Need Rose's Lime Juice, STAT!

He had an okay point. So I waited a minute to call Dealer Dan back. Turned out it was a minute too long. Cause no sooner did I snatch up the blower than the F-15’d begun a dive straight towards Dealer Dan’s brig.

“Kamikaze!” shouted Duq.

“Cool,” came the voice of Moses over the radio, “My favorite drink.” - Moses, Putative Employee of the Week Elect

Dear saints preserve Moses, he appears to be on course to divide the seas in the immediate vicinity of Dealer Dan's brig, but only for a split second before exploding in an heroic blaze of glory. Oh, if only Gus can relay him the missile-firing sequence so helpfully uploaded by ED R.

Drat, that would be far too easy.

While there are many stories of how the Gimlet got its start, they all agree that it began in the British Royal Navy as a means of preventing scurvy. Over the years, the Gimlet traveled to the United States and enjoyed - along with other classic cocktails such as the martini - great popularity in the 1940s, 50s, and 60s when its fame peaked. Its popularity never really completely faded, however. In the 1980s, the Gimlet transformed into the Kamikaze, the ultra popular cocktail made with vodka, Rose's Lime Juice and Triple Sec -- Mott's, mfr.of Rose's Lime Juice

Moses is making his potentially suicidal move on Dealer Dan's boat; he has stated that Kamikazes are his favorite drinks. That being said, we're going to need a lot of Rose's and ALL of the Stoli in stock, because all and sundry will be raising a glass (or canning jar) in Moses' honor (and preferably not in his memory).

It pleases me greatly that there is a Royal Navy connection to Kamikazes, as they are actually good old British-fashion Gimlets. I never knew that - it's amazing the things one can learn from this Whole Whale Web thingy.

I shall be printing off copies of Gus' "Wanted" poster to post down on the docks - I do hope I don't encounter any rent-boys whilst there, they can be such cheeky buggers (pardon, particularly apt language).



Note to Self: Post down by the Docks. Make copies at that Kinkys place. Avoid rent-Boys. 

Yahoo! News - 'Friendly' Killer Whale Damaging Boats

Wrong species: Gus has posted a scrimshaw of his bastard whale.

Wanted: Dead Or Alive (Armed And Dangerous!)

Here is an artist's rendition of the slavering beast, Dickhead (pardon, language) as he might have appeared on the WMD spy-sat cam immediately after the tragic incident. I apologize for the gratuituous violence implied in the image. In order to lessen the psychological impact, I have used the friendly cartoon character Popeye as a model.

Gus has found the time to upload a wanted poster - it could help him if we posted copies at our local Postal offices and monitored the various spy satellites for a sighting, as he's a bit busy of late.

I wonder how he dares spare the precious moments blogging via air-sea wireless Internet whilst simultaneously being pursued by Dealer Dan's minions, the Tortolan Navy, and dodging "friendly" fire from Moses in the borrowed attack jet. Still, it's terribly sweet of him to keep us informed.

We shall continue with our extremely diverse spiritual endeavours and burn incense, chant, pray skyclad, and invoke all gods, dieties, and saints to intervene. I have a sneaking suspicion that the greatest literary Goddess of all, Machina, will do Her best to muck up the storyline anyway.

Right, Who's In On The Pool?

Owing to Stupid George's unfortunate escape from his bonds (naming no names) the clock is now ticking on the "Day and Time Of Lucky Sue's Sinking" pool.

For the moment I shall not be installing a "jackoozee," since they are nothing but work. Constant vigilance is required in order to prevent hooliganism and loutish behaviour; one trial size package of Mr Bubble and the thing is useless for a week.

There are advantages the "jackoozee" has over the classic Japanese "o-furo" or California hot tub - if you've ever inadvertently or vertently sat on a centrally located water jet, you'll know what I mean.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci Beaucoup

Gus has the instincts of a man who has known and failed to avoid tragedy, travail, and outrageous fortune.

Such as buying a lemon off the lot because the car salesman turned out to be a lovely woman with just the right package of accessories.

On the car, ladies. With a well-appointed chassis.

The S-1 exploding robot squid may be a good deal, but the attractive intern may merely be window dressing. Pity.

What's A Hen Party Without Porn?

My darling chicks, what better way to pass the time of a Monday evening? I suggest you start by asking him to show us his knickers.

