KILLER JOHN WHALE
I am writing this to you from on board some
surreal ship where the sinking boards are soaked
with brine, a brine that's mixed with hope, not mine.
There's a blood flow below the aft deck no one at
all can trace. A few dead - very large - fish are
hanging from the hooks. All is quiet but no one's
here. Abandoned Ship? Again like this? Oh why
am I always the one left alone?
I think these fugitive men were having oatmeal
shots, on the back of a girl they'd stolen in
Tangiers. Not for sure, any of this, but it's all
what the dockman told me when last we stopped
and someone knew. Anyplace different than
this, I'm lost. I've been to Madagascar and to
Mozambique, but never been to anyplace I
reckon I remember. Here's the story, as told.
We stopped, just once, for transit and supplies,
the men came on with rifles, they went through
everything they could find and they stabbed,
as well, five men - probably the finest we
had. Instead of death, they draped them o'er
the sides as they left and just left them bleeding
in turn. We only salvaged what we could and
cut the dead men down. Three out of those
five won't ever see another town. I tell you,
really, there's no thrill in this sailing any
more. Everything's gone to hell.
What, what you say, you scabbard bumbard?
Yes, one eye's all I've got. Those bastards took
the other; but this was the good one anyway, and
I can see you - slimy bastard that you be. I can
watch a good watch and see a spider coming. No
worry, your part is clean and sealed. Now here
they be, coming again. Sit back and say nothing
at all - for Christ's goodness sake, let me do
the talking here. With luck, we'll stay alive.