Thirty-Seventh find of the Meaning of life Scavenger Hunt

The proof is in the slurred speech explaining the fire breathing to the local villages.

Crash landed in the sands. Waters sick of bourbon breath causing fish to swim funny.

Healers make their rounds in tiki huts; I.V. drips of scorpion venom breaking down the dorsal posterior insula. Surgery in the morning. Still can’t find myself on a map. Haven’t understood a simple howl learning the crazy Latin known as gesture mania.

Road to recovery, paving not in the budget. Island air poisoned by trade winds, sins making bananas taste sweeter. Rehab involves carving red sparrow feeders. Crutches made of bamboo, limping through guerilla warfare trying to outtalk the slayers as a purveyor of the voodoo, trail of tears leading back to the village where medical services are paid in full on the welcome mat. Let the fiscally unfortunate go to the wolves. Beach treaty bringing the sunshine back to the history lessons, cultures is worth a fortune, and such seasons greetings from Normandy. Epiphany ignites the volcano’s poltergeist about to be granted a rebirth. Just in time to vacate and plan to return after their home’s refurbishing.

Loving until it hurts, previous mission doesn’t matter. Screw the chatter of an artifact meant for these gorilla glue fingers, never the trader type but old friends have a rough landing, enchanting a growing village with vessels covered in moon dust. The mistrust is beyond evident, but a dead life makes a steep demand.

Scorpions withsixth-dimensionall venom no less than six are required. Holy fire chases them all but this item number thirty-seven chances are rarer than the arachnids. Fleeing from a hoard but he’s refusing to get on board, lords agree. That is until they confess he is teeming with the venom. Compromise ensures two scorpions and his permanently drugged innards. Another checked box with a divorce by distance haunting the light-speedd jump to victory. Mystery is, it was the only option all along.