Lunatics

by Dave Barry

  “SURFACE!” shouted the leader, his eyes watering. “NOW!”

  “But, sir,” responded the helmsman, “we’re still in the—”

  “TAKE IT UP RIGHT NOW!”

  The helmsman yanked on levers. The sub shot up. The Salamanders were already opening the hatch when we reached the surface; some water splashed in as the Salamanders scrambled up the ladder and out. Horkman was right behind them. I was right behind Horkman.

  I stuck my head out the hatch and sucked in a breath of air. We had popped up in Havana Harbor near some big ships, freighters. The Salamanders were on the front end of the sub, lying down, retching and puking into the harbor.

  “Psst,” said Horkman. He actually used that word: “Psst.” He was crouching at the back of the sub, waving at me to go that way. “Come on,” he whispered, and he slid off the deck into the water.

  I wasn’t crazy about the idea, but I also wasn’t crazy about staying with gung ho maniacs on a diarrhea-filled submarine, even if it was my diarrhea. So as quietly as I could, I slid into the water after him. We swam toward the closest freighter, and spotted an opening almost at water level toward the back. We climbed up the ladder there and found ourselves inside what looked like the ship’s garbage-collection area, which smelled almost as bad as I did. We followed a corridor into the ship, found an empty cabin and ducked inside. There were some hanging bunks, and we decided we’d spend the night there and figure out what to do when it was daylight. Horkman made me take off my pants and throw them out the porthole.

  We collapsed on the bunks; I fell asleep in maybe a minute.

  When I woke up, sunlight was coming through the porthole.

  And the ship was moving.

  CHAPTER 37

  The NBC Nightly News

  BRIAN WILLIAMS: Good evening. Our top story tonight again comes from Cuba, where the extraordinary events of the past two days have taken yet another astonishing twist. It now appears that the military masterminds behind the astonishing lightning-strike revolution that overthrew the Cuban regime were, of all people, Philip Horkman and Jeffrey Peckerman, the New Jersey–based international terrorists believed to be responsible for the recent attacks in New York City and the hijacking of the cruise ship Windsong, including the traumatic assault on Charo. For more on this remarkable development we go to NBC correspondent Richard Hanft, in Havana. Richard, what, exactly, is the connection between the rebel forces and these wanted terrorists?

  HANFT: It’s not clear, Brian. The rebel leaders claim they had no prior contact with Horkman or Peckerman. Yet somehow the two men were able to evade capture by the Cuban authorities, locate the secret rebel headquarters, take charge of the insurgent army, and lead the attack on Havana, achieving an astonishing victory by means of a highly unorthodox and innovative military tactic called “the radius.”

  WILLIAMS: “The radius?”

  HANFT: Correct, Brian. The rebels say their victory was totally the result of this innovative maneuver, led by these two apparently very charismatic men. And in yet another strange twist, Horkman and Peckerman apparently vanished only hours after the battle ended. One minute they were at a victory banquet here in Havana, and the next minute they were gone—disappearing, in the words of the Cuban rebels, like fantasmas de la noche, or “ghosts of the night.” To add to the mystery, early today the Cubans found a top-secret American spy submarine floating in Havana harbor, with a team of commandos clinging to the hull. Apparently the submarine had been disabled by some kind of powerful biological weapon.

  WILLIAMS: Could this also be the work of Horkman and Peckerman?

  HANFT: The Cubans believe so, Brian. The American government has no official comment on the sub, but sources have told me the Pentagon is deeply embarrassed that Horkman and Peckerman were able to neutralize an elite commando unit apparently sent here to capture them.

  WILLIAMS: For more on the U.S. reaction, we go to NBC Washington correspondent Jeffrey Berkowitz. Jeffrey, what is the American government saying now?

  BERKOWITZ: Brian, officially Horkman and Peckerman are still wanted as terrorist enemies of the United States. But their role in the Cuban revolt has caused many here in Washington to reevaluate these shadowy figures. There’s speculation that they may actually be some kind of super double agents, if you will—posing as terrorists, but actually using their international clout, and their formidable abilities, to advance a different agenda altogether.

  WILLIAMS: What agenda is that?

