The following was found in a suitcase in my attic.  All evidence and the musky scent hint at this being a genuine and undiscovered testament to one of the greatest secret operations ever carried.

  I hereby reprint the brave man’s words verbatim in order to finally stamp his place in history.  At least two of the pages appear to be stuck together with toothpaste and he didn’t spellcheck it, but I’ll fill some stuff in.  One or two names have been changed to increase my google hits.

The Human Terrapin Vs The Smurf Nazis.

 The date: 1944

 A time of: WAR!!!

 Yes: WAR!!!

 WAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR:!!!

 The Place: Happylovelyland

 My Mission: To defeat the greatest menace known to man.

 That Menace: The Smurf Nazis.

 Time of day: Brunch.

 WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA:RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!

   This is the private log of Secret Service agent Sebastian Michael Bolton Hardcore…  Or, as the papers and the ladies know me: The Human Terrapin.  My secret superpowers are renowned and are also the cause of several lawsuits regarding my definition of secretness.

  I was recently parachuted into the village of Hot Naked Teens a few weeks ago and have been moving from hedge to hedge in order to approach my target unseen.  So far I have crouched in ninety seven different hedges and advanced a total of four hundred yards.

 Oh, by the way, it’s: Tuesday.

 Did I mention: That?

 I have been ordered by Commander Anna Kournikova Nude to record all observations in neat tables.  So far I have observed:

 4 owls.

 3 of either mice, voles, or mittens.

 1 something with the most darling little chirrup.

 1 something that ate the chirruping thing.

 984 pages of discarded pornography.

  I will apologise in advance to the commander for the lack of a graph as one of the owls took my ruler.

  Now I’m even more inspired to complete my mission successfully… chiefly because I used up all my suicide pills poisoning the owls.  I’m not sure if it was to get revenge for my ruler or whether I have a problem.  All I know is that the mice, voles, or mittens, are following me and bringing me nuts.  I have an allergy.  They may be agents of the enemy.

  It is time to advance another hedge.

  Wednesday: WAR!!!

  I had to advance two hedges as the last one I entered was full of rotting owls.  In a moment of irony this meant I accidentally arrived at my target, something I had originally mistaken for a Burger King.  Imagine my surprise when an assortment of mushrooms with little doors hove into view.

Note:  Commander Anna Kournikova Nude has asked me specifically not to use the word “hove” in my reports.  Commander Anna Kournikova Nude is having sex with someone who isn’t Mrs Anna Kournikova Nude.  Mel Gibson also told me he killed Jesus.  Thus, I feel, morally, that I can use the word hove without sinking to his level.  Mel Gibson told me it was SPECIFICALLY Commander Anna Kournikova Nude that killed Jesus.  Thus I shall also use… er… “forsooth”.

  I forsooth the little mushroom houses.  I also forsooth the décor… and I knew, from the little swastikas woven from kitten’s hair, that these were Hitler’s smallest helpers… the Smurf Nazis.  They soon hove into view… a tide of them… marching in perfect order.  So many adorable little arms raised in gestures that made me feel a bit uncomfortable… I mean… really… they were so very cute… but… that whole arm thing… you know? Awkward I forsooth.  

  This does make me ask an important question: Can something be small and blue enough that you can look past its morals?  I mean… who among us… if, you know… the chick’s hot enough… could… well… ignore the fact she doesn’t really like… erm… “certain people”?  It’s just like dating someone with a disability… you learn to look past the missing arm to the hot chick beyond… and if sometimes the stump freaks you out during sex… you just need to focus on the titties and everything will be alright.

  Time: Big hand on 4, little hand on 11

  I have spotted him.

  At first, I thought they handed me the wrong dossier.  I couldn't believe they wanted this Smurf dead. Third generation Toad School, top of his class.  Made in Korea , Airborne.  About a thousand Christmas decorations.  Etc, etc...

  I'd heard his voice on the tape and it really put a hook in me.  But I couldn't connect up that voice with this Smurf.  Like they said he had an impressive career.  Maybe too impressive...  I mean perfect.  He was being groomed for one of the top slots of the Smurf Village.  General, Chief of Staff, Concubine, anything...

