Full Dustforce OST.
Seriously great music.
Tonight’s music… Again.
My delightfully eccentric friend, author St.John Karp, sent me this letter as a recount of his recent adventures.
“My Dear England,
This may be my last letter. I can hear the jungle closing in on me even now. The heat grows ever harsher, the mosquitoes evermore persistent and the approaching footsteps ever louder, beating out the rhythm of my madness like a tomtom.
One by one our party have been picked off. Wrinklebottom was the first to die. A pity - he was a good man in a tight squeeze. The jaws of the alligators were, as it turned out, a tighter squeeze than he could handle.
There was Herschelbaum, a Red Sea pedestrian, but dynamite in the sack he always carried proved most efficacious at clearing the vegetation. He came running out of the river screaming up a storm attempting to tear off the leeches that covered every inch of his naked body. With each one he removed he only bled out faster and left more for the leeches that remained. Eventually they crawled back into the river, having his body lying desiccated on the sand like some deflated balloon animal.
Glasscock, well, I shall miss him most of all. If ever there was a man poorly suited to the jungle it was he. Whatever else you may say about Glasscock, you could always see him coming. It was this very characteristic that was his untimely demise when he disturbed a tribe of head hunters who have since reduced his magnificent cranium to the size of an apricot. I managed to retrieve it from the hands of these savages. I have always wanted to get a little head, but I never imagined it would be like this.
Now I am the only one still alive. The most that’s left of dear Wankel are the morsels I can pick from between my teeth. When it came to the crunch, the man was simply no match for a spot of Worcestershire Sauce.
My time grows ever shorter. It seems like our expedition into the Amazon to discover the source of the Nile was doomed from the very beginning. Some nameless horror lurks in the jungle, only shaking the Earth with his footsteps and occasionally tearing the air with a gurgling, throaty growl. It is hungry.
There is precious little hope that this letter will ever reach home, but if by some miracle it does, tell Cecily I love her. It’s not true - the woman looks like a badly carved ham - but the least I can do with my last moments is to put a smile on her dear, hideous face.
Yours in Death,