Battlestations

I have just received a communication from the rugged New Zealander's firm that our next guests are due to arrive any moment. Such a to-do. It's ever so wonderful and exciting, although our current guests are not so much excited as appalled by the prospect of being cooped up for several weeks more with the imminent arrivals. On the one hand (deario!) they're happy he's arriving, and on the other hand (alas!) they're apprehensive. So they've requested a sort of wake be held in the Gentlemen's Card Room for the end of the pleasant part of their stay. They're in there now, drinking quietly and telling each other tales of derring-do, great deeds, and fine beverages consumed.

The mask and strait-jacket are all ready for the gentleman, and I've been asked to have the local quack stop by and see to a few minor injuries the lady suffered during the course of her trip.

Some of them are rather troubling.

I shall put her in the rather frou-frou front bedroom... the one with the stout lock on the door. Her companion shall be found a place in one of the old attic rooms, or perhaps I'll claim we're overbooked and send him down to Dirty Dick's Last Resort (it's a rather raffish place run by a complete prat who spends far too much time vacationing in Florida).

As a special favour to some of the employees of said firm, I've been asked to remove all hatracks and mirrors from the premises. They seem to find this request rather amusing, but if it makes them happy, I'm quite willing to comply.

However, this will make putting on a bit of rouge and powder a decidedly approximate activity.

There they are, the dears. I do wonder about that tennis-playing man with a colander on his head, howsomeever. And it appears that Bob's hospital bed of cheese-enhanced recuperation did not make the final cut.

Ay, me, for the good old days...

No, no, I'll be all right. It's always a bit sad when things change, but on the other hand (BOTHERATION!) things are ever so different now for Gus.

And different is so close to difficult, is it not?

Replicant Rats (Note To Self: Check On Bob)

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Rat cells grown onto microscopic silicon chips worked as tiny robots, perhaps a first step toward a self-assembling device, researchers working in the United States reported on Sunday.

Oh, dear! I do hope Bob is not a candidate for this program! I shall have to have dear Sir Snuggs (courtesy sex change) to verify that Bob has not been contacted by shadowy persons of sketchy background (not the sketchy scrimshaw sort either) who represent research labs.

Botheration, Bugs, and Book Tours

This can't be a happy situation. I do hope it's temporary.

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Drat, just when I was about to find out whether Gus shall be coming to Bristol or London for his book tour. I suppose I'll have to see about making the journey to some wild West, rip roaring 'Merrikan town, such as Toledo perhaps.

The Inauguration (Not THAT One)

Such THRILLING news! Gus is to be elevated to authority; he has somehow found the time to collaborate with Nelson on a book about his (Nelson's) scandalous relations. Apparently the Cookes aren't dimestore pirates after all. And it is to be published, with actual covers on high quality paper. However, such a shame they can't take a writing credit owing to the unfortunate likelihood that they would be thrown in the pokey for profiting from (alleged, never proven) crime. And it's so heart-warming to see Gus reach out and grab for his future with both hands.

Therefore, the inaugural meeting of the Piratical Ladies' & Auxiliary Book Club shall be 1 April, 2005 at the Grog Shoppe, High Street, Bristol at 4pm. Refreshments will be served. Afterwards, members may like to partake of Harpoon Happy Hour, where in honour of the esteemed author of our little club's first selection, F.O.G. Cutters shall be served.

All ladies are eligible for membership. Gentlemen may join as auxiliary members only and must have a high tolerance for cats, tea, gossip, and ladies who get their knickers in a bunch over a wee rat. Any auxiliary-grade McFinsters will be given probationary status for the nonce until we see how they get on with their Big Book o' Words in grade 4 this term.

Please secure a copy of the book in advance from Amazon before the meeting. We British may purchase our copies here.



Pirates of Pensacola
by Keith Thomson (evidently that stooge person - Moe?)