Love For Sale

She then produced a laptop computer and opened it up. On the screen was live feed of me. “From your boat,” she continued, “you’ll see what the cameras in the S-1’s eyes see. That way you can be certain you’ve got the right whale. And when your whale swallows the S-1, you remotely detonate the five pounds of C-3 [a powerful explosive, and enough of it to total a destroyer] in its tail.”

Romance is in the air, but is it for the beautiful yet mysterious arms fabricator, or for her high-tech whale-killing giant exploding squid?

I'm rather an "old school" gel when it comes to budding romance in the yarns I follow. And it appears that this yarn is about to "het" up nicely.

I have ordered some roses - bright yellow ones for now, with a few single red ones. In sympathetic magickal terms, I'm propositioning the fates that this budding acquaintanceship might blossom into friendship for poor lonely Gus, and perhaps bloom into romance.

The roses will look lovely on the back bar; yellow bouquets with one single red rose each. Heaven! And when the petals are at their height, I shall make rose liquor.

In the meantime, we still have an unfortunate excess of tequila in stock, so perhaps I'll take a hint from a competitor and serve it from a spray nozzle attached to a portable tank.

A bit more raucous, perhaps, but it seems the momentum in Gus' quest is building towards... something. We might as well be stripped for action and ready for anything (this will probably make nikola's day, if she's not in jail already).

A Man Of More Than A Few Words

Ladies, prepare yourselves for the image of Thesaurus. I shall lay out some lovely old quilts to break your falls; otherwise you'd faint with an audible "thud!"

Played, By Gad! Played Like A Blubbery Harpooned Whale!

MONTEGO BAY, JAMAICA—Late yesterday afternoon, amid high seas, Tortolan naval cruisers Vengeance and Thunder converged on the 64-foot fisherman Lemming, piloted by the outlaw Gus Openshaw, at 18° 32'N/ 78° 04' W.
When the Lemming ignored orders to be boarded as well as a warning shot across her bow, the naval cruisers fired two torpedoes apiece into her portside hull, creating "loud explosions followed by pillars of waters of biblical proportions," according to one onlooker.

Within five minutes, the 110-ton fisherman had disappeared beneath the surface. Neither Openshaw nor his crew were seen. According to Thunder Commander Geraldo Vegtalla, all of them are believed dead.

Thank all the saints and any friendly pagan gods besides, this was a clever stratagem by Gus to throw of pursuit by the Torolan Navy, who appear to be a rather effete bunch absolutely dripping in gold braid and extra lapels.

My dear good snuggs and nikola, the time for grief is not yet nigh.

However, the time for selling several hundredweight of fine tequila is at hand in celebration of Gus' DIY deliverance.

I apologize for my absence in the preceding days; there were pressing matters of business to attend to (ie., some new and creative bookkeeping in order to keep the local constabulary and zoning commission happy about the health spa plans).

However, that was quite a lovely obit in the Tortolan rag; I was nearly ready to frame it but will hold off in the hopes it shall never be needed.

Next order of business: if a very small but determined woman wanders in with another woman speaking an incomprehensible language loosely based on English, please extend all courtesies of the house... to the small woman only.

The very small woman may have any dish or tipple she likes. The larger woman may only have 2 pounds of worst-quality caviar, or 1 entire ostrich egg, scrambled dry. If she objects, please explain "No substitute-o, bellissima habibi." If she asks for a steak, you may comply, but please inform her that she must fetch the meat herself from the butchers'; we have a 55-pound side of beef waiting especially for her use.

Finally, if a handsome travel-worn Kiwi should drop by the Gentlemen's Club Room for a quiet drink, do not let the incomprehensible woman within 50 feet of him, as an order of protection is due to be posted shortly. He may be in need of a manly hanky, however. Try not to drool on him too much, dear nikola and snuggs, as he's a married man (but not dead).

Situation: Hopelessly Surrounded

Gus and the rest of the lively rogues in his crew find themselves in rough waters with danger to the right of them! Danger to the left of them! Danger above! All that seems to be missing is danger below, in this Kiplingesque yarn. However, I suspect there probably is something lurking below the waves just for narrative consistency. Such as, a whale - or perhaps a killer whale or giant squid, perhaps.

