One of them lost their way and ended up on one of our expedition boats into the jungle last week. Said his name was Hightops Hank. He had a droopy long handlebar mustache and a three day growth of moss on his face, bloodshot eyes and a way of speaking that told me at once what I was dealing with--as though he'd been drunk all morning for six straight days. He was explaining as how the Legionairres had send him to bump me off so they could pay off that credit card with the life insurance, and he was just fumbling for his sidearm, but had gotten it mixed up with opening his fly, somehow...anyway, just then the boat operator spotted a beautiful salty under a mangrove bush and swerved over to take a look and although I tried sticking out my foot to help him, Hightops kinda lost his balance there looking at that salty, and fell into the tangled branches, got wedged there while the boat pulled out, and ended up as sneaker-canapes for the croc. Damn shame--he looked like he would be fun as a drinking partner once disarmed, and now I'll never know. Not to mention the loss of that really antique Colt long barreled sidearm. A shame.