Hardcover: 320 pages
Publisher: Thomas Dunne Books (April 1, 2005)
ISBN: 0312334990
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Editorial Reviews
Review
"Lubbers beware, thar be a thrilling new comic voice asea. The wind at his back, Keith Thomson has created a powerfully funny novel. Stocked to the quarterdeck with characters at once hilariously inconceivable and sweetly heartwarming, Pirates of Pensacola simultaneously thrills and endears itself with every explosively charged page. A delight to set sail with."
- Richard Rushfield, author of On Spec

"Set in modern times, Pirates of Pensacola follows our poor, nebbishy accountant hero into a life of waterlogged crime on the high seas. Best emerging comic novelist for a good long while, with touches of classic Rafael Sabatini and the most imaginative Hiaasen."
- Jeff Danziger, political cartoonist and author of Rising Like the Tucson

"A swashbuckling parody, Pirates of Pensacola is a fine breezy read, filled with laugh-out-loud scenes and some high seas drama. Who wouldn't crave the pirate lifestyle? You get to rob, cheat, carouse, brawl, drink, chase wenches and then rob some more, carouse some more...what a life! How about cutting these rogues some slack instead of a noose? To this book, I give my favorite mock-pirate toast: 'Bottoms up, shot glasses and lasses!'"
- Richard Zacks, best-selling author of The Pirate Hunter: The True Story of Captain Kidd

*(I do hope this isn't one of dear Gus' little pranks.)
**(Sadly, this is nothing to do with boats. Ships. Drat.)
***(Surely this can be improved upon, ladies.)
****(Rubbish. It took ever so long to add the scrimshop!)

Wheeeeaugh. Good job I don't do this web thingy wheeze for a living. In any case, well done Gus!

Guests Doing The Limbo

More slightly distressed guests finally arrived the other night. Yes, yes, yes, they also warned me of the blue-haired man, who is apparently of questionable parentage as well as having dubious style sense.

But these people are lovely; the nicest pair yet. They're a father and daughter. She has the most striking eyes I've ever seen, and he seems to be an expert at games of skill and accuracy (not so on chancy games, though).

He is also something of a connoseur gourmand when it comes to spicy foods and fine brews and the conversations in the residents' saloon bar have been highly edifying.

But it all comes back to blood-thirsty tales of their erstwhile boon companions and the outrages committed by the mysterious loud person that was also traveling with them. For some reason, they all desperately hope this "git" (pardon) actually does arrive here very soon rather than ruin everything for the remainder that are still on the trip.

Fortunately, that Silent Lamb moving-pictures prop mask arrived, and one of the McFinsters dragged in a slightly used strait-jacket and left it as an apology-offering (which is the opposite of a thank-offering, as you might suspect). He had ever such a sheepish grin, so I suspect there's more to the story of that jacket than was made quite clear. He is such a wooly-pated simpleton, there's no getting a straight story out of him (or a strait one, for that matter).

Of course! that's what we shall have for Sunday dinner! Mutton!

I'd best make sure that it's acceptable to the one New Yorker. He and his friend have cut quite a dash singing at impromptu Karaoke nights - he puts that horrid old pub crooner we had in last month to shame. They also organized a limbo contest with the Tortolan pan orchestra, who are yet to finalize the date of the Big Booze-Up (which may be called on account of reign, if Queen Sybil decides on an earlier wedding date).

Sybil Comes Out Of Her S(h)ell

Our gallant captain Gus feared he was about to get a "Dear Gus" speech delivered in person as he was speaking with Queen Sybil about their future together:

She grinned. She’d been playing with me. The little bastard.

“How are the bars in Oakland?” she asked.

“I’ll take you to every one of them. But you have to promise me you’ll do something for Stupid George first.”

She bristled. “What?”

“Marry his captain.”

I detached a washer from the elbow joint of the new arm and offered it to her.

SIR (courtesy gender) SNUGGS! We're going to need a lot of white French lace hankies, and we'd best convene a n'emergency executive planning session of the Ladies' Embroidery Circle & Terrorist Society. A wedding is in the offing.

If dear practical Gus is able to get his Queen (17 master bedrooms) to the altar and properly married, they really shall be in need of the rest of their lives, as putting on a royal wedding is an exhaustive process. And a royal Conchan (beachfront access) wedding, even one immediately prior to a very large "For Sale" sign going up across the island, will be the social event of the season. I expect the palace will be entirely swathed in white tulle, as Her Majesty the Queen (all modern cons.)'s previous marital adventure was such a rushed affair at sea. And now she's going from a somewhat morganatic marriage to a common rogue, to a Gus-omatic one with a rogueish commoner. So very romantic.

I wonder if that daft artist chap Christo is available to do the bannery, signage and swathing? Perhaps he'd give them a discount rate.

