Last Potato Chip in Panajachel

Nattily attired in a tight sharkskin gray suit, his vermilion tie jammed inside his waist, fly wide open, the U.S. Consulate approached the microphone to address 50 gringos seeking information about living in Guatemala.

As he began to speak, a scuffle erupted at the buffet table behind the group of ex-pats sitting in folding chairs. Several of them were struggling over the last of the four potato chips that comprised "brunch" for all 50 attendees. Those who had been seated, upon learning there actually was a buffet, leaped to their feet and dashed into the throng of flailing arms and fists.

Suddenly Big Jim lost his grip on the blue Tupperware dish containing the last potato chip. He fell over backwards into Nora, the 2,000-pound lady from Milwaukee. Nora had attended the meeting to complain about the lack of salt and pepper shakers in many local restaurants. "Are these people savages?" she had planned to ask, and not rhetorically.

The Consulate got up, only to slip on a glossy government brochure from 1985 entitled "Help for American Victims of Crime Overseas."

Nora scrambled to her feet and was immediately bowled over by a 60-year-old Californian who had shown up to whine about slow service in local restaurants.

The Chief of Security crawled toward the door to sound the alarm but was trampled by a hundred stampeding Floridians who had just got off a tour bus and heard that there was free beer at the meeting. One Floridian wearing a Bob Marley T-shirt and a black leather motorcycle jacket paused to ask the Chief of Security for directions to the keg, who said that he could not give legal advice and bolted for the door.

Max Nomad, investigative journalist for The Tiki Times, waited for the bedlam to subside. Thirty minutes and eight Cuba Libres later (Max had cunningly brought along a beer cooler stuffed with Flor de Cana 7, a liter of Super Coke, a half-dozen limes and ice), the Chief of Security returned with a pack of hired thugs. They efficiently gagged the rest of the audience and tied them to their folding chairs so the Consulate could continue.

Max, the only reporter there—in fact, the only ex--pat there who was not gagged and tied to a folding chair—was granted the first question:

"If I am attacked or feel threatened by a giant amoeba, either in or on the shore of Lake Atitlan, is it ok for me to shoot it?"

"I cannot answer legal questions," the Consulate gave his stock reply.

"How about Taser it?"

"No comment."

"Stun gun? Poison dart? Photon torpedo? Smart bomb?"

"The State Department position on those methods are being reevaluated, so I cannot comment."

"Can you comment on this?" Max pulled a giant inflatable sex doll from the secret compartment of his beer cooler and inflated it with the hose from a small tank of nitrous oxide strapped to his left leg. The Chief of Security rushed to tackle Max, who blocked him with the inflatable sex doll and ran for the door. Two of the thugs tied the sex doll to a folding chair and gagged it with a huipile.

"So much for advice on living in Guatemala," Max said as he jumped into a passing tuk tuk and headed for the nearest bar.

To Be Continued