Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal (8 page)

To get to the bastard—let alone get the bastard—we need as many
guns, missile launchers—and anything else you can blow things
up with—as we can get. It’s never easy shopping for that sort of
stuff, and particularly tough when you got a navy scouring the
sea for you.
Fortunately, Nelson knows an arms dealer hiding out on
a nearby island. The guy, who goes by the name Dealer Dan, is
on a dozen international Most Wanted lists. It’s been good for
his business, as it happens, cause he’s forced to trade only with
fellow outlaws (which we sure as crap have become), and with the
exception of Texans, private citizens on the other side of the law
aren’t looking to buy missile launchers nearly as often.
Right now Dealer Dan’s running a special on twenty-
five-foot deck-mounted howitzers, which we could sure use. The
deeply discounted price of $50,000 includes free installation.
The problem with going to Dealer Dan is this: Folks who
he fears will blab about his whereabouts receive—also free of
charge—a round of bullets and a grave with a lovely ocean view.
So, being a blogger, I’m a bit worried he might be concerned
about me. My biggest concern is, of course, Stupid George. First
thing I did upon our sighting Dealer Dan’s island was to order
George gagged and tied up below deck.
In hindsight, as we now go ashore, I’m thinking it may’ve
been a mistake to have Moses (who the boys have taken to calling
His Highness) be the one to tie George up.

The good news is Dealer Dan didn’t kill me. At least he hasn’t
yet. The bad news is it turns out that five million in cash (what
I’ve got now, minus the new ride and taking the crew’s wages
plus expenses into account) doesn’t get you more than the
equivalent of a Happy Meal at a state-of-the-art arms dealership
like Dealer Dan’s. The howitzers he had on special were so old
you’d have thought they were last used aboard sailing ships. Four
million got me some okay stuff (which I’ll detail another time),
but in sum, I’m afraid it’s only enough so we’d last five minutes
longer in a scrap against the Tortolans than we would’ve before.
I also needed more traditional whaling stuff. Dealer Dan
comped us on a few sacks of Whale Snax he had laying around
which we can use as bait, plus a CD of whale language we can
broadcast (if only we could edit it to, “Special today, free giant
squid,” that would sure bring the bastard running—he likes
squids almost as much as Openshaws).
Plus, Dan said he’ll also throw some whale irons and a
couple explosive-head harpoons into the cart for free if I spent
my last million on this new secret invention one of his interns
was working on.
My crew had to stay behind, since the thing was secret,
and I went to check it out. I followed the directions Dealer
Dan gave me from his showroom down the beach to this old
boathouse whose roof looked like it was the favorite target of
every bird within a hundred leagues. Given Dealer Dan’s rep, I
had a bellyful of fear this was a set-up. It hadn’t helped that just
before I left Nelson—Dealer Dan’s pal—had said, “Cap, I have
all the confidence in the world that you’ll be fine, but in case
something goes wrong, why not write out a quick will leaving me
the duffel bag so I can fund the quest for the blubbery bastard?”
These sort of situations are why I should really take up drinking
stronger liquor.
Inside the boathouse I found a rubber squid the size of a
canoe. I thought it was a dumb joke on Dealer Dan’s part, but I
was afraid if I went back and said that, one of his four assistants,
each of who could give Thesaurus a good fight WITHOUT their
Uzis, might not react so well.
Then Dealer Dan’s intern climbed out from underneath
the squid. I’m not so good at description (I’ll ask Flarq to do a
scrimshaw later maybe) but a few bits of it are warranted here:
The intern was the first person I’d seen on the island who didn’t
look like a wrestler or have lots of knife or bullet scars. Also, she
was the only woman I’d seen. She was maybe ten years younger
than myself, and beautiful—but you could’ve easily missed it
cause her features were hidden by a long tangle of black hair
(evidently there are no combs on the island either), and what
otherwise might’ve been an engaging smile was locked in a look
of fierce determination.
“The S-1 is remotely controlled,” she said. “Underneath
the two-inch-thick rubber layer is a lightweight alloy hull housing
an engine which gives it a maximum speed of forty knots. To
attract whales, it glows in deep water and gives off a compelling
ammoniate virtually identical to that of a real giant squid.”
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 inside the S-1’s eyes see.
That way you can be certain you’ve got the right whale. And
once your whale swallows the S-1, you simply push a button and
remotely detonate the five pounds of C-3 [a powerful explosive,
and enough of it to total a destroyer] in its tail.”
Well, this S-1 sure was one amazing device. In fact, it
seemed too good to be true. As you know, it’s illegal to kill
whales, excepting for the very few folks with permits. And those
folks usually don’t want their whales in ten million pieces. Let
alone build it, I wondered why anyone would even conceive such
a device. So I asked her.
“I’d prefer not to discuss the particulars,” she said, “but in
brief, a whale ate my mother and father.”
P.S. Here’s a scrimshaw Flarq did of Dealer Dan. All of his
employees tell him he looks just like Robert Redford except with
a mustache.