And then, of course, it's that old problem of a mixed marriage, but it's been established that dear Queen Sybil, Protector of the Fluke (ballroom, State banqueting hall, 3 dining rooms, 3 reception rooms, private Whalish chapel) is quite Reform-minded.

Fortunately, all the sprucing up, refurbishing, remodeling, and clearing out that must be done for the wedding will make getting Conch (professionally landscaped grounds and public garden fete space available for day rental) a marketable property that much easier, once Sybil (location, location location) becomes Mrs. Overshaw (FSBO). Or perhaps they should consider signing the entire island up for that new home-makeover show, "Curb Your Appeal."

I should like to offer my modest establishment for a shower and act as hostess, with dear snuggs acting as my second - I know that's more properly a duelling term, but this means war (in the matrimonial sense). We must batten down the hatches and woman the gun ports to ensure a nice time is had by all and sundry. And invite everybody that we are reasonably certain is female, or presents an acceptable approximation of same.

If the dear Bride-elect is agreeable then it shall be an affair to remember.

I'm afraid that means no McFinsters, snuggs. Their attendance would be simply disastrous. However, a select allsorts of our dear male chums might be amusing company, and is terribly modern, and Leibniz might like to wear his old wig for giggles.

I wonder how Dead-Sexy Leibniz, Sexy Ken, and Adult Ed R will feel about wearing drag to the hen party? It's either that or the Subservient Chicken again for entertainment.

Note to self: must do something about that leaky faucet in the first floor gents'.

Marry Chris' Mass!

Here is a scrimshaw of Flarq's dear wee pet, Narq.

I expect his barq is worse than his byte, my poppets.

All the happy band of adventurers (and one or two bad hats) are spending the holidays on Conch celebrating the Feast of the Not-Havety, where the poor peoples of the world are given gifts and aid and frankincense and mirth. For the good Lord knows they need it. Also there is some Orthodox Whalish observance, but no one hereabouts could tell me anything about it, since the local British-Conchans are mostly Reform Whalish.

However, keeping Gus' holiday card in mind, it's probably something to do with downing rather a lot of Yule cheer and spouting all over the parlour. And that I will not have. Not the cheer, of course. NO one can spout properly through the top of their heads; it generally comes out the mouth and, less appetizingly, the nose. Thus, it's a rather insanitary and unhygienic rite.

Oh, I am in such a frenzy of cleaning and preparationing and propositioning of the Council to render a special License for a block party. The very nice Tortolan steel pan orchestra from Much Wittering-sur-le-Bank has offered to play for a celebration, and they're also offering to help with recipes. This promises to be a special treat; I only hope we can find enough spices and jerked goat.

Speaking of jerks, goats and otherwise, no new arrivals again this week. My current guests got very nostalgic this evening; they booked the Gentlemen's Lounge for the evening owing to the fact it's got a large-screen telly (thank goodness the license for THAT is paid up). I declared it non-smoking for the nonce, since the very pretty sisters had an aversion to tobacco. They all seemed to be having a grand time, except that there seemed to be some sort of problem with the volume control.

Every now and then they would simply chant "Shut up! Shut! Up! Shuttup! Shuttup! Shut...UP!" This was generally when either a loud not-so-young man with a rather feeble hold on reality and his place in it was on screen, or when an outwardly lovely, inwardly despicable young woman was complaining about the accomodations.

Well, she shall have nothing to complain about here should she darken the doors of my establishment. If the Tortolans decide to stay for a while (this party thingy may turn into a regular "giggle" for them)I shall put the prissy princess in the room next to them, as it appears she could use some cultural enrichment.

In any case, the plans for the party proceed apace. And there is plenty of kennel room in case Flarq should want to bring Narq, though of course the Pet Refreshment Garden is in winter mufti for the next few months and not at its best.

Sea or Career Change

The Skiffy channel reports:

Hollywood Seeks Pirates

About 7,000 pirate hopefuls answered a call for extras to appear in Disney's back-to-back Pirates of the Caribbean sequels, which are scheduled to start shooting in February and running into early 2006, Variety reported. Shooting will take place in Los Angeles and the Caribbean island of St. Vincent, the trade paper reported. "

There is probably time for Gus and Co. to make it to St. Vincent and sign up for an exciting career in the moving pictures. It does specify long hair and "thin builds," but I should think that salty seagoing authenticity, plus a well-honed harpoon aimed right at an A.D.'s innards would go far. After, all, some of them actually WERE pirates, and they've all had experience fighting them. As the casting call also specifies "serial-killer looks" their relative hairlessness (if you recall, Thesaurus and Flarq bring down the curve on the crew average, head-of-hairwise) ought to be less of a concern for the casting Johnnies.

