Mugs

The first night we went out in Belize City we got mugged. They were like lightning – knives at our throats, hands in our pockets and jackets, and gone, as fast as they had appeared. We didn’t even get a look at them. Cuddles was furious and beat up some little guy selling dog burgers in the gutter for not speaking english.

The police sergeant roared with laughter when we reported it, it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Sorry.” he kept saying. He called his mates out from the back room where they were playing cards. “Hey come and listen to this.”
“Sorry,” he said to us again, “but please tell my friends where you had your cameras.” We told him “Round their necks!” he shrieked and the whole place erupted in laughter. One guy had to support himself against the door frame, he was laughing so hard. “Sorry, sorry,” he said again, “but tell my friends where you had your wallets.”
“In our pockets.” I said reluctantly, knowing what response this would get.”
“In their pockets!” he screamed, tears pouring down his chubby face.

Cuddles cussed all the way back to camp.