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Stefan and I roomed together as Army Cadets our first year in college. We became best friends in no time at all. On the long vacation breaks we would go camping for a few days at a time. It was a great relief from all of the homework which we both so dearly loved. He and I went everywhere in the state possible; including the time we set up our tent right in the middle of the city park. We got a healthy fine for building our camp-fire there.
I can still remember the time we were hiking and we happened upon a bear cub caught in a trap. The poor thing had two paws caught and had already chewed one of them off. Stefan said that its mother had left it behind to die. I started to release the trap but Stefan stopped me. He said that we probably couldn't save it and even if we did it wouldn't have a mother to teach it how to survive in the wild. Then he did something that really shocked me. He put down his pack, got out his Ruger .22 pistol and popped off two rounds. He turned to me with a distraught look in his eye and said,

"It was the only humane thing I could do." 

***
Several years went by and Stefan and I were still great friends. Suddenly, we were both contacted by our local draft boards. Without warning we found ourselves in the midst of a horrible, twisted, misshapen, drooling, scar-tissue-covered, noisy, ugly, oily, mudslogging conflict. Stefan was shot in the head. He died. Giving a soul-tearing cry, I bravely rose up from my Stefan slime covered foxhole. I could see the beady eyes of my enemy roll back in his head as I repeatedly plunged my bayonet into his throat. Flinging my sodden weapon away, I fondled my last two grenades. Biting, John Wayne-like, on the pins I charged towards the bunker. Thoughts of home and Lenore flashed through my mind. Would she be proud of me?
"Fuck Lenore!" I screamed, hurling my body through a firing port. I dropped my grenades, collected my teeth, and threw myself back out before the earth-shattering explosion could turn my insides out.

As the president was pinning the medal of Honor on my chest, I apologized to Lenore and thought about that happier, more simple time when Stefan (poor, dripping, Stefan) and I could walk through the woods, indiscriminately slaughtering helpless animals. Suddenly, the body bag began to move.
"Stefan!", I cried, tearing open the bag.
"You idiot!", screamed the president, as bloody ichor poured over his shoes. Lenore leaned over and threw up on the first lady who stoically smiled through the onslaught of lunch. Stefan was still dead and was starting to ripen in the uncharacteristically hot Washington sunshine. Stefan seemed to be smiling. Incredibly, he sat up and said,
"gurgledrooldrippppsdjkjhju4udnyt".
"Hi Stefan!", said Lenore, wiping off her chin. Stefan spit out parts of his lungs and collapsed into a gray-green bubbly puddle. The first lady turned a remarkably tasteful shade of chartreuse and walked out towards the exit. The hometown fans started the wave and threw flowers as she slipped on a small lump of grey matter and tumbled down the stairs.
Tossing the slimy pool of Stefan into the trunk of the Rolls, Lenore and I waved tearfully at the drunks at the foot of the stands and drove out of the park.
"What a half-time show!", stammered Howard as the home audience switched off their sets and returned to the secular festivities of the evening. Lenore and I searched the world over for a cure for Stefan's ailment. We had him dipped in liquid nitrogen in Reno so he would stop deteriorating in mixed company. Stopping at a gas station on the way to the airport, a police officer asked to search the trunk (which was giving off voluminous clouds of noxious vapor).
"I have to go to the bathroom," Lenore said tactfully.
"Could you open the trunk, sir?" asked the officer.
"No," I said, "I'm afraid I can't." I drew my 10-gauge shotgun and slammed three rounds of double-ought buck into his head and torso. Lenore stared in awe as the gutted policeman fell to the ground, like a puppet with cut strings. She had no idea what kind of creature the "police officer" really was.
I slammed the car up to ninety as Lenore became incontinent. Arriving at the airport, we jumped into the helicopter after flinging Stefan's suitcase (we had replaced the mangled body bag) aboard.
"Ready to go sir!", cried Darien Kingsfoil III, my personal helicopter pilot and batman.
"Man the door-guns!", I screamed above the turbine's whine as Darien pulled the collective up to his armpit.
"Wait", I cried, we've forgotten Lenore!"
"Fuck Lenore!" replied Darien with a sneer as door-gunners Charles Bonneville and Bart Rasmundsen cut her in half with sporadic bursts of 7.62 mini-gun fire. She died.
"It was the only humane thing we could do", said the bloodthirsty doorgunning duo. Oh well, life's a bitch, I thought.
We arrived without further incident at the mountain retreat of the insidious Dr. Qwang Londioux in the Khumbutu range. With a spray of gravel, the chopper settled to the ground. Dr. Londioux met us at the helipad with open arms.
"Mein frangtds!", he said, with his always untraceable accent, "Vhat khan aye dew fer y'all?" We all grabbed paper umbrella-topped drinks from the misshapen dwarf by his side and followed him down into the catacombs. Darien dropped a cube of super-cooled Jack Daniel's into Stefan's suitcase and lumbered behind.