Also there ought to be some consideration given Bob, who is now a highly trained maritime rat (and has his master's papers, on account of his breadfruit-crate solo voyage). Perhaps little Bob could even do amusing stunts or at least have a scurry-on part!

It's just a thought, noble Gus. Life has handed you a reprieve from your need for revenge and hatred of all things Blubbery, and since even Moses seems destined for a career as a motivational speaker at AA meetings, perhaps it's time to think about a career change in the new year. After all, it's an odd tide that lifts no boats.

My dears, what a perfectly wonderful holiday it was here at the Shoppe. My good Sir (brevet male) snuggs was in her element as she toddled around topping up drinks and tossing out drunks.

In the meantimes the Roast Beast Feast went over rather well, and everyone ate and drank most enthusiastically. We provided the classic groaning board, absolutely covered with dishes, sweetmeats, biscuits, fruits, Beast, and 'Merrikan style hotcakes and tree-sap (it's very odd that anyone would make such a wonderful sweet treat out of sap, but quite tasty). All and sundry were agreed that it was good to be able to gather together, and after a certain amount of boisterous roistering (complete with quite superior crackers) the old Shoppe was again relatively quiet (except for old Snuffy McFinster, a rather fragrant uncle who was left behind accidently on purpose due to an excess of V.S.O.P & B.O.)

It's a terrible shame to think that anyone might be cold or hungry or ill or suddenly homeless or bereaved at this season. So as we celebrate the end of the old year and the beginning of the new we could perhaps spare a thought for those less fortunate, as suddenly it seems there are rather a lot of them, the poor dears.

Emergency Shopping Expotition!

Once at sea, we meant to celebrate with wine or beer but instead celebrated with instant noodles. This was my fault: when I sent him to the canteen with our remaining funds, I’d told George to get wine or beer.

During this trip to Conch, sharing a cabin with her, I’ve been given even more reasons to love Sybil. Among others, I learned she doesn’t snore. When we get to Conch, we may get married and I may become king of Conch—we’ll have to see.

My first order of business is to ensure that Dickhead is restored to health. Flarq made a salve out of plants he found that'll protect the whale’s wounds from infection. Before he left, Moses also made medicine from some plants he found. After taking it, Dickhead seemed in much better spirits. He’s in a specially rigged-up harness now, being towed by our ship. As it happens, the whale hospital on Conch is the best in the world. My luck finally seems to have turned.

Dear God, I hope dear Gus has not jinxed the denouement!

In case he has not, the Mother of All Parties must be planned and shopped for, and that means an Expotition to various chandleries, such as Debauchery Depot, Booze-Ups 'R Us, and Roast Beast To Go.

Fortunately, at the moment there is still plenty of room to accomodate guests. For some odd reason, my long-expected new arrivals did not turn up last night. I am advised by the earlier guests that the next two might appear to be rather scary at first glance, but turn out to be of the teddy-bear/pussy-cat persuasion. However, there is some glitch in their travel plans, and now it seems that they will not arrive for at least two weeks! Whatever am I to do to entertain these people? Well, I shall send them off to view some interesting archeological sites; we have plenty of those in the area. Apparently there were some actual Amazonian women warriors attached to the Roman army; they tell me that the female half of the no-shows would probably have qualified for "warrior princess." And that the male half would qualify for "surprisingly good-looking once all pretense of ridiculous gym-rat clothing is removed, showing only extremely well defined back and ab muscles."

I shall have to see about that. I expect Sir (courtesy gendered) snuggs will now volunteer to oil him up.

Speaking of oiling up, I do hope Flarq is still interested in the "stand impressively by the door and bar idiots from entry" position.

Rather Like That Improbable Scene in "Dune"

I probably watch too much bad Merrikan skiffy on telly. But the thought of our intrepid band of brothers, Queen, Tortolans, and rat going for a horsey-ride on B's blubbery back and steering with themselves as living reins makes me smile.

Stick A Fork In 'Im, 'E's Done

After the second engine blew up, the Georgette remained afloat, barely. The blast cost the Tortolan sailors their consciousness and their rifles. By the time the smoke cleared, though, their boss, Verman, had regained his consciousness as well as a rifle. At the center of the deck amidships, he leveled the barrel at my head.