  BERKOWITZ: Nobody knows for sure, Brian, although some are now calling them freedom fighters. The singer Bono is strongly hinting that he has been in contact with them, as are Geraldo Rivera and the Nike Corporation. And in an indication that the public image of these fugitives may be changing, here in Washington we’re already seeing young people wearing T-shirts like the one I’m holding here, with the words “Fantasmas de la Noche” above the faces of Horkman and Peckerman.

  WILLIAMS: That’s Horkman and Peckerman?

  BERKOWITZ: I’m told these are their Bar Mitzvah photos.

  WILLIAMS: Fascinating. And does anyone have any idea where these two are now?

  BERKOWITZ: Apparently not, Brian. They have indeed vanished like ghosts in the night. They could be, literally, anywhere on Earth. But wherever they are, it’s a good bet, based on their track record, that excitement is not far behind.

  WILLIAMS: “Excitement” is definitely the word for these two.

  CHAPTER 38

  Philip

  “Thank me, Horkman!”

  “Get off of me, you bloated mammal!”

  “Only if you thank me first!”

  “Not a chance in hell!”

  “Then I’m not budging!”

  “Ow!”

  I was in great pain. I was on the floor, Peckerman’s knee was in my back, and his grubby hands were under my chin, yanking my head upward in the general direction of Saturn, with the promise that he would not stop doing this until I said “thank you.”

  And there lay the problem.

  Call me arbitrary, but I truly felt I had to draw the line somewhere.

  Again we were at sea. It was our first morning. After a surprisingly good night’s sleep, my eyes opened to the disorientation of not recalling where I was. Lying in what was, for all intents and purposes, a hammock hanging from the ceiling near the bowels of what were, for all intents and purposes, bowels. A corridor filled with waste being swept along by waves of tainted liquid toward a huge opening at the far end.

  It was about the time that I saw two rodents lying on their backs on top of a flattened Dixie Cup as if in a water park, when I heard Peckerman approach from behind demanding that I thank him for getting us where we were.

  “Why in God’s name should I thank you for that?”

  “Because otherwise we’d still be inside that submarine.”

  “So you’re asking me to thank you for having diarrhea?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “And why not?”

  “First of all, it was involuntary. It’s not like you had a brilliant strategy that you implemented and it affected our escape. You simply got sick at an opportune time. And secondly, from the looks of things,” I said, while I could’ve sworn that one of those floating rodents had fed the other one some grapes, “I’d say, at best, this was a lateral move.”

  That’s when he knocked me to the floor and started hurting me.

  Funny thing, though. While Peckerman was snapping my head backward and forward like I was a giant Pez dispenser with colored candy issuing from my neck, it did cross my mind that we were indeed lucky to be away from those angry Salamanders who were going to take us to Guantánamo. Where, as presumed terrorists whose objective was to destroy America, we’d be thrown into dark cells and waterboarded.

  So bei
ng here on this freighter, despite not knowing exactly where we were or where we were going, was a reprieve from what I was certain would be my fate. The country that I love hating me so much that when I died, either in prison or at the hands of a death squad that hunted me down, spontaneous parties would break out around the peace-loving world like they did when they finally found Osama bin Laden. So as much as it pained me to offer anything that even resembled positive feedback to this buffoon, I bit my lip and gave him what he so desperately needed.

  “Thank you, Peckerman.”

  “You’re very welcome, douchebag.”

  Then the moron got up. And then I extended an arm the way football players do when they’re seeking assistance getting up after they’ve been tackled. The way virtually every time, even the most barbaric players from the opposing teams help them up.

  So, as if I needed further confirmation that the Neanderthal I was traveling with was somewhere to the left of them on the evolutionary scale, I staggered to my feet unaided as he ignored my request and walked away whistling “I Whistle a Happy Tune,” still with no pants on.

  The freighter we were on is called a container ship. A long flat transport that carries its cargo in rectangular truck-size containers. Stacked on top of each other by cargo cranes. This particular ship had about seventy-five of those huge containers filled with bananas from Ecuador, then stopped in Cuba where it picked up a smaller amount of sugar, and was now continuing on to a place that apparently needed bananas and a little sugar.

  “They’re probably green, huh?”

  “What’s probably green, Peckerman?”

