The Mountain Comes To Moses

It was like a building was about to fall onto us. The crew collectively gasped. Including Bob the rat, who peeked out from Duq’s sack of pain-inflicting kitchen implements, where he’d been stowed away after being bypassed in the crew selection.

All of a sudden, Dickhead swerved, bypassing us. Could the sixty-some ton whale have been spooked by a miniscule rodent?

Nope. The bastard had bigger, wickeder plans. “He means to wreck the Georgette, leaving us with just this,” Flarq said, tapping the flimsy gunwale of the whaleboat, “so we have no refuge and he can take his sweet time killing us.”

Indeed, leaving us in his wake, Dickhead directed his monstrous snoot at the starboard hull of the Georgette. Moses stood there looking over the rail, his mouth hung open like a mailbox.

“Think he notices the whale?” Nelson asked.

I very much doubt it, but the mountain of water and whale-flesh coming to Moses will likely overwhelm the Georgette unless Moses is capable of thinking of something fast.

My dears, what with the 'Merrikan holidays and all, I have been remiss. Things go on much as they always have here at the Shoppe. My dear snuggs insists on rescuing every desperate stray and puir mite that she sees; only the other morning she brought in a rather adventurous-looking, elegantly dishevelled New Zealander and asked me, face uplifted and hopeful, "might I keep 'im?"

However, the wedding band on his hand and the cordial but firm letter from his firm's lawyers enabled me to convince her that perhaps we should let him get on with his travels and not adopt him. He parted from us quite amicably.

There was a potentially profitable outcome to the negotiations; I have secured a lodging contract from the New Zealander's firm for the next few weeks to shelter travelers who will be in transit, or more likely a form of travel limbo. The first party of New Yorkers have been joined by a second party, females this time, who will spend their time touring the sights.

They have engaged a car and driver for the duration of their stay, so I bespoke an old friend whose cousin, Monty, is quite reliable as a guide and travel companion. They'll have Monty for half-a-day 3 days a week, which seems reasonable, as the full Monty is quite expensive, although promising much more in the way of rugged scenery. They seem quite chummy with the gentlemen New Yorkers, in that friendly-rivalry sort of badinage that manifests in good natured joshes about incomprehensible things like rounders teams and exotic foods. Speaking of which, I shall have to order a few more things from the deli, as one gentlemen has specific dietary requirements. It is no problem to find such items, as Bristol is becoming quite cosmopolitan in the matters of cuisine. I am only thankful that I did not have to learn how to make bagels (or is it "beagels?") from scratch.

I have been warned to watch out for a not-so-young man with blue hair. I can see I shall have to swot up my potential guests so that cordial people are grouped together, and not-so-cordial people are farmed out to lesser establishments in the Bristol public house pecking order.

On second thought in re mountain, perhaps it was Mohammad? Never mind, then.