The horror off Alaska
The rickety fishing boat drifted towards the gleaming white landscape, suspended within an ice floe. U.S. Army Captain Benjamin L. Willard had only been on the boat for a couple of days when he realized that he did not know where it was going. By that point, they were bobbing in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, far, far away from Vietnam. Luckily he remembered he had enough rice crispies to last himself at least another couple of days. Willard was snapped out of his rice-crispie-centric reverie by a keening snap that heralded the death of their dinghy at the hands of the ice. Willard needed to think fast; if he did not act soon enough he would freeze to death. With an apt sinking sensation, Willard realized that the burden was on him to save the lives of everyone on boat, considering that everyone else had spent the voyage high on pot. Willard, using his keen senses and powers of intuition, realized that he could make a stable, yet very makeshift raft from the many bongs used by the passengers. There was no time to lose, Willard thought, as he hurriedly accumulated bongs to lash together with shoelaces pilfered from the various footwear of the stoned passengers. After a short while he had managed to create a clustered, held-together collection of the bongs. Next came the task of loading the pot-addled vegetative passengers onto the raft – a task not helped by the various peace-and-love infused stenches wafting off them. Finally, he had helped the last of the stoners onto the raft and as he did so received a heavily unenthusiastic round of applause from those who he had helped. For a brief moment, Willard felt a sense of pride in his accomplishment; however, his self-congratulations were found to be premature as, one by one, each stoner fell asleep and dropped off the bong-raft. When this occurred, Willard decided, "Fuck it", and lit up his own bong as he drifted into the peaceful Alaskan sunset.
The End
