They Call Him Borgia

To this day the taste of gin reminds me of coerced pygmy hunting, a grotesque past-time I was obliged to attend after my mandatory wedding to the princess of a prominent sultanate. My disappearance resulted in a manhunt that only ended after I was able to acquire a white shrunken head bearing my likeness, a gruesome trinket that sufficed to satisfy the Belgian mercenaries that had tracked me into the darkest hells of the Congo.

Two juntas and a massage parlor later I telegraphed my thanks to my resident procurer, Sven Svensen of the Stockholm Natural History Museum, for obtaining the authentic shrunken head which likely had belonged to an unfortunate member of an Italian film production crew cannibalized in the Amazon.