PROMPT RESPONSE: THE BLAME GOES TO A MEDIUM MATEY

Braving the Seven Seas

In search of pieces of eight at ten past nine

There was a strong wind pushing in from the ocean as I struggled to enter the shipping magnate’s office. The door slipped from my fingers on a sudden gust, crashing against the wall, impacting the door’s small square of glass.

I stood, thoughtfully fingering my chin, as I watched a hairline crack weave its way from the top of the pane, through the gold lettering on the frosted panel. The words, “Shipping Magnate” and “Srini”, were neatly parted. “Srini” fell to the floor, with a tinkling sound, then shattered, sending bits of gold and glass in all directions.

“What in hell’s name are you doing?” screeched a darkly handsome man, half risen from behind a giant mahogany desk.

My breath caught in my aged throat. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought the man’s good looks had left me without air, but in truth, I knew it was merely bronchial asthma from a lifetime of breathing the salt of the seas and, of course, emphysema caused by years of smoking my battered pipe.

“It was the gale!” I protested as I gazed upon the man’s gorgeous countenance. “Well, you’re a pretty one, aren’t you?”

“I’m what?” spluttered the man. He looked me over, head to foot.

I tried to appear beguiling.

“You’re not!” he smirked, revenge playing at the corners of his scrumptious lips.

“Not what?”

“Pretty!” he declared, waving a manicured hand to indicate the whole of my personage. “Good God, woman(?)! Why is that parrot crapping all over your shoulder?”

I glanced at my shoulder, realisation and nausea building in my belly. “I thought that was rum and raisin ice cream. I use it on my pudding.”

The man began dry-retching. When he was finally calm, he asked, “What is your business here?”

I navigated my way gingerly through evil glass shards glinting on the floor.

“I need information about Captain Stark. I believe you sold her a ship.”

Agitated, Srini leaped agilely to his feet and circuited his desk. “I can’t tell you — that information is protected by the Hippocratic Oath!”

Suddenly, the man appeared threatening to me. I drew my blunderbuss and pointed it at Srini’s um… blunderbuss. “What are you, moron — a ship’s doctor? Tell me, cur, or you’ll lose your family jewels!”

“Truth be told,” Srini replied, wincing and rubbing the area at which I was pointing, as if he could protect his manhood from a burst of hot shot with his hand, “I’d like to know where that wench is, too. The last time I saw her, she was sailing out of Norway — paid a measly forty-three bucks for a forty-three-million-dollar vessel. I can’t tell you how that came about because Mark Suroviec, M.Ed. said discussing the incident would disclose major plot holes in his story.”

“Yeah, well best you tell the whole truth, Srini. I know for a fact that Captain Stark threw in some out-of-date Tic Tacs to seal the deal. There’s honour among thieves, you know!”

Srini shrugged. “The best I can tell you is Stark and the HMS Rascal left Norway about three days ago. If you find her — tell her I want my bloody money! There’s a mighty reward waiting for you if you hand the bludger in.”

I showed interest.

“One hundred thousand US dollars!” Srini declared importantly, still clutching his blunderbuss.

I fought my way back out into the inclement day, purposefully leaving the damaged door wide open.

Srini rushed over to close it behind me. “Who’s going to pay for this mess?” he whined pathetically.

I called over my shoulder, the furious wind whipping my words away well before they reached Srini’s ears, “Use my granddaughter’s forty-three bucks!” I suggested.

A few of my motley crew battled to keep the longboat steady as I struggled to climb aboard. Choppy white caps flung the bow of the boat upward — then, suddenly slap-slapped it roughly down onto the broiling surface of the bay.

One of my feet misjudged as the boat lifted unexpectedly and I cannoned forcefully into Short John Bronze’s midriff, dispelling the air from his diaphragm, and sending him awkwardly over the side, whacking his bonce on the way.

Two others scrabbled to try and retrieve the hapless moron, nearly capsizing the lot of us. To restore order, I shot my blunderbuss into the air and commanded we be on our way.

Short John was gone and I was saved from having to make him walk the plank when the seas were calmer. He was such an ugly little sucker — seeming all the less desirable by my having spent a few short recent minutes with the pleasing Srini.

To cut to the chase and to avoid plot holes like my tormentor, Mark, we sailed out of Oslo for lots of days and nights, battled our way up, and through, and around, the Arctic Ocean until we reached the Pacific Ocean. It took a long time.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

One day, my first mate cried from the crows’ nest; a very rickety basket stuck up high on a long masty thingy for seeing things far away.

“Thar she blows!” cried the aerial idiot.

“We’s not interested in whales, moron,” I yelled back, checking to see that my other seamen were reinstalling a new plank as instructed — we’d lost the old one when we hit an iceberg in the Arctic Ocean, but that’s another story.

“I mean, I see Cap’n Kristen and the HMS Rascal on the port side ‘bout seven nautical miles!” yelled the about-to-be-planked first mate. “I think her ship is run aground, Sir, er Ma’am!”

Turned out that is exactly what had happened. Captain Stark had scuttled her ill-gotten vessel on the headland rocks of an uninhabited island somewhere off the coast of Papua New Guinea.

I watched Stark through my spyglass as my longboat approached her island. She hopped nervously from one foot to the other while little white-tipped wavelets licked the toes of her pretty leather boots. I could see the wreck of her ship, partially in and partially out of the break, completely beyond salvage.

Poor Srini, his forty-two million dollars was on its way to Davey Jones’ locker.

Captain Stark was straining to see the flag on my ship and just as my longboat slid onto the sand, recognition crossed her pretty face. She ran through the shallows to reach my ride.

“Nana!” she cried delightedly. “I’m so glad it’s you — I was worried that the miserable Srini bloke had sent out his big guns!”

“I’m not so sure that Srini’s gun is that big,” I murmured, hugging my girl. “The reward he offered for your return wasn’t much either.”

I playfully punched Kristen in the arm. She winced.

“It’s okay, Nana. You don’t have to agonize about turning me in for the reward — I have plenty of loot for the both of us. Come and see what I found!”

We trekked twenty metres into the tropical jungle and I sat exhaustedly on a hot rock while Kristen shovelled a layer of sand off her prize; a dirty big trunk of treasure. Gold bullion, ancient coins, jewels and trinkets winked in the sun.

I looked at the sundial on my wrist.

Hah! I had sailed the seven seas to find pieces of eight at ten past nine. What luck!

All I had to decide now was whether, or not, to throw Kristen into my brig and collect Srini’s hundred thousand dollar reward. I fully intended to find my permanent land legs, and this cache and Srini’s dough would fund my retirement beautifully.

Speaking of beautiful, I wondered if Srini could possibly be interested in me and a “quid pro quo kind of arrangement”😁. After all, he must be feeling the pinch having lost so much money on the HMS Rascal!

Hmm.🤔

Mark Suroviec, M.Ed. tells a ripper of a tale about a rascal, a Srini, and a dirty big boat:

Kristen Stark deserves to walk the plank for this rubbish. Read it anyway — you’ll spurt your lunch through your nostrils:

I had better give Srini some airtime — after all, he unwittingly had the leading man role in my rubbish: