Except me. I hardly paid it heed. That .357 Magnum I’d gotten off Nelson, I was emptying it into the bastard. I was fully aware bullets couldn’t do squat to his ass. But you know, sometimes, when a whale’s ate your wife, kid and arm, you just want to shoot him anyhow. Cost me my eyebrows and most of my arm hairs in the fire. Half-hour later, we’d got it put out, but the deck was dark as night from smoke. Also, all our computerized engine controls and navigational crap had crashed.
D*ckhe@d's pod was long gone of course. But unless they’re going ashore for dinner in Venezuela, they’re heading south. And we’re on his tail.
Unfortunately, with lights and sirens going bonkers, a police boat is on ours.
Whatever will Captain Gus do this time? He'd best come up with a suitable gift for the jumped-up little naval wannabees in the Venezuelan Coast Guard. Dear me, a boat full of wannabee pirates hauled to by a decommissioned shrimper full of wannabee commodores dressed to the nines in gold braid and brass buttons.
Such a predicament. A little Peruvian marching powder liberated from one of the yachts many (and rather mysteriously well-hidden) little nooks and crannys might get Gus off the hook.
Pity about the helicopter. Dear Gus' whale-killing expedition was starting to look like a going concern until that idiot Stupid George "helped" by blowing the chopper to smithereens.
I don't think the Captain's skint yet, but have no idea how he'll blow off the local gendarmerie.
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