Allan Guthrie Week: "To Live and Die in Bolivia"

The strangest thing happened to Allan Guthrie on his return to Philadelphia on Friday. While stepping off the Amtrak train at 30th Street Station, he failed to mind the gap and tumbled forward, striking his head on a sewer main. When he woke up 14 hours later, he was convinced that he was no longer Allan Guthrie. Instead, he believed he was "El Muerte," a Bolivian hit man. He claimed that he was unable to speak English, only Portugese. Which makes no sense, because they speak Portugese in Brazil (and Portugal, of course)--not Bolivia. But you couldn't tell Sunshine... I mean, "El Muerte" that. After three hours of fevered grunting, I was finally able to reach a Portugese translator who agreed to tag along with us for the day. You are all in a world of shite, and soon you will die, El Muerte complained when we were finally able to understand him. Already, this was shaping up to be a winner of a day.

On the agenda: A little sightseeing in historic downtown Philadelphia. But "El Muerte" would only follow us at a distance, ducking behind telephone poles and alt-weekly honor boxes. You are in a world of shite, and soon you will die, he would growl every so often. We strolled through Rittenhouse Square, arguably the most swank city block in Philadelphia, but El Muerte acted as if he were under the command of a military junta in Latin America, jumping behind bushes and attempting to kill unsuspecting passersby with a white plastic spork. Lunch at the trendy Marathon on the Square was no better. El Muerte ordered pig brains, and would accept nothing else. The waitress calmly explained that no, there were no pig brains on the menu. El Muerte responded (via our translator): You are in a world of shite, and soon you will die. Then he tried to kill her with his spork.

Lunch aborted, we ended up down at Penn's Landing, where El Muerte attempted to swim across the Delaware and hijack a nearby mothballed battleship "in the name of Lothian and Borders." This was when I knew that Sunshine's real personality was slowly creeping back.

This was confirmed when we strolled in front of Independence Mall, and, rather unexpectedly, El Muerte stripped naked--except for his mirrored sunglasses and khaki baseball cap--charged at three rangers of the National Park Service, screaming incoherently. The rangers fired their taser guns, racking El Muerte's pale body with thousands of volts of non-lethal electricity.

After the smoke cleared, and as the scent of voided human bowels wafted across America's birthplace, I knew Sunshine was back. Because he looked up at the National Park rangers, smirked, and said, "Is that all you got, ya cunts?"