"Vhere am de loverlie Lenore?" asked the good doctor expectantly.
"Oh, she's around some place," I replied, "You know what a scatter-brain she is." We came upon a huge, iron-bound door that seemed to be a natural part of the rocky alcove.
"What's behind the door?", I asked.
"Oi doonk no," said his insidiousness, "eet chust gru dere lust sommer." We continued down the passage. I turned around to see Darien and his two wingmen examining a curious button in the moss encrusted granite.
"Should I push it sir?" he asked.
"Vait! Not zat button! It meks ze..."
We found ourselves approximately 10,000 feet above the ground and gaining speed rapidly.
"!!!!!!!!!!!", Dr. Londioux's words were lost at 8,900 feet as we hurtled downward. I watched with fascination as a fine spray of Stefan parts misted into the stratosphere. Dr. Londioux reached calmly into an inner pocket of his J.C. Penney lab technician coat and removed what appeared to be a Genie garage door opener. The price tag fluttered madly as he stabbed viciously at the button.
"Don't dew thet again," he said calmly as we continued down the tunnel.
"My faux pas," said Darien humbly. I wiped the Stefan bits from my brow and looked past the good doctor at the intricately carved bas-relief on the oaken door at the end of the corridor. A tranquil lake filled the scene, on the shores of which satyrs and naiads cavorted and joined in an unnatural mockery of modern conjugal festivities.
"Don't that make ya want a maenad?" asked Darien. The doctor produced a mauve-colored key from his limitless pockets and inserted it in the keyhole (which was cleverly incorporated into the design as a rather delectable orifice). The door opened to reveal a massive aero-technical brain center, teeming with frock-clad scientists in light-blue hard hats.
"The Vostok booster is ready for a test, Dr. Londioux," stated a scientist with an orange hard hat.
"Oooh das goot!" exclaimed the excited doctor. Ve art inn fer da wonderful tvreat." We strapped ourselves into the functional, yet tastefully decorated cabin at the top of the booster and awaited the test. Expecting a mild vibration, I set the Stefan-filled suitcase by my side unrestrained.
"...5...4...3...2...l...ignition-test!" blared an obnoxious voice over the intercom. The reubenesque Vostok rumbled to life and started burning properly. Without warning, the large Persian cat that Dr. Londioux had purchased to control the rodent problem in the aero-tech lab leapt without provocation onto the control panel to gain a more advantageous view through the porthole. Four fuzzy feet impacted (claws extended) rudely upon an orange lever and promptly launched us into the atmosphere. Twenty-five Gs crushed us into our seats and hurtled Stefan's suitcase rearward. The battered silver box immediately exploded onto the rear of the cabin and created a rather unique gray-green design which was instantly covered by a reddish, fuzzy streak as the cat was pressed into liquid form. Corporal Charles Bonneville evacuated into his dark tweed stretch slacks as Darien began working intently to rectify the situation.
"Don't worry, I spent a few years at The Gorstonian Polyteshnikov Institute for Atmospheric Research," stated Darien calmly as he put us into a smooth orbit around the blue green orb we call earth. "We used to handle problems like this before breakfast back at old G.P.I.A.R.," he said with a shrug. As the nausea of free-fall snuck up and attacked both Charles and Bart, the Doctor and I unstrapped and sponged Stefan and kitty bits into a clear plastic cylinder.
"Well, I'd call that a successful test," I said cheerfully. The Doctor wrung his hands and tried to capture a small, fuzzy bit that floated towards Bart, who was staring at the mess like a man possessed.
"Aye chust hoap zat ve kin zeparate zem agin," said the Doctor as he floated gracefully sideways. I stuffed a piece of jawbone into the container and looked for the lid.
"Excuse me sir," said Darien politely, "but we seem to be running out of fuel." He pointed to an indicator light on the panel that was blinking insistently. I squeezed the last of Stefan into the overflowing tube and snapped the cap in place.
"Qwik, two zee eachape pavd, kvickly!!", said the Doctor. We all tumbled into the pod and strapped ourselves into the rather uncomfortable chairs. Bart and Charles tried to get into the same seat and began arguing loudly.
"I was here first!", screamed Bart as he jabbed Charles in the eye with an extended forefinger. Darien jerked back on a black and yellow striped handle labeled "POD EJECT" and we tumbled free of the spacecraft. Charles bit Bart's finger and snapped his lap buckle closed.
"Hold on," said Darien. "This might get a little bumpy." The pod spun wildly and I noticed that the coast of New Zealand was getting larger and larger outside the porthole.
"The captain has turned on the no smoking sign," said a recorded voice. "Please return your seatbacks and tray tables to the upright and locked position." We extinguished our smoking materials and reset our watches to New Zealand Standard Time.
