The Captain limps forward & reaches out, squeezing your right forearm
with five iron-fingered grips. His eyes blaze with disease of body, mind. Bits of old leaves strand his gnarled hair. What is even happening? How did you get–back?–here–?
As the Captain holds you fast, the two of you together now forming diorama, the sailors surge menacingly closer, and a sudden sea storm begins to pound, waves plashing violently, and the ship shudders like a child’s toy boat being tossed about by his dickish older brother.
All you have to do is be cool.
You shake off the captain’s iron grasp, reach into your pocket, produce a folded bit of paper. The captain reaches after it greedily, holds it close to his jittering eyes. His beard ruffles with ocean breeze, and droplets scatter down from his matted dark hair, blotting the ink.
“What are these markings? Tell me! I’m no Feejee!”
Luckily, a bright shining lie comes to your lips: speak it here.
Or if at this moment you’re like, Eh, fuck all this noise, that’s fine, go ahead take a moment to breathe deeply: find a measure of calm and balance & get motherfuckin’ zen.
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