dodgy so they might have been ultramarine. He wasn't sure. He leaned closer for a moment and then got back to the task at hand.
There was some hard news to deliver to the men and he'd been up much of the night thinking of ways to turn it around. He knew that it was critical to keep morale up at all times. He bitterly remembered the Affair of the Kinkajou. That would never happen again. But First! He needed some coffee. Jim stepped into the Khaki bunny slippers his men had thoughtfully given him for his birthday and made his way across the rope bridge that connected his bungalow to the mess hall. Jim went in and stopped at the sight of the cook.
"Hey cook. You alright?"
"Da" the cook grunted.
"What are you doing?"
"Watching food channel. I like food."
"In your underwear?"
"I like food a lot."
"Why are your hands down your underwear?"
"Is cold. You want I should make you some toast?"
"No that's cool. I'll just get some coffee."
Shaken, Jim got his Joe and made his way back to his bungalow, where he took a few breaths. The cook was not a pretty man. Jim gulped down his coffee and threw open the doors of his wardrobe to a shimmering wall of Khaki. He knew that when he spoke to his men, it was critical to look his best. He carefully selected his attire and gave especially attention to blousing his pants over the boots that embraced his powerful calves. Finally he chose his hat. The pith helmet might have been more commanding but the slouch hat was more blue collar. He wanted to try and get down on the men's level. And besides, it set of his rubenesque jawline.* He gave himself a once-over in his full-length mirror and as was his custom, blew a kiss at the mirror.

"Who loves you baby?"

With that, Jungle Jim leapt off of his balcony in a powerful swan dive, grabbing hold of a vine and swinging down to the conference deck of Camp Discovery!

*Jim was not exactly sure what rubenesque meant. At one point the cook had been watching some exercise show and was going on about rubenesque something or other. When Jim looked up at the television, he saw rock-hard (though obviously some kind of soapstone rock compared to volcano forged granite of Jim's physique) aerobics instructor. The whole man was almost as handsome and rock hard as Jim's jawline. And so.....

Annals of the Exploristas!

It may be hard to imagine, but at one time the Exploristas! were not the smooth, well-oiled internet based advice and information forum you see before you. Yes, once upon a time we were just a ragtag band of misfit explorers who decided that one day, we were going to redefine the way Exploring was done. As an inspiration to you all, we have decided to pull out the Annals of the Exploristas from the Vault at Camp Discovery! and publish them. Enjoy.

Keeping Sharp: The Importance of Target Practice

As all Explorers know, the main point of our job is to push back the frontiers of human ignorance. We are usually on a mission more of peaceful discovery than wanton destruction. However, there come moments, such as when faced by a bloodthirsty and irritatingly uppity tribe of so-called "indigenous peoples", when you must set aside high minded ideals and dole out a serious smackdown. This brings us to the main topic of today: target practice.
Unfortunately, due to some progressive lawmaking in national governments worldwide, it's no longer possible for an Expolorers keen on target practice to just go knocking about the woods banging away at whatever moves. You might hit a bumblebee bat or a yangtze river dolphin (well not anymore I guess, but that's sort of the point of what we're saying) or some other endangered beastie. Now you might think that this would limit your options and to a certain extent it does, but we here at Exploristas! believe that if you simply practice some of that resourcefulness we explorers are so famous for, you can work around this little snag.
Many populations of animals occasionally get out of control. Often due to a lack of natural predators or a particularly abundant season, some animals will experience a sudden spurt in birth rate. This can lead to all sorts of complications. Weak bodied or weak minded specimens can live on and pass their genetic code, weakening the herd as a whole. Or, more horribly, resources can get used up and the entire herd will starve. This is why judicious culling is extremely important. There are several species currently experiencing this state of affairs; we suggest you choose philosophy graduate students.
We're not trying to sound anti-intellectual. Far from it! Explorers at their foundation are the purest intellectuals. You could call us Intellectualistas! But just look at the man on the left. It's obvious that this creature and many more like it need to be put down. Also, they make it nearly impossible to get in and out of Starbucks quickly.
You can find small flocks of these animals loitering in "coffee houses", haunting library stacks or snapping their fingers at poetry readings. Another good option is to follow them to popular Undergraduate watering holes, where they will try to attract mates with memorized passages. Though they may seem pale and weak, we argue that due to their choice of habitat, they still make challenging prey. For whatever reason, local authorities frown on the culling of any of the subspecies of grad student (unless you're in the USA, where the prevailing attitude at the White House is that these College Boys are ripe for the plucking) and so, along with target practice, you will get to practice evasion and survival tactics. Until next time, Good Hunting!

The Truth About Cats

No matter where you are exploring, be it the wilds of the Yucatan or the dark recesses of your grandmother's attic, you must be mindful of local fauna. Many creatures are obviously lethal, such as Rhinoceri, Tyrannosaur and Red-Winged Death Bats. But there exist, stalking throughout our lives, animals who are more cunning, whose pure evil doesn't surface until you least expect it, whose Hell-Spawned character is hidden beneath of veneer of cuteness. I speak here of the cat.
Despite the heroic efforts of countless generations of violin makers and the recent gains made by Ted Nugent and his Truck of Justice, the population of these perfidious creatures has steadily increased. Many normally sane people have been drawn into the seemingly insipid gaze and luxurious "fur" these creatures use to hide their true nature. Because of this, the cat has become a household item. And this is exactly what they want!
What people fail to understand is that like the alligator, the shark and the cockroach, the cat is a nearly perfect organism and hasn't appreciably evolved in millenia. They are ruthless, efficient killers, as the recent songbird holocaust has shown us. So when you come face to face with a cat, your first question should be: How can I kill this furry little demon? This where the Exploristas can help you.
1) Hit it with a machete. All good explorers carry machetes as a basic tool for hacking through the jungle, making camp mirepoix and shaving. They are also effective tools for hacking filthy felines to bits. As a warning though, cats are notoriously quick. Note the phrase often used to describe the author of this blog: "Cat-like reflexes".
2) Hit it with a dog. This is also a good option. Most dogs are on the side of Light and can make effective agents when faced with a Cat. However, cats are tougher than they appear so the choice of dog is important. Though the convenient portability of the Bichon Frise makes it a tempting selection, most cats will kick their fluffy little asses. We Exploristas suggest you buy a Rhodesian Ridgeback and feed it on a steady diet of cats. These fine animals were bred to hunt lions and though a pack is necessary for a feline of that size, one or two are usually sufficient to dispatch housecat.
3) Hit it with a violin-string maker. These men, though they may seem like effete nancy-boys, come from a fine tradition of Cat-Fighting. Warning: their techniques are gory. If you wish to ever sleep again, I suggest turning your attention to something less disturbing, such as any of the Faces of Death movies.
4) Use SCIENCE!
5) Kiss your ass goodbye. If none of the above options work, you're done for. This is why we ask that all explorers implant a homing beacon in their skulls. We'd like to be able to contact your mother should you encounter a cat.
Until next time, good night. And Good luck.