It's nearly all over, don't worry.

Image by B Tal via FlickrDawn's early light caressed our tired faces. We'd started climbing early in the morning, guided by the light of the moon or something, arriving on the final plateau several minutes ago. In front of us, the fountain. It was like a fountain of some sort, with water coming out of the top. In fact, the water was spraying out of the upturned hosepipe of a stone gnome. Nearby, other statuettes of the little people frolicked happily - one gnome tricked another with a joke flower, dispensing splashes of youth-restoring water in his friend's astonished face. Another gnome, his trousers dropped, engaged in an activity not fit for the eyes of ladies or the young. A third dispensed waters from a tiny watering can, and so on. The overall effect was one of stupidity. Despite the many healing abilities the water could offer, I was gripped by an overwhelming desire to destroy the ridiculous fountain in front of us.
 Around me, the party gathered. Looking sadly at the scene in front of us, they captured their fleeting thoughts and prepared to talk.
 "That. Is ridiculous."
I looked at Pinball Ed. He was right, of course, but I didn't like the way he punctuated his sentence.
 "Wait!" The Red Baron yelled, "Where is ze Rat-like one?"
Ze. I thought to myself. You're just saying "ze" instead of "the" occasionally. You're not German at all. Then my anger dissipated as I probed his exclamation - Sergi was no-where to be seen.
 Adventurer Ed flicked open the holster to his revolver, pulling the antique weapon out and searching behind nearby rocks. I approached the fountain, it seemed a good idea to see if it worked.
 I reached out my cupped hands.
 I scooped up some water.
 Then I drunk it and got young again, and things began to go back to normal.
 Emerging from behind a rock, Sergi approached us, bearing a treacherous-looking tray of smoothies. Quickly, Adventurer Ed turned and began to take aim.
 "I found a smoothie bar" Sergi called out, his happiness suddenly evaporating as a bullet punctured his chest. Stumbling, clutching dramatically, he reached the edge of the cliff. Adventurer Ed took aim and fired again, sending the dirty, foreign-looking chap to his death. We all cheered, then bottled up some water and went home.

Why am I still doing this?

Image via Wikipedia

"Didn't you used to write a blog? One with short, unconnected stories?"
 Pinball Ed, his eyes aglow with curiosity, and possibly a little dysentery, was literally on the edge of his seat. Well, rock. In his aglowed eyes, his curiosity burned like a forest-fire, his question the last monkey to escape, filled with wonder and horror.
 "Yes." I replied. It was cold, the nights seemed longer the higher up the mountain we got, and my nipples had hardened and chaffed on my top. I didn't feel like talking, and I was still old and my hearing failed like the brakes on a car that had had the breaks cut so the breaks failed like the hearing of an old man up a mountain.
 "What happened?" He asked, his eyes still curiously lit up.
 "I started to write stories that spanned several days. It was fun at first, I enjoyed the change. It let me talk about selling oranges in the desert, and bears. I liked to talk about bears, back then."
 I turned from him melodramatically, the cruel wind whipping the tear from my eye and hurling it from my face into the maelstrom around us.
 "The stories though. They got out of hand. Too long, spiralling. Strange and stupid."
 "How?" He asked.
We were on a mountain, I was old and we were searching for the fountain of youth. All that had happened was that Max, one fateful day, answered the door. Poor, stupid Max. On these cold mountains, even his wrinkled face was one I missed. I wondered what he was doing, while I scaled mountains to bring back waters to restore our youth.
 Around me, pterodactyls flew in the winds. They didn't come near anymore, we'd shown them off at least. There never used to be pterodactyls...

A small update

Image by sir_watkyn via FlickrThe fountain gleamed. I'd never really seen anything gleam before, not like this. The gleamingness of the whole situation was made all the more impressive by distance. The distance, in this case, was the same distance as one would have to travel to climb a large mountain. This was because the Fountain of Youth was at the top of a large mountain, the bottom of which we were gently fondling.

