The white dots are blinking above me in Rio Dulce's black sky, but I'm sopping wet and can't even enjoy them. I have slimy vomit residue stuck between my toes and I'm stumbling back to my boat perched on metal stilts suspended 20 feet in the air. 

My head is throbbing and Montezuma's Revenge has me in its tightening vice grips. Just as that truth hits me, something blinds me. 

"ALTO! ALTO!"

I raise my hands. A surge of adrenaline shoots into my heart as I realize a security guard is pointing a gargantuan, black machine gun directly at my chest. 

"Hola-- Soy Americano. Yo ducha!" I shout (in a really bad Spanish accent).

He approaches, the gun nozzle pointed at me.

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First of all, Montezuma's Revenge is awful. The force and velocity of the refried beans and poached eggs seem mathematically impossible for a human diaphragm to produce. Basically, I vomited so hard, I thought one of my ribs broke. 

And yes, vomiting is never fun, but you know what's worse than vomiting? 

Cleaning up your own fresh barf.

If I had lost control of that bag or misguided my vengeance one inch to the right, it would have been a disaster. Vomit and grooved teak don't mix-- not in this heat.

So for eight straight hours, I struggled up the ladder. Down the ladder. Up the ladder. Over and over. Then the diarrhea walk of shame to the community showers.

"Okay--you okay." the security man said, lowering his gun.

And it hits me: the only thing worse than having to clean your Montezuma's Revenge is getting shot with it.



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