I wake to a hum of pain about my body. There was nothing enormous to lift in the park last night, so instead I performed a series of exercise and feats beneath the full moon.


When exhaustion claimed me, I fell to my knees and reconsidered my vows of adventure.

Then I drank some free beer that I was given for engaging the local liquor shop in rare conversation about beer and breweries. It is good to the Champion of Murderbeers sometimes…

Now it is 07:30; time to rise and cleanse myself, before packing my bags and collecting up my beer for a 09:00 bus. It will take nine hours to reach my destination. I dislike the prospect, but am looking forward to being driven through New Zealand.

I leave in good time. For once, I am organised. It should be simple; I walk the perimeter of the park until I reach the river. I don’t know exactly where I am to pass over the river, but I will cross that bridge when I come to it. Literally.

08:40 arrives and I have yet to find the bus. I have taken a wrong turn. Hurried now, beer jangling atop my bag, I turn around and head back to the park. I turned too early and have been walking the wrong way for five minutes – I don’t have this time to waste!

Eventually, with just 10 minutes until my bus leaves, I locate the bridge. In my hands, the beer cheers with victory. All is saved! Or so I think.

Everywhere are steel bars. This part of Christchurch is impregnable – it is sealed for reconstruction. This bridge cannot be crossed. My body starts to do whatever it does instead of panicking. I am going to miss the bus.


Which of you bastards is the God of Earthquakes? Whomever it is, a curse upon you!

For a moment, I consider surging through the water, but realise the bars seal in the far shore as well. This damn earthquake! Is there nothing it won’t ruin?

Half-jogging now, I stumble to the next crossing. Dodging traffic, I traverse the river and jog back along the shore again. I have 5 minutes left.

Dripping with sweat despite the New Zealand morning chill, I half-resign myself to failure. Then I remember that a Guildsman never fails. A Guildsman merely redefines the parameters of success and then bellows loudly until people leave him be.

I fear that no amount of bellowing will hold the bus back. I must place my faith in my calves.

As I round the corner, my watch mocks me. “Three minutes left”, it warns; “Lucky you enjoy running” it adds. If sarcasm has a colour, it is turquoise.

In the distance, an orange light blinks outside the museum. An indicator. The bus! It has yet to leave! I surge onwards, my grasp on my beer the only thing firmer than my resolve to catch this bloody vehicle.

Minutes later, I am swinging my bag into the belly of the bus and clambering aboard. It is 09:00 exactly when I take my seat and there I stay…until 18:00.

At which point I arrive…in Queenstown…THE ADVENTURE CAPITAL OF THE WORLD!

About the Author
Ed Gamester is a silly man who lives in the United Kingdom. He is the harbinger of Ghost Squad, singer of Gay Bum and author of A Rum Run Awry. He fights, kills and dies for TV and films, and gallivants around the place wrestling, drinking and lifting things for glory and profit. Where Ed treads, there stamp the boots of the Guild. Ed does not wear glasses, but feels this photograph makes him look more intelligent and artistically talented than he is. Feel free to contact him: he is disappointingly affable.

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