Dealer Dan, who’d been slammed into the port rail by the blast, could only watch out of puffy eyes from the deck. And my crewmen, rat and potential future wife were all still darbied in a row to the starboard rail.

“Give my best to Davy Jones,” Verman said, curling a manicured finger around the trigger.

Suddenly he fell over as if shot by a gun. In fact he was shot by a toaster, which had slid Duq’s way during the explosion.

I limped over and scooped up Verman’s rifle from the deck a few feet from where he lay. Fork protruding from his nose, he looked up in entreaty.

“Finish the bastard, Cap,” Nelson urged. The others chanted—and Bob squeaked—along the same lines.

I hesitated.

Mercy is a quality sadly lacking in our times. I have no doubt that Gus shall do the right thing, or that his hesitation will allow the right thing to take place. He follows a Code from a simpler time - and I don't know if he will agree to Mutherford's offer to use the Law to punish Verman for his crimes at last.

It would be better if Verman were to simply slither off the tilting deck like so much offal and go for shark chum, but that end is too good for him.

All those who Gus holds near and dear to him are now helplessly cuffed to the railing of a rapidly sinking ship, with no hope of rescue. Prospects dire - either drown, or be eaten by sharks.

Half a Rapier Wit Is Better Than None

Dear Queen Sybil blogs on Gus' behalf, as he has his hands (2) full duelling with Verman.

"With the sort of grin seen only in asylums, Verman gripped his rapier as if it were a lance, then launched himself at Gus' heart.

Just then the Georgette shook as if she'd been torpedoed. The whale had mustered what little energy remained in him and thrust his sixty-some-tons into the portside hull. The rail in turn knocked loose the elbow joint on Gus's prosthetic arm, sending the trash can lid clanging onto Verman's skull. Verman dropped like a domino and lay on the deck unconscious.

Gus looked over the rail, a mix of disbelief and profound gratitude. The crew and I readied a cheer.

At that moment the Georgette exploded -- George, that idiot's idiot, had put beans in the second engine as well -- the one with the fuel in it. "

Not only is Gus wounded and bleeding, but he is on a soon to be ex-seagoing craft yet again. I think now would be a good time for Dan to load everyone into his snappy Cigarette boat - everyone we care about, that is - and get Gus to the nearest medical facilities.

Of course, Dan may have other thoughts on the matter, since helping Gus may result in Dan getting thrown in the hoosegow.

Pity that Sybil is still not yet a merry widow. Perhaps we ought to take up a collection and contact Tony Bignose, who I believe has retired to the Caribbean after a colorful career making things fall off the backs of lorries.

I have been remiss of late, as I have been entertaining the refugees. We had a new arrival last night; a perfectly charming old couple of a rare and delicious vintage. I am persuaded that they might know a thing or two about California wines, and so while they are laying over I expect we shall have some nice chats about vineyards and foods and the interesting people they've encountered.

They, too warned me of the mysterious blue-haired man, who apparently screams constantly. Not a nice prospect, I assure you; so I have ordered a leather gag from a theatrical props company that supplied odds and ends for that frightening Silent Lambs movie with the fellow that liked snacking on people's livers. Also he shall not be allowed contact with anybody decent except for that one "cuddin" of snuggs'... we might ask him to teach this fellow some manners.

The Re-Armification Of Gus

Flarq, Thesaurus, Moses, and George cheered for Gus—even the rat seemed to jump up and down in exhortation—but their eyes belied their fears. Nelson and Duq wagered on the outcome of the duel, drawing the ire of Flarq. “How dare you be against the Cap?” Flarq asked Nelson.

“Of course I want the Cap to win,” Nelson said, “but whatever’s gonna happen is gonna happen. Also, Duq gave me ridiculously good odds.”

Meanwhile, Gus gamely blocked several blows from Verman. Finally, he lunged himself. In defense, Verman swept Gus’s sword away with such speed that it gave the illusion his rapier was a second shield. The rasp of steel against steel stung the eardrums of all within leagues of the Georgette. Verman then sallied forth and shot his rapier anew. Hoisting his de facto shield, Gus managed to repel it with a resounding peal. Verman immediately sent his blade hissing forth in a blinding series of slashes from which no one but an expert could escape unblemished. With a groan Duq fished his wallet from his pants to pay Nelson.