 The rain had eased up as we approached the centre of the island. Falling around us lightly, forming a fine mist, the waters no longer troubled us. We had climbed a little of the mountain, finding a flat area and setting up camp for the night. Sergi had retreated into a corner, his face not quite hidden from the light of the campfire, planning some foreign trick to betray us for his own benefit. In the morning, provided we haven't been rolled of a cliff edge or force-fed Marmite, we will continue the trek. With any luck, we can traverse most of the mountain tomorrow. But I still feel worried. Perhaps it's nothing, just a nagging doubt I'm slowing the group down.

 Damn my elderly incontinence. Damn it!

In the jungle, the mighty jungle...

Image via WikipediaThere are fucking dinosaurs!
 Musical numbers aside though, our situation looked dire. Fleeing from the dinosaur of dinosauric proportions and attributes, we had made our way through a vast tract of jungle. Eventually, chancing upon a mountain ridge, we had taken shelter in a small cave, the entrance to which was too small for an unlubricated dinosaur to enter. With the rains still battering down, and the the threat of being battered and eaten still raining down in our brains, we decided to spend the night in the cave. It seemed safe, and a good thing for adventurers to do. However, as the sun rose and we awoke uneaten, unmolested and unfit, we find ourselves unable to find our location on the map.
 Shouting in Welsh, further throwing doubts on his apparent Barony of the colour red, the Red Baron made his anger clear on the subject. Sergi, his ratlike, untrustworthy foreign features (I'm still old, I have to be a bit racist and not realise that it's racism) contorted into thought, retreated to a corner like a rat. A foreign rat.
 Myself, wizard Ed and Adventurer Ed exited the cave and climbed to higher ground, hoping to survey the area. The others, after finishing their tantrums, followed us. We surveyed, but did not learn.
 The jungle spread out around us, vanishing into the horizon. Remembering the island had been only a mile-and-a-half wide from the plane, it was certainly impressive view. Adventurer Ed shook his head, his compass held in one hand and the map in the other.
 "Something's wrong with the compass, can't get a direction."
He was right. The compass, while very ornate and shiny, was actually a pocket-watch. Not for the first time, I began to doubt the competence of our expedition leader. Nearby, holding the other copy of the map, Sergi poked at something in his bag. I don't know what it was, but it was probably insidious.
 After a few seconds, he raised his head and pointed off to the right.
 "That way."
We asked him how he knew. He replied he had Sat Nav. This didn't make much sense, but we decided to go with it. Picking up our things, we headed in the direction Sergi pointed, towards the setting moon.

Island, fountain of youth, and so on...

Image by Scott Kinmartin via Flickr The weather worsened as we traversed the island. Taking advice from the locals, who unexpectedly spoke English, we gathered the fountain was located near the centre of the island. Every 30 years, a party of brave islanders would travel to the fountain and return with flasks of water, one drop of which restored the drinker to the age of 18. Of course, the journey was not an easy one - ancient, prehistoric creatures roamed the paths, grander eternal teenhood, savaging any who crossed their paths and preparing themselves for University.
 But first, we had to deal with the weather. Storms of prehistoric storminess roamed the island's inner area. Rains from prehistoric times pounded down upon us, messing up the hair of our group. Sergi, his rat-like features widened in fear, suddenly appeared ahead of. Using his tracking abilities, he had decided to scout ahead and, if possible, betray us. This was his role in our group - in the finest Hollywood traditions, Sergi was the foreign group member who would turn on us and steal our whatever. As always, the fact we'd all come to this island to plunder ancient magics would be ignored in favour of his treachery.
 But for now, Sergi remained un-betraying to us. He was even helping us, shouting loudly that a dinosaur was following him. In fact - Actually, I'm sorry. I'm not writing this very well, am I? This is not a Pulitzer-Prize* winning piece of fiction. Well, I'll try harder.
 The jungle creaked and moaned, repeating ancient echoes that had bounced the hallowed leaves since time began. The trees, their roots deep and long, stretched all across the island, drawing water from the same source as the fountain. Leaves unknown to the eyes of man for thousands of years fell around us, serving as feeble shelter, or unceremoniously, as toilet paper. We had stopped to take shelter, to consult the high-quality map the tribesmen had printed for us in their library. The laminated sheet mocked us as droplets of water ran from the shiny surface. Sergi, having scouted in the army for many years, had been sent ahead, to report to us the lay of the land. The rain continued, drops the size and sharpness of pencils fell and impaled the ground, sending sprays of mud into the air. We did not talk; the ancient rains drowned noise as well as people, and it seemed best not to open our mouths, disturbed flies buzzed nearby.
 In the distance, I fancied I heard a scream, a cry without the wisdom of age exhibited in the flora and fauna around us. It drew closer, and I noticed my companions raise their heads in interest.
 Leaves parted ahead of us; ancient ferns spreading their leaves and opening their passageways. Adventurer Ed reached out slowly, picking up his rifle. My aged hands crawled my body, reaching for the knife in my belt. Then suddenly, the trees gave a final shudder and spat out a figure, his heels flying behind him, his face gripped with fear and splattered in mud. Segi, his visage terrified, sprinted past us. His warning cry was carried back on primordial winds.
 Dinosaur.