  In 1934 he returned from a tour of advisory command in Vietnam and things started to slip.  The report to the Joint Chiefs of Staff and Captain Birdseye was restricted. Seems they didn't dig what he had to tell them.  During the next few months he made three requests for transfer to Cutesicle training in Fort Benning, Georgia .  And he was finally accepted. 

  Cutesicle? He was 38 years old. Why the fuck would he do that?

  1936 he joined the Smurfal forces, returns to Vietnam … did some touristy things… couple of temples… rode a moped… ladyboys… that kind of thing.

  Oh… wait… I get it now… they probably wanted him dead because he was a small blue Nazi… A lot of folk have a problem with that.  I can kinda see their point… but god… he’s cute…  And how the hell did they ever find an armband that small?  A mouse could use it as a cockring for Christ’s sake.  

  I line up my sights on Pappenfuhrer Smurfler’s cat testicle-sized head… They musn’t be able to save his adorably tiny brain.  One shot…  One kill…  One tiny blue Jackie O needing to answer some awkward questions at the dry cleaners.  My finger curled around the trigger as if caressing the loins of a lover.

  Slowly I increase the pressure… I know my rifle about to empty its load… Feels like prom night all over again… What was her name… back, back before the war, before all this horror and bloodshed… before I lost my joyful innocence…  Oh what was her name…  Oh yeah, Mr Wilkins.  I pull the trigger.

 What a horrible mess. Blood everywhere… Tiny little bits of blue leg spattering my the ground.

  “Vhat das fuck did you do that for?” asked Smurfler, strolling over and inspecting the nasty mess.

  “It ain’t my fault… I was aiming at you… little fucker must have crawled in there…” I shrugged and stared at my feet.

  “It… it reminded… reminded me of mein mother…” gurgled the bits that remained of my victim.

  “You spent nine months getting out and now you decide to go back?” I asked him.

  There was no response.

  “Rude little fucker” I muttered and poked him with a very small stick.

  “Vhen their brain falls out their ear it usually mean they ist dead” sighed Smurfler.

  He kicked his deceased comrade a few times to demonstrate.

  “Hey, fuck you Einstein, it’s not like I’ve shot one of you before…” I mutter, the little bastard making me wish I had brought more than one bullet.  Perhaps I’d taken that “one shot, one kill” bit a tad too literally.  “Anyway, it’s his fault.”

  “He vas nesting.  He vas about to give the birth” gestured Smurfler.

  “But he was a dude… look at his adorable tiny blue dismembered wang” I said, flicking a length of miniature fleshflute at Smurfler.

  “Us Smurfs do not breed das way… We Pappa’s zuck the Smurfette eggs up our vhrobbing gristle like the coke into das stockbroker… only lower down.” 

  “Oh… That explains it… I… I always wondered… math didn’t add up otherwise… only one chick… you’d never be able to make enough babies…” 

  “Not a worry with you around dumbkoff… Zee? Look at das shit…” said Smurfler as he started collecting tiny bits of adorable Smurfoetus.  “Ve’re pro-choice man, but even I vinks this was over doing it… Ve didn’t spend all das money on the vokey-vokey-zucky-zucky machine for the removings of the Smurfoetuses just to go back to das old vays.”

  “Quit trying to corner my racket bitch” growled Smurf-ex the adorable amoral abortionist.

  “Vell… at least ve have the food” muttered Smurfler.

  “YOU BARBARIANS” I scream in horror… imagining Smurfoetus pie.

  Smurfler sighed.

  “I mean you, you fuckhat… String vim up” he shouted, twitched his little moustache.

  The last thing I remember before I mercifully blacked out was something wriggling in an orifice. There was the ominous sound of dental floss unspooling.

  No idea what day it is: WAR?

  Hot… very hot.  Appear to be hanging over a fire.  Also appear to be threaded like a bead on a necklace.  There is no small amount of pain involved in both of these problems.  After passing through my gastrointestinal tract all trace of minty flavour has faded from the floss.  Decide reasoning is the only choice.

  “Cut me down and I shall utterly be your bitch” I try.

  “You make zucky-zucky?” asks Smurfler.

  “Oh god yes” I say.

  “Ha, ve already have das machine for that.”

  “But will your evil machine cuddle afterwards?”

  “Point…” admitted Smurfler “I do like das cuddlings, although I have just comes out of ze long term relationship and thus do not want to get the tied down…”

  “You can only call me when you want me” I try, remembering all those morse code messages sent from the bush.

