Like a repeat offender with an unexpected parole grant - I waited for my chance to pounce.

We took our lunch by a babbling brook. A small glade had appeared - a welcome respite from the tangling green vines and fookercreepers which built nests on the dark floor of the jungle, crawled up your trouser legs and went straight for the testicles.

Hom-Ken sat his back against a rock a few yards away - engaging in his daily Scrotuai meditation. We hadn't spoken for eighty-four hours. I hated him.

His thick black hair was unbraided and hung lank infront of his tiny, evil eyes, the redness of which peered through the gloom like two toxic strepsils waiting to be consumed by a groggy pensioner.

I held tight the sharpened branch behind my back, tucked carefully into my waistband.

I waited.

After some hours Hom-Ken rose, fixed a stare and moved off. This was my signal to get going.

I had to be careful as we entered the darkness of the jungle again. One hasty, mis-timed jab and Hom-Ken would dislocate my head instantly - then again I couldn't wait much longer. One more quick duck to avoid a vine or fookercreeper - and that pointed stick would go right up my arse.

Either way - I'd be fucked.

Jez