Meanwhile, life ashore in our dear little pub goes on. I shall be adding some higher quality wines to the menu shortly; a recent fact-finding trip to a charming Mediterranean clime famous for producing fruit of the vine was most successful. Yours truly sampled wines straight out of the barrel; there is nothing quite like a young, fresh red to really get the heart pumping and the mind reeling with thoughts of good food and love (in approximately that order).

I shall shortly be entering into negotiations for starting a health spa in a disused corner of the grog shoppe - it turns out that a rather smelly old spring nearby (not as famous as the ones at Bath, and yet just as distusting) might be turned profitably from liability (I could never keep the rooms on that side of the inn occupied, owing to the sulphurous emanations) to asset.

It seems that people like to soak in smelly, gassy water and have various bizarre concoctions slathered on them in the name of "health" and "beauty." And they pay. Very handsomely.

Ladies, in a few days time a masseur named Helmut will be arriving - he's very charming and likes to be called "Hank"; he has a bit of reputation as a rake and may try to get up to hanky-panky (thus the nickname, I'll wager). He will handle any of the deep-tissue massages; I shall be taking some courses in something called "hot rocks" massage. I understand it's not difficult to learn; the hardest part to master appears to be getting one's client's hot rocks off. If either of you is interested in taking courses in any of the other massageinist arts, or if you already know how to do any of those whifty New-Agey reflexo-aromato-whacko spa thingies, please feel free to sign up and offer your wares to the health-minded of our patrons and matrons.

Just so that we're prefectly clear on this, my darlings: these are to be massages with no "happy endings" as far as the local gendarmerie is concerned. I don't think my arrangement with the local chief constable would keep us "under the radar" if that sort of thing were to go on.

Speaking of radar, bad job that Gus doesn't have jamming equipment on the former pirate ship Lemming; he might have a chance of escaping in the worsening blow from the ruddy Tortellinis.

Keep A Weather Eye Out

At the moment it seems the first "blows" of the season are well to the west of Gus' current estimated position.

Which is just as well, because unlike in Hampshire, where hurricane's hardly h'ever happpen, they're all too common in the waters around Guava Island.

The WMD spy satellite reports no suspicious massively destructive whales at the moment; however the lights ashore are pretty. The very bright spot at the center point is likely Caracas, and the jewel-like island to the north is probably Puerto Rico, where they make some rather fine (and entertainingly combustible) rums. The running lights of Gus' current sea-going ride are not visible at this resolution.  

All At Sea

"Sea Fever"

I MUST go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. - John Masefield

At last! Sea room and a worthy foe indeed! Do you know, me hearty dearies, I think I shall find a scrivener to do up this poem in calligraphic fancies and hang it in the Club Room. It scans well and has a fine swinging meter; perfect for the manly leather-bound confines of the gentlemen's private bar.

I'm feeling extremely chuffed about Gus's venture now; it seems he's finally found a craft worthy of his seamanship and his quest, that is yet impervious to Stupid George's misguided "helpfulness."

Objects On Map Appear Freakishly Large

The Tortolan Navy's dreadnought "HMS Pinafore" is pictured in this extremely detailed map; there is possibly a typographic error and that is Guava Island to the northeast of Tortola.

Quite possibly I'm barking mad, and Guava lies much farther to the S.S.E, however.

There's something fishy about this map, and I don't mean the little turtle in the boat; there's a Ginger Island, but there is no Mary Ann Island.

Oddly, there appears to be Salt & Peter Islands in the area - members of the Gentlemen's Card Club should be warned to stay well away from there.

Best of luck to Gus finding his way around looking for that B., nay even that D.H. whale (pardon, abbreviated language).

Bob's A-Dying: The Mother Of All Acquittal Parties!

"We will not appeal, Mutherford said, costing a lot of Guavans a lot of money. But then Mutherford produced a document and added, "Because we have an order for the extradition of Mr. Gus Openshaw for trial on Tortola for violation of Chapter XXII, Article VIII of the Penal Code there."

On cue, the Tortolan Navy guys marched towards me jangling with darbies (a local, painful version of handcuffs) and leg irons.

"We got to run, Gus," said Nelson, tugging me towards the back door.

All in, Nelson was right. So I got to run now.

Most excellent and puissant Gus, congratulations! And kudos also to Nelson for being on top of the situation.

