I hear them outside, shuffling around. I can see their shoe shadows under the door, Guccis and golashes from the looks of it. The men are chatting. One of them laughs. You'd think I was at the fucking mall. But now a key is being inserted into the keyhole. Jiggle jiggle. Sounds like an old key. Sounds like lock-rape. The door creaks open, slowly. Bright light sprays the room, outlining in streamers the two hulking forms I take to be my jailers. I feign sleep. I snore. But I keep one eye cracked. |
Woju lookadat! Still out cold! Where did you find him, Lars? He come gida monkeys, sedem loose. Hey. Skinny. Wake up. You wanna me hitem? Looks like you guys already roughed him up pretty good. Has he been unconscious long? Sure seem dataway. How did he get on the ship? We don't want any trouble with the local authorities. He snuk on widda ole seahag. |
Those lying Cretins! Well, all except the part about Anita being a hag. It was those assholes who abducted me from the Argos Bar and Grill Sailors Welcome. (Right now I'm speaking oh-so-softly into a microphone that, against all odds, is still attached to my shirt collar. I'm hoping that the whispered sound waves are being captured by AXM's satellite and relayed to my hard drive in Houston. If you're reading this, obviously they are.) The clown without the accent is obviously a monkey broker from NASA. On the sleeve of his polyester jacket is the space agency's all too familiar logo. Make me puke. His companion I suspect is this ship's captain. Or maybe the first mate. Whoever these two are, I've seldom seen shadier characters this side of Quentin Tarantino. I would kill to know how much money changed hands, and when it changed hands, and where. Damn! This rope is cutting into my flesh. Uh oh. The characters are walking this way. I better shut up now. |