221- The Price of the Head -Hans Conreid

Tired of the everyday grind? Ever dream of a life of... romantic adventure? Wanna get away from it all? We offer you... Escape! Escape! Designed to free you from the four walls of today, for a half hour of high adventure!

A drift in a native canoe, somewhere off the Solomon Islands. Ahead of you, by the unknown terrors of native savagery, and closing it on you, is a white man.

Those gun-boat will smash you to the bottom of the sea. Listen now, where the escape brings you, John Russell's story, the price of the head. The possessions of Mr. Christopher Pellet were these. A bad name in the island, a suit of ducks in which he lived and slept, a continuous thirst for liquor, and a set of fine red whiskers.

And strangely enough, he had a friend, Karaki. Now no man can gain friendship except by virtue of some decent quality attaching to him, and Pellet had none. How then explain the loving devotion lavished upon that drunken root by the gentle native?

This was the mystery at Fuffuti. But mystery or no, Pellet himself became unendurable to the decent, peaceable folk of the tower. Like shots gonna kill you, Pellet. Say, help me, I'd put a bullet in your drunken brains.

Get out! Alright, I'm gone. I'm gone. And the silver aisles, they lived a wench, whose eyes were blue and those were... Hey, Mommory! You missed the fun, Mommory. Mommory! It's to draw hands on me, Mr. Pillot.

You're an offensive. You're an offensive. Hey! Caracchi! Where is that boy? One day, Mr. Howe may be obliged to shoot you. Man, he shoot me. That'd be murder. A murder's fine to our procomedy agent, Mr. Mommory.