*Yes, I'm aware I'm not even eligible for one. I know, it was sarcasm. It's what I do.

Image via WikipediaDipping and diving, doing loop the loops and hiding playfully behind clouds. These were some of the activities we were not partaking of. The plane we were in was to flying what an arthritic man is to gymnastic porn - really crap and stupid. What we had chosen to fly was not the sleek and sexy plane of the rich playboy adventurer, seeking out undiscovered tribes of naked women and fountains that spray gold coins. What we were flying was a caravan, stretched out and held together by tape, with two different wings attached. How we stayed in the air, I'll never know, but I prayed to every God I could think of to keep us up there.

 The Red Baron - who I was now positive was blind - was hunched over the wheel again. His flying goggles fixed in place, his moustache flapping manically under the maniacal, moustache-like flaps of his flying hat thing. Adventurer Ed was nearby, crouched over the passenger seat in what he imagined to be a dramatic pose. Sergi, unfazed, smoked a foul cigarette and cleaned his fingernails with a knife point. Non-adventurer Ed and I crouched in the back of the plane, huddled amongst the crates and the goats and our fears. I had already urinated myself, but being elderly, no-one had noticed.

 After some time - an eternity, or 3 hours, I don't recall which - Adventurer Ed sighted land, pointing through the mist to an island below. Taking the plane down in a disturbingly direct fashion - cutting all power - the Baron guided us to land. A tribe had gathered on the beach to watch, comprised of racially offensive stereotypes, black men and women in grass skirts, chanting and dancing on the sand.
 I wondered what came next.
 Probably another strongly worded cease and desist letter.

A chase scene. Which doesn't really convey itself well in the written medium...

Image by Mαciomhαir via Flickr The car mounted the kerb, sending onlookers diving for safety, and oranges to fly everywhere. Accelerating, it began to close the distance, coming dangerously close to use. The passenger door opened, the occupant swinging out onto the running board. His fedora caught the wind, blowing away and landing on a donkey at a rakish angle, but the passenger didn't notice. Pulling out a Tommy Gun (the kind with a drum like in the films, not the more practical clip), he opened fire.
 "Ha! Sergi know their kind! Sergie vowed never to go on another treasure hunt, he know this happen."
As he spoke, Sergi pulled out a handgun and returned fire. I was confused - despite an obvious accent, Sergi had spoken perfect English until now, and had not once referred to himself in the third person. The Red Baron, hunched over the wheel, moustache emerging from huge flying goggles, drove the car from side to side. I hoped he was taking evasive action, dodging the stream of bullets and pedestrians by design not luck. I'd offered to drive, but because I looked very old, it was decided I would be too slow and not change gears. This had made sense to me, but razed further questions as to why the Baron was driving. Adventurer Ed had pulled a pair of revolvers from his pocket, and was leaning his whole upper body out of the window, returning fire. Frankly, I doubted a man this reckless would make a good adventurer. I wished I'd recruited a Librarian instead.
 Wizard Ed, without a pinball machine, had few transferable skills, so was pulling faces at our pursuers. I'd already decided not to pay him, even though no-one was getting paid for this trip anyway. Maybe I'd pay everyone else anyway, in front of him.
 I, being elderly, was also doing little to help. A packet of boiled sweets in my pocket provided some projectile defense, but so far, had done little to deter our anonymous enemies.
 Suddenly, we span 'round a corner. Burning rubber, the Baron put the pedal to the metal, sending us flying down a side street. Behind us, our enemies crashed dramatically into a firework stand. In a film, this scene would be spectacular, with bright, colourful explosions and so on. However, writing is a much more sombre medium, so I'll simply point out the explosion killed three innocent bystanders, and destroyed the livelihood of the stall owner.
 Bowing our heads in sympathy, we arrived at the runway. Well, we actually crashed into a fence near it - bowing your head while driving is ill-advised.
 Gathering our things, we fled the car for the Red Baron's plane. As we neared it, my heart sunk. I've never seen so much duct tape in one place before. However, shouting and gunfire in the distance warned us that our unknown enemies were still closing in on us, so we reluctantly entered the plane.