{Shite! The battery on Gus’s computer is out of bars. I will recharge it and then continue…}

Shite indeed. Although Queen Sybill has a very disarming style, she has left us in media res. I do wish Dan could provide her with a marine battery or a n'AC adapter at this very tricky pass.

Poor Gus, he seems rather outmatched, but has given tit for tat, asking no quarter. What a pity he never had time or n'inclination for fencing lessons before now (but where a cat-food worker could come by them, I certainly don't know).

Solo Voce Di Balena

LONDON, England (Reuters) -- A lone whale, with a voice unlike any other, has been wandering the Pacific for the past 12 years, American marine biologists said Wednesday.

A Pacific whale - well, that's not blubbery Bruce. Still, it's very odd.

Fools' Charade

“You and what navy are going to stop us?” I asked Verman. Other than a ceremonial sword, he was unarmed.

“I and my Employee of the Year,” he replied with a nod towards Nelson. On cue, Nelson drew his pistol.


P.S. Note to other captains: You may not want to let traitorous former pirates among your crew have one of these:

Speaking of the Navy, it's about ruddy time that Knucz person showed up and earned his pay with his zingy dingy or zippy ship or what-you-will. It seems to me that Gus and the dear blubbery pod-revenging whale (no B., he) shall be as small fry in the U.S. Navy's sight(s). He's more interested in Verman and Dealer Dan. I do wonder what Mutherford (or as snuggs calls him, Mo-fritterford, was doing there. But I must say I am quite disappointed in Nelson. Quite, quite disappointed. Good job I'm impervious to that sort of nonsense. Still, it's a pity, as he's rather decorative.

Let this be a lesson to you, my dear gels, never to trust a bold rogue, no matter the twinkle in his eye or the glad (single) hand he offers in seeming chumship. And I do hope dear Sybil becomes a little less sulky soon. She should think of the benefits of widowhood and kick her bridegroom overboard.

However, should no one show up to effect a deus-ex-whaleboat rescue at the last possible second, Gus and his (loyal) crew will simply have to rescue themselves. I'm trying not to give Nelson any clews as to what I'm suggesting Gus might be able to do, but it's very frustrating that our dear captain is not as up on Broadway show tunes as he might be from famous musicals made from the works of Damon Runyon (I recommend the movie version with Frankie, Brando, and of course dear Stubby Kaye).

Perhaps I'd better resort to charades:

*mimes "song"
*mimes "14 words"
(crowd looks resigned but feigns interest as snuggs serves a free round for all)

*sits down*
*sits down*
*sits down again*
*sits down again*
*sits down yet again*

*points at patron in front row*
*mimes someone swaying to and fro whilst seated*
(someone shouts "You're having a wobbler!" and someone else shouts "No, you pissah! She's Whistler's Mum")

*shakes head, shakes hands "no, no, no, that's not right"
*sits and bends forward and backwards as if in pain*

(another patron shouts "you need more roughage" and "No more chili peppers, evah")
(a matron calls out "you're off your rocker, ye daft Betty - OO-er! Rocking!!)

*mimes "on the nosie"*
*repeats "sit down" and indicates "five"*
*points at crowd*

(crowd confused, then shouds "you")

*whilst sitting, rocks back and forth*

("Rocking!" they all shout. "You're rocking")

*mimes "on the nosie" again*
*mimes a sort of graceful dipping, swimming, floating motion*
*mimes an additional side to side rocking*

"OOO-ooo!" cried out the youngest McFinster "Get down, get down, you got the rockin' pneumonia and the boogie-woogie flu!"

*mimes utter frustration, shaking head and indicating "cut, cut, cut"*
*mimes throwing out trash*

(youngest McFinster is summarily ejected)

*mimes "get it right this time, you nest of drink-addled vipers"*
*mimes sitting, indicates "5 times"

(crowd restless. Shouts of "Yes, yes, 'siddown' already.")