Now it is only to make your way to the docks, Tortolan swabbies in pursuit, and see what the others have been doing in the meantime. I hope and trust that the boat is still seaworthy. If only there were a way to get a message to them - it takes time to get marine diesels going from a cold start.

It appears that we're going to get through a very large and lavish amount of Pusser's before the day goes much further: it's time to splice the main brace and celebrate. Today being Thursday, the toast of the day is particularly apropos: "Thursday: The King; honest men and bonnie lassies."

Speaking of bonnie lassies - that Tunette looks like quite a catch... Flarq is obviously sweet on her, so desolation may overtake my staff if we're not careful. Chins up, ladies! It's probably just a fancy passing.

In the meantime, there is much celebrating to do, so Chad the cabana boy had best resign himself to switching out ale kegs and bringing up jugs of rum and tequila from the cellar.

While we wait for the effects of all the grog and tequila swilling to kick in, we had better analyze who these Tortolan lubbers think they are... well. Hrrm. It appears that they are partially descended from pirates. The ruddy Dutch tried to run things, but Bluebeard and Captain Kidd were running their respective pro-active salvage operations from there very early on. Now, however, the island economy is mostly based on lubberly tourism (bah!) and off-shore financial shenanigans... erm, meaning they may have friends in certain black-ops organisations such as Treadstone.

These people are not to be trifled with, so I do hope Gus and his crew have their hustley-bustles strapped on good and proper. Because there's a whale needs killin'.

Here's another old toast to send Gus and his crew on their way:
Sea room, and a worthy foe.

And until the next dispatch from them, we'd best get to partying!

Also Not Recommended

KALISPELL, Mont. - A man who refused to go to court got a jailhouse hearing Friday and then spat at the judge and threw a container of urine at him, officials said.

He was later charged with assault with a bodily fluid; another attempt at judicial influence gone horribly wrong.

Not The Best Legal Strategy

VALPARAISO, Ind. - A man wanted to let a judge know he was unhappy. He found out writing obscenities on court documents might not have been the best way to do so.

Perhaps he should have said it with flowers?

Testimony! 3 Saintly Amici Curiae Keep Watch

It helps to have friends in high places, my dears, so I present St. Julian the Hospitaller, patron saint of:

boatmen, carnival workers, childless people, circus workers, clowns, ferrymen, fiddlers, fiddle players, hospitality, hotel-keepers, innkeepers, jugglers, knights, murderers, pilgrims, shepherds, to obtain lodging while traveling, travelers, and wandering musicians

Some other friends in high places are watching the proceedings on Gus' behalf (or so we hope and beseech): St Anthony of Padua, who pretty much covers everything relevant to the saga of Gus, including amputees, fishermen, sailors, oppressed people, seekers of lost articles, and shipwrecks. And also St Jude, patron saint of lost causes. My thanks to snuggs and nikola for suggesting the above saints.

It seems we're well covered by our saintly patrons. There are some other, rather more robust saints whose patronage covers various kinds of beer, wine, and other bibulous spirits; we shall hold them in reserve (the saints, that is: tipples we have and plenty).

Not that we're excessively churchy ladies at this establishment, but every little bit helps in a storm. And in honor of steadfast Gus' rather successful testimony in the witness stand today, we shall again pour two-for-one well drinks, and seven-for-one not-so-well drinks (pirates only, on the latter, lubbers can't hold their liquor).

The regularly scheduled LEC&TS meeting will be held as per usual in the Ladies' Snuggery, which is now graced by the portrait of the mighty Flarq. Drool buckets provided.

I am thinking of starting a Gentlemens' Card Club in the Club Room, which has a separate entrance to the street. If there sufficient interest, we can arrange to serve beverages and a selection of hot and cold victuals via the serving hatch, thus making it a "no gurlz allowed" sort of gathering. Applications may be made to the Management.

Cast-Iron Alleybye

LONDON (Reuters) - An 80-foot dead whale has been spotted floating in the Solent off the south coast of England and is expected to wash ashore in the next few days -- a rare occurrence in southern Britain, the UK coastguard said on Monday.

This is entirely too close for comfort. Fortunately, it's not the right sort of whale (again: drat and so forth), and my duties and cares here at the Grog Shoppe afford me a fine alleybye.

Would that the same could be said for dear, rumply Gus.