The pod splashed into the ocean and Darien ordered us to unstrap and prepare to exit. Sharks circled the inflated life raft like smoke around a burning condominium.
"Zee pawd iz sinkin!", said the Doctor excitedly. We all reached the raft and climbed aboard as the battered escape pod burbled out of eight.
"Where's Stefan?", I asked.
"We left him in the pod!", said the Doctor in an unusual burst of intelligibility. Bart bravely dove over the side, swam through the Jacuzzi-like bubbles escaping from the pod, and dove out of eight. Dorsal fins cut through the foam like straight razors through shaving cream. Tense minutes that seemed like hours passed. Charles suggested that we play charades to pass the time. The bubbles stopped.
"Look!" shouted Darien. Bart's head broke the surface and he started for the raft with a powerful sidestroke, towing Stefan's container behind.
"Swim!", we all screamed (except Dr. Londioux, who said "svim!"). Darien tossed a ring buoy at the end of a rope towards the struggling man. It floated in a graceful arc over Bart's head, ensnaring the cylinder and confusing the sharks that continued to circle like prostitutes around a Shriner's convention. Darien pulled the rope from which Bart dangled like a minnow on a hook.
"Two words, sounds like...", said Charles as the Doctor waved and pointed frantically towards an especially large shark that seemed unusually interested in Darien's trolling. The sun beat down mercilessly as I slapped Charles for being so silly. The shark opened its mouth and Bart all but disappeared inside the razor-lined maw.
"Wow, it sure gets dark quick here in the...", said Bart as the giant shark burped rudely and swam away. The sea was suddenly calm as Darien pulled Stefan's cylinder and part of a severed arm aboard. He calmly tossed what was left of Bart back into the sea.
"It was the only humane thing I could do," he explained.
We drifted for weeks, the monotony broken only by frequent charades and nightly attacks by sharks and rabid seagulls. Darien caught fish by unraveling Charles' stretch slacks and weaving the fiber into a crude, but efficient purse seine. Dr. Londioux used a soda straw, a protractor, and a bit of string to measure our latitude and rate of drift. Charles entertained us by going insane.
"Ve shud reche zee Micronezian Archipelago inn tree er fower daze," said the Doctor. "Zat is, azuming sat noting unuzual appens."
"Brown bats cause warts," said Charles authoritatively. Darien poured fresh water from the solar still (he had made the still from a weather-beaten piece of canvas) into his ever-present pocket flask.
"I hope the natives are still friendly," he said. "I certainly enjoyed myself the last time I was in the islands."
"Water, water everywhere, and not a pot for my geraniums," said Charles, looking almost regal in his flowered boxer shorts.
After five days we spotted land. Tall, willowy palm trees waved, confused as to their adjective description. We paddled weakly towards the island and Charles described in minute detail the intricate workings of the Mayan agricultural system and its impact on the Peloponesian Wars. Darien trimmed his impeccable mustache with a bit of broken glass and prepared to greet the natives. As we reached the shore, the battered life raft sank slowly out of sight.
We waved a fond farewell to the sharks who had escorted us faithfully for what Dr. Londioux determined was about 1800 miles. Charles wrapped palm leaves around his waist and started gleefully munching on sand.
"It reminds me of asparagus," he explained.
Charles wandered up the beach while the Doctor, Darien and I wondered about the curious absence of a welcoming committee. Our curiosity was to be short-lived, skewered on the point of one of the spears carried by the burly natives that we found ourselves suddenly surrounded by. Tall feathered headdresses capped fiercely painted visages on top of what I can only describe as midget sumo wrestler bodies. The sun glinting from the blue and yellow streaks across his brow, the tallest of the pudgy dwarfs stepped forward. I marveled at the collection of shark and human teeth hanging from a thong around his neck as he placed the razor-sharp tip of his long-handled javelin against my throat.
"Oingo boingon boontonga," he said, "Biaffrajellomaho! Dischord mojo!" He motioned for us to lie down and I noticed what appeared to be a crude safety pin twisted through his earlobe.
"It seems to be a curious Polynesian dialect," whispered Darien as the natives securely bound us to long poles. "I might be able to speak to them."
"Know, eye tink zat zey zound a bit mover like a curious blend of aboriginal tribalese und zee tongue zat iz spoken inn zee lovar Amizon Vallies," said the Doctor. This started a heated discussion of linguistics that continued until we were gagged. As we were unceremoniously lifted from the ground, I wondered where Charles had gone.
Dangling from poles, each held between two of the diminutive natives, we were bumped and scraped along the ground, enroute to the Temple of Mojo. An unusually skinny little man with a black and silver spiked band around his left biceps dragged Stefan's cylinder behind. We traveled for what seemed like days, the bonds cutting cruelly into our wrists. The infrequent breaks taken by our captors were to offer little relief because we were never untied and frequently tortured.
I would like to continue the proud tradition and ADD TO THE STEFAN SAGA.

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