Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal (11 page)

Yo once again. To those of you who’ve written in asking if the
cleft in my chin and the eye patch I have on have anything to
do with my new sword: the cleft was hidden before by my scruff,
which, I might note, the ladies love in person. The eye injury
took place when I was rescuing a vixen in my Lamborghini. If
you want to know more about my sword, send me pix of yourself
(unless you’re a dude). To Juanita: Gracias for the invite, sugar
snap. If I live, let’s say ten-ish, and no reason for you to waste
time putting on a dress. To Pearl: I will absolutely send you more
of my poetry. To Bunnie: Great photo! If those are real, I am so
on an airplane. Let me just get done with dishing the details of
the battle…
Our take on high noon was Flarq and Thesaurus on the sinking
deck of the Lucky Sue vs. the seventy-rifle Conchian royal army
on shore a hundred yards away.
The Sybstress, cool as a colada, ordered Gus and the rest
of us to feed Flarq and Thesaurus fresh harpoons. This enabled
the big fellas to get off more throws, but still it wasn’t many
because we were all ducking and dodging Conchian bullets that
had the Lucky Sue ringing like a penny arcade.
The bigger problem was we only had like fifty harpoons.
Once Flarq and Thesaurus ran dry, the army dudes could
backfloat out if they wanted and blast us point blank.
Sybil couldn’t’ve seemed less concerned.
Sure enough, within a few minutes, we were out of
harpoons. Also, Bob the rat had been shot. Busted a whisker.
He’d be okay. The rest of us were another bloody story. And
I mean bloody, shippies.
A bugle sounded and the Conchian army charged into the
bay.
Sybil pumped a fist, psyched. One bonkers broad, yes?
No, it turns out.
In her fist was her own remote control for the S-1 robot
squid. She’d discreetly guided the squid from the ocean and
toward shore while Flarq and Thesaurus held the army off.
When the last soldier boys hit the water, she pressed the blammo
button and the army was military history.
The one downer was that the explosion was way, way
much more powerful than Doc Sybil had anticipated, and flame
gobbled up, it seemed, the planet.
P.S. I had Flarq do a scrimshaw of this classy diamond ring with
ruby sidecars I acquired during one of my high seas adventures. I
saw one just like it going on eBay for $34,500! One of you ladies
out there could get lucky. Ping me…

It’s Openshaw back at the keys. All you ladies can stop sending
in your jpegs to Nelson now. Right after his last post, a wave
turned a crack in the Lucky Sue’s hull amidships into a crevice.
Within a minute, both halves of her lay on the sea bottom.
Nelson got whacked in the noggin in the process. Luckily, the
current took him safely ashore (along with this computer).
The bad news, far as Nelson’s concerned—or will be, when
his head gets better and he regains what sense he had—is that
the woman who won the Miss Coconuts pageant on Mocha had
responded to his invitation and showed up for her date with
him. When she learned that he was in the hospital in a drooling
stupor, she was overcome by grief and rushed up the mountain
to comfort him. When she got to him and learned that his
diamond and ruby ring had sunk with the Lucky Sue and was
lost, she decided to go hit a party on Guava instead.
As you may’ve figured, I survived the explosion. Me and
what’s left of the crew (sadly, Thesaurus’s mighty heart has
beat its last and Sybil is missing) are patients at Conch General
Hospital—a thatched roof, bamboo building no bigger than a
barn. Add in the fifty-some survivors from the royal army and
it’s so overcrowded here that it’s two men to a bed. I’m bunking
with Flarq. More worrisome than my wounds (mostly burns and
a couple busted ribs) is that he insists on keeping a harpoon by
his side, and he rolls over in his sleep.
Most worrisome is the mob of whale worshipers now
massed outside the hospital calling for the rest of my bones to be
broken.
P.S. Two things I will write in the future, if I make it there, are
a remembrance of Thesaurus and some new thoughts I have
on the mystery of the two whales killed in California. In the
meantime, here’s a scrimshaw of the convalescing Bob. (No,
that’s not something Moses rolled for the little fellow; it’s a cast
on one of his whiskers.)

