We are on the island of Dominica where one thing happens each week. Happy hour at the hotel. So, because we all really believe in the strategy we are executing in the war on drugs, we feverishly worked throughout the afternoon around the pool—drinking Red Strip to sharpen our alertness. So happy hour starts at 5. It is 4:30 and we are ten minutes from the hotel, sooo I am oiling my machete (MOOG—no euphemism) and I slip it into the scabbard (would you just stop it) and I manage to slit my thumb to the bone. Luck is on my side though—Senior Chief Corpsman is my roommate so I give the illegal order “Stitch me up” So, drinks in hand I get my thumb stitched up with the admonishment—we need to leave in ten minutes. Stitching good, bandaging bad. So we arrive on time and order cocktails and my British mates ask what happened—well-I was attacked by locals who thought I was British—I explained that I wasn’t and they said I was free to go. I said, well no, if you have a fight with them you have a fight with me and after the donny brook I wind up with this god awful bite.
I love the Brits—it is drinks all around—and many of them. We are pissed when the freakin Prime Minister of Dominica arrives. Brit Captain says, I need to have a word with him—we need to carry weapons—by God if it wasn’t old Tom here, hero of the free world, someone might have died. He is drunk and adamant---I am a drunken liar but aware of the trouble about to occur if he tells the PM of this ficti—err made up story. Now, I was on the verge of letting it go but opted to tell him the truth. Had there not been mutual respect for a good joke there would have been blood on the floor—fun was had by all—but more was had by ME!