My wife is dead, but not once during the year and change since
she passed have I thought of myself as other than a married man.
Yet more than anything—save the location of the bastard whale
who murdered my wife—I wanted to know about Dealer Dan’s
beautiful intern who’d built the robotic whale-killing squid. And
that was before she’d told me that the reason she was in the
game was vengeance because a whale had eaten her mother and
father!!!
That there could be two of us suffering thusly was
testimony to one of two things:
Providence wanted us to rediscover joy in one another’s
embrace.
Or that salespeople will say anything to close a deal.
The reality of whale-hunting is you kill time, mostly. I
watch a heck of a lot of movies on DVD. So I’ve gotten to know
that only a B-level thespian plays the same note the whole show
long. The intern’s smile I noted—locked in a look of fierce
determination and all—that’s what gave her away. You can’t
blame her for trying though. The stakes—a million-buck sale and
an intimidating boss like Dealer Dan to face if she didn’t make
the sale—were pretty high. I’ve been told fibs a lot worse by car
salesmen.
I sure wanted that S-1 though. I offered two hundred
grand. My thinking: How many folks are there gonna be in the
market for an exploding squid?
“If I were to bring that offer to Dealer Dan, he’d kill me,”
the intern said, “slow.”
“Oh,” I said.
“How about we go to him with five hundred?”
“Three hundred, take it or don’t.”
Her reply was drowned out by a sonic boom. Moses,
who’d never flown a plane (as far as I knew, even as a passenger),
was test-piloting one of Dealer Dan’s ten-million-buck F-15s.
P.S. Here’s a scrimshaw rendition of the S-1 robot.

We’re back at sea. Here’s the latest news, both good and bad:
Good: Dealer Dan accepted my $300,000 offer for the S-1
exploding squid robot and my crew loaded it aboard our secret
brig along with the weapons I’d bought. Also, I got Sybil the
beautiful intern’s phone number.
Bad: Before we went ashore to Dealer Dan’s this morning, Moses
used scotch tape—instead of duct tape—to tie up Stupid George
below deck so as to keep him out of trouble. (Moses had gotten
high on expired milk.) George still had a tough time getting free,
but when he did, he used the desktop computer on the bridge,
logged onto my blog and posted the following:
Tuesday, 20 July 2004 4:10 PM
Deer Tunetts:
Yo ladys its me Rockhed George the famis athleat you met on
Gwava. The captin and evryone went ashwhore to by guns frum
Deeler Dan and left me in command. So I got this hole sweet yot
to my self. Theirs lots of licker and a jackoozee. So sail yore hot
lil poop decks on over to 52° 13’ N/21° 2’ E!!!

Pee Yes: Here is a skrimchaw Flark did of the yot.
That George posted a scrimshaw of our secret brig, along
with her name, Lucky Sue, is obviously not good news. Of
course, in buying a brig with “Lucky” in her name I had been
asking for it. I’d intended to rechristen her either Whalemower
or Slow, Painful Death to Dickhead but unfortunately Moses
drank all of the wine bottles that we could have used to christen
her with, and all of the soda bottles we might’ve used too (drunk,
he thought they were wine bottles).
That brings us to some extra-bad news: George posted latitude
and longitude coordinates, and Dealer Dan’s rule is that anyone
who gives the authorities info on his whereabouts ceases to
continue being alive.
Some good news: Stupid George is not known as Navigator
George for a reason. The coordinates he gave were for downtown
Warsaw, in Poland.
Bad: Dealer Dan didn’t give a seahorse’s ass about the Poland
thing, claiming (justifiably, I’ve got to say) that singing’s singing,
even if you get the notes muddled. We learned this when Dealer
Dan came running down his dock, all red-faced and spitting
foam, just as were shoving off. It was a bit hard to hear him over
the machine gun he was firing at us.
Good: We’d bought two howitzers off him, used one to fire back,
and Dealer Dan retreated.
Bad: Now Dealer Dan and his team of professional murderers
are chasing after us in a cruiser loaded with every weapon short
of photon torpedoes. Flarq estimates she’s five knots faster than
our brig and accordingly will be close enough to fire at us in
about a minute.
Good: Maybe the Tortolan navy is headed to Poland.
Bad: Given my luck, they’ll probably return along with the Polish
navy. No, given my luck, the Polish navy will take my side.
Good: According to Thesaurus, there is an Afterlife where no
one has to work.
Bad: Asked by Nelson who does the cleaning in the Afterlife,
Thesaurus was at a loss.
More Bad: I called the number Sybil gave me. A guy picked up
and said, “Captain Bingo’s Fish ’n Chips.”
Good: The roar we just heard: Moses, overhead in a F-15 fighter
jet with missiles that could turn Dealer Dan’s cruiser into a
mollusk habitat.
Bad: Moses’ only previous flying experience was during a
hallucination.
P.S. In the event we live and keep on whaling, I’d be much
obliged if you’d copy this poster and paste her up at harbors and
whaler bars in your area...