Them there Scott Of The Ants-All-Over-His-Arctic Roll types are a funny old lot.
There you are, playing twister and shoving your ladybum into fatboys faces (NOT, I stress, fatboys fæces, which is something two women do with a cup, apparently) when suddenly, a knock-knock-knockin' on the cabin door comes ole Biggie Shackleton.
And what does Kodiac Jack want with the nubile young teens?
A cup of coffee and a fag, and a bit of exposition about the lurkage of frozzen germanic zombies of the Third Reich persuasion!
And then what? He derides the caffeine beverage then strops off and sets up a glowing golden beacon of a tent and stuff his cakehole with hot soup! Hot soup! He didn't even need the coffee, the leeching git!
Anyhoo, he must have accidentally left a packet of owl beaks behind, for no sooner as fatboy announces he's "going outside for a shit", it's down the hatch and instant nymphomania. There he is, mid-dump, when he's straddled by a strumpet and shagged on the shitter!
And as a modern, protective, loyal type, once he's chucked his muck, he's off back inside to brag about his nobbage, leaving the wench alone in the outdoor toilet shack, to be yanked into the cesspit by nipsy obsessed Nazi's hiding in the toilet.
Must be a German thing.
Anyhoo, once faced with an army of skin-shedding SS reanimatory types, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do...
...stay and protect the cabin, and send the gals off to trek back to the car.
Odd thing about corpsified concentration camp colonels - they race at high speed at you, then once there, queue up for a one-on-one punch up. Except the high speed racing must take it out of 'em, coz when it comes to the führers fistifcuffs, they can only swing their arms really slowly, thus allowing Our Hero to overcome superior numbers.
"Yikes! I's been bit!"
"Don't worry - you's a jew! They won't want a zombie jew in their ranks!"
True - and perplexingly, these Nazi zombies have a soft spot for jewboys, for rather than subject them to The Final Solution, as long as you hand over the pennies from the cellar that have been there for, like, a million years, that they can't be arsed to pick up themselves, you're free to go, regardless of your Torah based theology and the turkish delight snipperies.
Unless, of course, you drop a dubloon on yer glovebox. Then you're for the high jump.
Which is always safely avoided by the judicious use of falling into a deep bed of feathery snow.
Aw, bless.