The Adventure Begins. Again.

I looked at the motley crew assembled in front of me. Apart from myself, my adventure-seeking team consisted of the Pinball wizard - Ed, apparently- the mysterious adventurer from the bar - also, unfortunately, named Ed - an elderly German man who insisted he was the Red Baron - he had a huge white moustache, so I agreed with everything he said - and a small, ratlike Russian -named Sergi, he had a Tsar Nicholas II styled moustache and goatee.
 I hated them all already. I mean, the Wizard was ok, and he was funding the trip on the winnings on a pinball competition he'd just won. I don't know why, but he explained he'd just gotten out of a very long, acne-leaden, braces-wearing puberty, and wanted to stay forever young in case old age treated him as harshly. I don't know why the rest were on board. Adventurer Ed, I suppose, was in it for the adventure. He explained that he'd been searching for the Fountain of Youth for years, having just uncovered the location. It never occurred to me to ask why he'd recruited me and wizard Ed, but I was used to strange things like this. Sergi, apparently, was his loyal - if somewhat treacherous - sidekick.
 The Red Baron was on board because he was the only pilot willing to fly to the island the Fountain was on. I didn't like the sound of that. But we were getting ready for the off. First, we needed to get to the plane. Behind my elderly head, two mysterious men watched us from the shadows. They had fedoras. And white suits. This wasn't going to go well.
 I always say that, of course. It's true most of the time.

Wizards. I need to meet more wizards!

Image via Wikipedia There were a few tables in the bar with people at them, singles and couples drinking alone, regardless of their company. A thick smog filled the bar, mixing with the depression and fading into the gloom. People talked quietly, huddled over their drinks and their small bowls of peanuts. I sat near the door, an old man recently free. My escape from the wool factory was as dramatic as it was elderly, but I won't bore you with the details. Needless to say, I hope those guards I killed weren't volunteer workers or schoolkids raising money for teddy bears and cookies and heroin, or whatever kids like these days. They probably weren't, they had guns. Good people rarely use guns to herd the elderly.
 The young man opposite me offered a chance for me to reverse my condition, to restore my youth and perhaps thwart the Agency and their sinister care-home. He was a wizard.
 Problem was, I discovered later, my hearing ain't what it used to be. He was a Pinball Wizard, like in that song. We'd just discovered this fact after several minutes of conversation. I know knew why he'd looked so confused by my plan to launch fireballs at our enemies. It also explained why he was wearing bright blue jeans and a white t-shirt tucked into his high waistline. Not mystical at all.
 Still, he was sympathetic. Being a veteran of the pinball hustlings, he understood the dark forces at work and agreed to help me. Unfortunately, he couldn't reverse my aging, nor could he help me infiltrate the Agency care-home again. Unless, of course, it was part of a giant pinball machine, which I doubted.
 A man in khaki approached from the bar. He had a handlebar moustache, broken by a scar down his left cheek, which retreated into his sideboards and head hair, itself hidden under a large hat. He told me he'd been listing to my predicament and had a solution in mind.
 Once again, I'm searching for the Fountain of Youth. Only this time, I'm a really old guy. So I'll probably whine more.