The sailors turn their attentions to you, gathering, crowding you, the breaths of their bodies heating the air with the acrid odor of massed violence, curled fists, knives in hands.

It’s so sudden, the way things change. Strange life, strange days. It’s as though the airs about the ship have taken on an electrical charge, jangling the bones, the teeth, the rivets of the boat herself—you see through a crack in the lot of angry crewmen that a distant storm approaches, lightning stemming ahead of a dark squall. The crewmen seethe, channeling the air’s violent energies. One presses against you so tightly that you can feel the warmth of his cheese-rank breath on your neck, the hilt of dagger against your thigh.

“Listen,” his voice hisses. “I know who are you!”

A warm hand slips something hard into your palm.

And in the swelter of the scene, of the mad captain’s still-quivering finger, of all the heaving bodies—no one seems to hear the voice behind you, no one sees the secret offering.

If you’re not into strangers rubbing against you and choose to ignore the voice, go here.

If you take the object and discretely put it down your pants, go here.

If neither option accurately represents your desires, perhaps try here?