November story - #18
The rotorblades of the helicopter slowly stopped turning as the pilot was sure his craft wasn't going to sink into a bog. The incident commander jumped out and walked the short distance to the old shieling hut, above the deep cleft at Dibidil. "Can somebody explain, please", he said, exasperated and angry. "Why would anybody want to do something like that??" He pointed into the hut. Piled up inside were what looked like bicycle saddles. Pungent. Fishy. Oily. All had been cut open, with bags of white powder visible inside. The smell was overwhelming, nauseating. "What a waste of good guga".