 *Note: Upon returning home I discovered that I wasn’t being given my orders by a Sergeant Marjorie.

  To make it worse whoever it was had given me the wrong piece of wire on purpose and I’d in fact been sending dirty dashes to Stalin.  I told him he sounded pretty, he called me a class-traitor.  I sent him a join the dots picture of me naked, he sent some people to kill me.  It was a thing we had.

  It was just a summer fling.  I never heard from him again after he tied the other end of the wire to a brick and threw it in the river.  I’d been coquettishly twirling my finger in the wire at my end.  Took it right off it did.

  We agreed to purge other people. 

  Smurfler smiled and tied an adorable blood-soaked apron around his neck.  As he approached me it was hard not to be touched by the sheer dinkiness of his rusty carving knife.

  “I like the soft meat” said Smurfler conversationally.

  Day: I don’t care right now, I really don’t.

  Smurfs have been mining my colon.  My right buttock is almost hollow and the numerous matchstick props are digging into organs.  All I hear is muffled whistling and the sound of pickaxes.

  Could I please die now God?

 Day: Ow.

  Both my buttocks are now depleted.  Blue weebles bloated on my posterior are staggering around the place.  They are getting more casual.  This may be my chance to escape.

  Five minutes ago dynamite was used to uncover a rich seam.  I am now emitting a thick column of smoke.  Tiny ponies are being led in.  Their tinier shoes have not been warmed first.

 Day: Mother’s.

  If I open my mouth tiny helmet lights reflect on the wall opposite.  It’s quite hypnotic. 

 Day: of Judgement.

  Inspiration teabags me.  In a sudden blinding flash I know how I can escape and, just possibly, still complete my mission.

  Afternoon: About 3.

  I clench violently.  At first there is nothing but the sound of pickaxes continuing.  Suddenly I hear the creaking of matchsticks at full strain.  When the props suddenly break it’s the most refreshing sensation.

 About: 3.15

  The low moaning and whimpering has faded to only a murmur now.  Somewhere inside a tiny blue arm twitches its last.  I begin to swallow the dental floss, using my jaw to pull me along.  This may not be pleasant but it’s my best hope.

 About: Hammertime.

  Yeah… I was right… not pleasant.

  One minor problem I discovered after finally working my hands free of my bonds is that they too have been mined out.  I believe this may have been reason it was so easy to work them free and also may have been the source of the jerky.  This is especially annoying as I have worked my way to the knot and now find myself short of ideas.  In a last ditch effort I shall hope that spinning myself round and round on my central axis will separate the floss into single threads and thus weaken it.

 Can’t Touch: This?

  Not only did that not work, it also was possibly the least pleasant part of my time here. 

  But wait… what is that rustling sounds… My god… it’s my mice, vole, or mitten friends… they… they have come back for me… they are chewing through the floss… I AM FREE.

  Find life both anticlimactic and especially miserable.  Can no longer sit down comfortably.  Can also no longer smoke as lungs are currently being used as tents for an adorable little Smurf rave.  Placate self by repeatedly hitting tents with tennis racquet.

  Reinsert lungs.

  Smoke.

  Cough up tiny glowsticks.

  A loud cough echoes around the room and many mice, voles, or mittens, cower behind me in fear.  They have learnt to fear that cough. 

  “You stop right there… you’re mein mine…” growled Smurfler as he strode into the room. 

  “Oh he does look tasty” giggled a blonde-haired Smurf.  Smurfler has his hand down her top and fondled tiny blue boobies.  Nipples smaller than fly cocks stood proud beneath a sleazy crop-top. 

  “Get them my mice, vole, or mitten, friends” I screamed and tried to gesture at Smurfler and his slut.

  My arm flopped in an unpleasant liquidy fashion.  Several mittens vomited.

  “I vink you’ll find all fear me… and rightly so… now… you shall die.”

  “Get ‘im mein Pappenfuhrer” cheered the hussy as he used his free hand to punch me in the eye.

  “Awww” I said as he embedded his let his little blue fist in my eye.

  “Owww” he said as I bit his little head off and chewed it heartily.

  “Take me now” said the hussy.

  “Did you use protection?” she asked.

  Nine months later something punched through my right testicle and I’m now a father.

  That’s how I won the war.