Wherein Captain Mission makes the discovery that by micturating into the aether one’s visage becomes moistened.
Try to cover up, but you can’t. The wind howls through you, but you try to cover up, the clothes, they do nothing.
On pissing in the wind
On vampires gushing blood from their unbleeding noses
The lady thinks out aloud . o O ( ack! vampire cockbiting! ) The demon tempts her back, “thighs pump more blood faster.” The lady’s Lord informs the demon, “But then it comes out of your nose!”
On the light above decks
After travelling endlessly within the black hold, it appeared as though rescue was at hand. There was no clatter of noise, no stattaco rhythm of sheet metal being pierced. There was no climax of conflict. Instead, a slow tang, tang, of a cold chisel worked away at the portal within the bulkhead, shivvering the chains which bound me to myself. Free’d by an army of muscular Malays, apostate Achenese, displaced Dalits, bulky Bangladeshis, proud Phillipinos, irate Iranians their eyes bulging, atrophied Arabs and lank Lebanese wielding crowbars, crowbars, prybars, oxytorches, thermite, hacksaws, sledge hammers, bolt cutters and jackhammers I for the first time raised my head above deck and instead of being blinded by the sun I saw through a glass undarkly.
It was then that I decided to join the ranks of the conejo men. I decided to inspect the rump of the world for purple swelling, or, at a minimum, some other hole of easy and pleasant access. I decided to fuck the world, I’m getting off. I decided to fuck it until I fell off sideways, and then run. To fuck and run, even if running meant I came back to exactly the same place to fuck over and again. I have decided to nationalise the arseholes, and privatise the pricks.
And it shall be a dangerous voyage! I’ve only shivvered my chains. I’ve forgotten my hat. The sea is full of tentacle monsters. Its uncharted, and nobody’s drawn the headlands for landfall. And so, of necessity I require a log, for my ship, and this is that log. A cat would be fine too, as would a cabin boy, but I’ll fly false flags and change my colours and call on many legitimate ports, and fly true flags and change my colours again and call on many illegitimate ports, including the rare high ports, and I’m sure they shall find me by my reputation.
Location: The scrap yards of India, a top a dismantling hulk, listening to a thousand hammer blows question what freedom is.
Location: Accidentally turned right-side up, and vowing to never be swamped again.
