Someone call Scott Pruitt because I've found a forest that needs to be destroyed.
Father Timothy said this was going to be a delightful mission, bringing the word of God to a remote island of simpletons. He promised camping, roasted weenies over the fire, and fondled weenies when he thought we were all sleeping. Now I'm cold, wet, and hanging upside down in a cave, Father Timothy's hot breath on my neck replaced by that of an island native.
Perhaps this is punishment for my sinful behaviors of late – listening to rock music, resenting my parents for not letting me stay up late to read the Good Book, humping the sofa cushions when I'm home alone. I shudder to think what plans the Lord has for such depravity, but I fear I'm about to find out.
All I know is that if I can somehow make it out of this cave, I'll build a treehouse the likes of which has never been seen. Why waste time on making a signal fire or a boat? A kingdom in the pines is my best chance at surviving this waking nightmare.
These people may be eating anyone they can find, but the crashing of timber as I fell each tree should be enough to cover the explosions of my pant-shitting terror that would otherwise give away my position. I'll be safe in my fort, the dandy boy I am, ready to preach the word of the Lord while these heathens try to break down my walls.
They will, of course, fail their siege as I got too scared and turned off the base destruction setting.