It was a strange mission and details of it were kept secret even from the
climbers. The team chosen were all experienced, veterans of the Himalayas,
and set about reaching base camp with a unifying sense of professionalism
and a common desire to get to the end, wherever it was.
At base camp they were told they were to climb Peter’s Knob.
‘Non heard of dis one,’ said Pascal Piste, the team leader.
‘It’s a penis, gentlemen,’ replied the Base Camp co-ordinator: ‘my name is
Peter and the penis is mine!’
The tent was silent for a moment for this was an astonishing thing to hear, but
then one by one the elite climbers began to laugh.
‘You can laugh all you like but tomorrow morning you begin my ascent. I
commend your aptitude and skill and wish you all the luck in the world.’
‘Mes amis,’ spoke Pascal. ‘Le Knob de Pierre, c’est dificile, mais un climb est
un climb, non? Nous must travail et succeed, oui, oui?’
‘Yes, wee,’ said the climbers and the next morning they allowed themselves to
be miniaturised and set to work.
It took seven arduous hours, jagging and faltering amongst bumps and
crevices, vein cracks and old love scars, but eventually they arrived at Peter’s
Summit, where they planted their flag.
Peter looked down at them disdainfully, and with a series of monkey like
scratches sent them plummeting into a dark abyss.
‘Never said anything about planting a flag you egotistical amateurs!’ he cried.
‘Are we in a cave?’ asked climber Two.
‘It’s warm and the odour is profound,’ said climber Three.
Climber Four kept coughing, and Pascal voiced what surely they already
knew: ’how do you say dans le postérieur dans Anglais, mes amis?’
‘It sounds almost the same in English,’ they said, before a terrible thing
engulfed them all.