Just as the angry mob was threatening to break down the walls
of the hospital (which wouldn't've taken more than a swift
kick), Sybil made her appearance. She'd actually been inside
the hospital all along, disguised as a volunteer nurse from the
Bulbian convent (her features were concealed by a flowing whale-
gray nun dress and whale-shaped nun hat).
Having fitted the surviving Conchian soldiers' I.V. units
with fresh bags of some medication, she strode to the front of
the ward and revealed herself. The I.V. bags did not contain
medication, she declared, but some sort of chemical now in their
systems that she could trigger at the flip of her remote control
and render them impotent.
The royal army thus surrendered to Sybil, the soldiers
shouting over one another to do so.
With them under her control, it was a simple matter for
Sybil to force her parents, the King and Queen, to abdicate. She
exiled them to their condo in Boca, then took the throne.
Dazzled by the trappings of royalty, the whale-worshipping
citizens of Conch instantly forgot about Sybil's former job
(building whale-exploding devices) and they all bowed before
her-even the folks she'd put in traction. The radiance of her
royal scepter (with a golden blow spout atop it) was matched only
by her smile. As she held it aloft, the palace square swelled with
cheers, and cries of "Long live Queen Sybil!" echoed around the
mountain-top. Sybil basked in it.
Then the cries of "Break Gus Openshaw's head!" started
up again.
Sybil didn't need me or my crew anymore. Which begged
the question: Would she grant her subjects' request?
P.S. Here's a scrimshaw by Flarq of one of the Conchians eager
to meet me.

Massed outside Conch General Hospital, the thousand and
change citizens of Conch chanted rhythmically, "De-bone Gus!
De-bone Gus!"
Many of the Conchians among our fellow patients joined
in. Even Stupid George got caught up in the excitement. "De-bone
G-," he cried until Duq leaned over from his bed and
karated him in the mouth.
A phalanx of broadsword-wielding palace guardsmen
suddenly burst into the ward, preceding Sybil. With her usual air
of determination, she marched toward my bed. My gut (or more
accurately, the acid swamping it) told me she'd hand me over to
her frenetic devotees. My only hopes were that it'd be quick and
that my crew'd be spared.
"So I guess this is the end for me," I said.
"That's one way men put it," she laughed.
"What did you have in mind?"
"That you'd marry me and become
the new King of Conch."
P.S. My bedmate's scrimshaw of me
hearing about the marriage thing.

"Screw the whale, Cap," Nelson suggested. "Stick around and be
King. I've got a plan where instead of sacrificing those virgins, we
can whore them."
Him, me, and the rest of my men (and, yeah, my rat)
were a couple hundred yards off the coast of Conch in a
rental schooner. We were supposed to be having a funeral for
Thesaurus, but everyone wanted to talk about what I should do
about Sybil. I'd put her off per the old tradition that a captain
must tend to his dead before anything else (I made up that old
tradition, and, fortunately, everybody bought it).
"If you get marry," Duq proposed, "I could be chef for
royal palace."
"They already have a chef," I told him.
"What if he happen to accidentally die?"
Per an actual old nautical tradition, Flarq and George
had sewn sailcloth around Thesaurus's body. The plan was
we'd each say a few words about him, then, on my command
of "Hands commit this body to the deep, ahoy!" the crew'd cast
this mariner's coffin off the prow. Weighted with stones, it'd
sink to the ocean bottom. We'd run into a delay as George had
accidentally sewn his pant leg to the thing. Once we cut him
loose, we began eulogyizing.
Flarq, Thesaurus's fellow harpooner and closest friend,
took the prow first. He addressed the coffin and said, "Fare ye
well, shipmate, and save some whales for me in Fiddler's Green."
His eyes gleamed with tears. I wouldn't have even thought a
whole drum of pepper spray shot point blank could've caused
that. Flarq loved Thesaurus a lot. All of us were moved.
Except for Nelson, who took the prow next.
"Thesaurus," Nelson said, "if you're a ghost now and
can hear this, drop by when I'm playing cards, whisper in my
ear what hands the other players got, and I'll cut you in on the
proceeds when I croak. Thirty percent."
This drew a murderous look from Flarq. The others were
indignant too.
"Okay, forty percent," Nelson said.
Then it was my turn. I named Thesaurus honorary
Employee of the Week. Then I started to say the prayer he always
recited to his favorite god Sunoco.
Suddenly, Thesaurus sat bolt upright. It gave my heart
such a jolt, I fell off the prow.
"Probably just gas in him," Duq explained, then spun
angrily to Moses. "You drink the embalming fluid?"
"Only a little," Moses said.
"Well then," came Thesaurus's baritone from within the
sailcloth coffin, "Moses should be Employee of the Week."
Thesaurus was alive!
P.S. Here's a commemorative
scrimshaw of
Thesaurus from his days of high
school gridiron stardom. When
Thesaurus saw his old haircut, he
damn near died of embarrassment.
If he had died, that sure would've
been ironic, no?