By J. DeVoy
Delivering medicine to starving children in pestilence-riddled lands. E
nding modern-day economic apartheid that harms groups like coffee growers and the Zapatistas of southern Mexico. Saving the environment. These are all things Marc Randazza doesn’t do when he travels.
I received news of Marco “Polo” Randazza’s travels this afternoon when a falcon came to my open window with a crumpled piece of papyrus grasped tightly in its claw. It promptly died as I unfolded the note it was carrying. It turns out that our fearless editor is in Costa Rica, the land of dinosaurs.
It was trains planes and automobiles to get where i am. Two fuckin’ days, a night in San Jose, a single-engine cessna to a jungle landing strip, then an hour down a dirt road to east bumfuckistan. And it’s fucking beautiful.
At last, the mystery was revealed. But a larger question arose – what was he doing there? Like the Necronomicon, the letter was written in what could only be human blood. Hopefully, for his sake, it was that of his slain “ass hat” opponents. It seems that the trip hadn’t been without incident, either:
The plane’s collison warning system was screaming for 10 minutes as we flew through some mountain pass.
All that potential for a reenactment of Alive, too.
Since I received the message, he must be alright, or at least been alright. As for why he’s in Costa Rica, my money’s on starting a military junta — he didn’t call us lacky bloggers the “Satyriconistas” for nothing. Whatever the case, I hope the natives are hot.
In grand Inspector Gadget fashion, the message self-destructed after reading.