*mimes "on the nosie" rather triumphantly, with an air of approaching the finish line*
*mimes rocking"

(crowd chants "you're rocking" in a bored manner)

*mimes the mysterious floating movement, indicating a volume of space around her*

(a thin voice shouts from the back "whale on the beach" and is forcefully escorted out by snuggs)
*mimes paddling the mysterious dipping floating volume, rather angrily*

"I've GOT it," calls out one of the New Yorkers. "Is it 'I'd like to get you on a slow boat to China, all to myself, alone?'" "No, you schmuck, that's fifteen words. Siddown, you're rockin' the bench," said the other. "OOOOOOO!!!" the entire crowd murmurs, very nearly excitedly

*mimes a frenzied "more, more, nearly on the nosie, just a bit more"*

Chad bursts out singing "Luck, be a lady tonight!" to a large round of congratulatory applause.

*mimes "I give up, last call. Time, gentlemen, please" and stalks off to the snuggery, disgusted*

Well, really, I can't make it clearer than that, or Nelson will *whispers* sit down. Though I should very much like to know what the nature of Verman's arrangement with Nelson is. I expect he gets a good discount at the sporting houses, as well. Which would make an admirable distribution network, one supposes. For that Bolivian marching powder that seems to have been part of the story from the very beginning, as it turns out.

The Comeodownance Of Moses

“Let’s let the whale alone,” I said.

The men looked like they might lance me. For what it’s worth, the whale looked grateful.

“Cap, when you had your big realization you’ve been overly obsessed with vengeance before,” Nelson said, “no one wanted to say this and hassle your self-discovery buzz, but odds are pretty damn high Sybil’s flotsam. The sperm oil from out of this big old bastard here’s a bird in hand though—and selling it’ll make all we been through worth it ten times over.”

“It would be wrong,” I said.

Thesaurus asked, “Captain, is this not the bastard responsible for the deaths of your wife and son and the loss of your arm?”

“No,” I said, “Moses is.”

I don't recall there being a bombshell listed amongst the oddly assorted weapons of whale destruction, but bombshell there was. This startling revelation by Gus has all my patrons and matrons speckilatin' madly.

I do wonder about that drug-running cartel, now. Yes, and how odd it was that Dealer Dan had financed the S-1 and that a working prototype was on hand (apologies, dear Gus, I share Leibniz'unfortunate prediliction for off-hand comments).

It appears that Moses' mellow is about to be soundly harshed when Gus gets around to filling the rest of us in on his self-revelatory epiphany.

In other business, the latest guests/refugees arrived for their stopover early last week; thus we have 6 very nice people "in house;" the two sets of New Yorkers, and now a very nice pair of sisters. They also had some dietary restrictions, and also some beverage limitations, but I was able to provide them with some favorite comfort foods and non-alcoholic tipples.

Dreadful combinations, to be sure. It was difficult procuring lime gelatin dessert and marshmallows, but combining them with artificial, no-cow-involved "whipped topping" resulted in a dessert confection that will never replace trifle as far as I'm concerned. And they eat it with a sweet carbonated beverage named after some blight of a medical man with very odd ideas of when his beverage should be consumed. I do like 'Merrikans very much, and the sisters are very charming, but their taste in food and drink would soon put me into some form of diabetic distress.

They've warned me repeatedly to look out for the Blue Haired Man. I've already decided that should he turn up, I shall arrange for a nice farmstay for them, out in the country where they can't bother anyone. And the farmer might appreciate help getting his food and feed crops in.

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.

Gus Has Had British Relations!

Lord of the Rings author J.R.R. Tolkien's eight-bedroom house in Oxford, England, has been given protected status, Zap2it reported. The residence at 20 Northmoor Road, where Tolkien wrote the beloved fantasy books, has earned a Grade II listing, which means that any future alterations will have to respect the character of the building, and its preservation must be taken into account in any redevelopment, Britain's Heritage Minister, Andrew McIntosh, announced Nov. 23.

"Buildings are usually listed because of their fine architecture or unique design," McIntosh said in a statement. "But we can also give protection to buildings that have historical association with nationally important people or events. Professor Tolkien's house in Oxford is a fine example of this."

"Local architect Fred Openshaw built the house in 1924 for bookshop owner Basil Blackwell. Tolkien had initially lived at 22 Northmoor Road, but later moved his family to the now-protected abode next door in 1930, the site reported. The Tolkiens lived in the brick property, which was built for the county's leading academics at the time, until 1947." - Skiffy News

How very exiting, it appears that the house that the dear J.R.R. Tolkien lived in in Oxford was designed and built by someone who shares Gus' rather unusual surname.

And good heavens, Blackwell's is the finest bookshop in Oxford, so the house has a fine literary pedigree even without the Hobbitry.