Please heed my warning!!

Shelley,

Listen, I have something I have to tell you about Aruba. Some people call it urban legend, but I have been there. I know. You mentioned that Darren, and I quote, "always has to have some type of city to explore". Although I applaud his exploratory spirit, in Aruba it could get you both into situations that defy explanation. I hope you understand where I am going with this. Oh, yes. The supernatural. I was not a believer, until I visited Aruba. For it is definitely super, and it is DEFINITELY not natural. The downtown area in the capital of Aruba is pretty cool, to the uninformed casual observer. The truth of it all is that the whole island is teeming with the evil spirits of the ancestral founders of the island. The locals like to tell you that Aruba is "One Happy Island", that everyone relaxes, has a few drinks, and Aruba becomes this instant utopia for all who visit. I prefer to do my own research. For the love of everything Holy, I wish I hadn't. The folklore that you do not normally hear about is what I would like to share. One night, I set out to gain knowledge which would hopefully explain the vibrant, almost electric, sensations I was experiencing from the moment we landed in Aruba. Initially, I thought it was the Ecstasy tablets that I took when we left Miami International that I washed down with some Jose Cuervo, but that definitely was not it. No, something was wrong on the island, and I needed to know what it was. My carefully crafted questions led me to a dilapidated lean-to in the dark side of town, where I was instructed to knock thrice on the rusty, corrugated piece of sheet metal that was serving as a door. What followed shook me to my very soul. A man slid the "door" to the side, revealing the one room which comprised the entire dwelling. Furniture that was not made with driftwood and used chewing gum was made entirely of wicker. The walls were completely covered in indigenous artifacts, skulls of various animals, and velvet posters of Elvis and of puppies playing poker. Illuminating the room were roughly 43 candles, strategically placed to scare the darkness away from all corners, as well as to create a strange combination odor of lilac, cinnamon, sea water, and otter droppings. The man looked at me, and as the candlelight reflected in his one glass eye, said, "Please come in. Would you like a roofie?" After debating this internally for about 7 seconds, I politely declined. I extended my hand, and said, "My name is Eric, and I come seeking knowledge." He turned towards me as if to shake my hand but unfortunately could not, as his hand was missing and in its place was a 4-pronged garden rake bound to his infected forearm stump with neon green twine and a torn neoprene sleeve. He said, "My name is Juan Encarcion Jose Jiminez Lugo Menendez Smith, but you can call me Vicki". He then turned from me and shuffled towards the middle of the room, which was painful to watch as his legs were not human legs but makeshift limbs; one was an ironing board stapled to his hip and the other was a well-traveled bowling pin. After collapsing into a chair he motioned for me to do the same, gesturing towards the wicker chaise lounger directly across from him. As our eyes met, he stared at me intently. After about 35 minutes (in which he did blink once) he said to me, "You come regarding unsettling vibrations you feel, no?" As I slowly nodded, partially out of fear, and partially because my whole body had fallen asleep due to the odd angle my spine was perched at, he nodded in agreement. He said, "I will tell you everything. For some reason, I feel I can trust you, plus your cologne is simply enchanting. Is it Polo, or Obsession by Calvin Klein?" This thoroughly confused me, as I was not wearing any cologne and at one point while walking that night I had my leg peed on my a stray lemur. I did not have the heart to tell him this, so I simply said "Polo". Again, he nodded satisfactorily, proud of his perceived olfactory prowess. He leaned towards me, and began to whisper "Closer, closer" while motioning for me to lean in as well. As we approached each other, he kept whispering "closer, closer" over and over. Then, all of a sudden. Bonk! We bumped heads. He recoiled in horror, shouting "Too close!". He then ordered me out of his house. I attempted to apologize, as well as protest my ejection. But it was all for naught. When I stepped out into the dark, he shouted, "Eric, you yankee infidel!" As I spun in excited anticipation, hoping that maybe he had changed his mind and was going to invite me back in, he spat on my chest and threw six rotting kumquats at my feet, then slammed the metal sheet shut. In the distance, I heard a bleating goat. Which was almost immediately followed by the sound of a pack of wolves tearing the goat limb from limb. I returned to the hotel, had two strawberry and banana daiquiris, and ordered a ham and cheese sandwich, with explicit instructions to cut it into triangles and not two rectangles. Five days later, we flew home. So please, be very careful.

Cornelius