  “The bananas. Because if they’re yellow, by the time they get to where they’re going they’ll be overripe.”

  “Okay.”

  “And mushy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  In general, it was easy for me and Peckerman to anonymously blend in with the crew of thirty merchant marines after we stole work uniforms from the ship’s laundry. And the fact that most of the men were from different countries made communicating, in general, a nonfactor. These were veteran tattooed seafarers who knew the jobs they had to perform and simply went about the routine.

  So the two of us merely did what they were doing. Whether it be swabbing, chipping paint, or operating forklifts, we insinuated ourselves into the group and worked alongside of everyone else. We also ate with them. And at night, after watching a movie in the ship’s theater or sitting in a corner of the game room pretending that we knew how to play chess, we went back to our room and those hanging bunks.

  “But here’s what I don’t understand about bananas.”

  “Jesus, Peckerman. We’re still talking about bananas?”

  “I mean, I’ve been to the supermarket and a lot of times I’ve seen green bananas there.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “Well, if they’re green by the time they get to the store, what color were they when they were on the boat before they got to the store?”

  “Go to sleep, Peckerman.”

  “Maybe it’s a darker green.”

  “Peckerman, can’t you find a shiny object that you can stare at for a while?”

  With the exception of this idiocy, it was an easy routine to settle into, and all seemed to be under control until our third day out.

  Dinner. A bowl of unrecognizable sludge that everyone merely withstood, but Peckerman scarfed down like he was on death row.

  “Slow down,” I said under my breath. “Peckerman, our fellow mariners affectionately call what you’re shoveling into your piehole ‘S.W.A.T.,’ which, in this particular instance, stands for ‘Shit With Alotta Thorns.’”

  “Fuck ’em, I’m hungry!” Peckerman declared at the same unfortunate moment that a sneeze with the force of a tsunami sent a mouthful flying across the table and into the face of a Dutch seaman who was crying because he’d just found out his sister died.

  I knew Peckerman was in big trouble when everyone at the table fell silent in deference to their splattered comrade, before the guy to Peckerman’s right grabbed him from behind. And then I knew I was in big trouble when the guy to my left (wrongly thinking Peckerman and I were friends) grabbed me from behind. They pulled us to our feet and dragged us to the center of the room, where the rest of the crew formed two lines to take turns punching us in the stomach.

  “Him first!” I heard Peckerman yell, at which point the guy at the front of that line clenched his fist and belted him with power that caused him to keep bowing at the waist like it was sundown at the Western Wall.

  And then it was my turn. I looked at the guy who was about to punch me. He was small. Asian. Sort of pudgy. Sort of reminded me of what I would look like if I was small, Asian and pudgy. What I mean is, he seemed like he wasn’t used to this kind of thing. But that he was aware that the other seamen, from both lines, were watching, and this scared me, because from the look on his face I could tell he felt he had something to prove to them. Especially when fueled by the cheering that was egging him on in at least four languages that I was able to discern.

  His look seemed to say he was sorry but this was something he just had to do, so I closed my eyes and braced myself for the ensuing impact when I suddenly heard a word I never imagined I’d hear in my life.

  It came from an officer rushing into the mess hall and shouting in a voice that cut through the mounting chorus of the others, causing them all to stop cheering, to break ranks and scatter in all directions.

  “Pirates!”

  CHAPTER 39

  Jeffrey

  It didn’t register with me right away, the pirates thing. I was focused on the fact that my stomach hurt like a mother, and a whole crew of assholes were waiting their turn to punch me. I knew I had to think of something, fast.

  This is going to sound weird, but my mind flashed back to Artie Bermitt. He was this bully in eighth grade who used to take my lunch money, give me wedgies, stuff like that. One day he roughed me up pretty good after school, and when I got home I was crying. My mom asked why, so I told her, and that night she told my dad.

  My dad was the kind of guy who never backed down from a fight, even when the other person didn’t want to fight, if you know what I mean. He got thrown out of a lot of bars in his day, and at least two funerals. One time he punched a cassowary. Google it. It’s a giant flightless bird, bigger than an ostrich, with a weird head and huge Tyrannosaurus rex feet.

  The way it happened was, we were at this wildlife tourist attraction in Florida called Jungle Adventure, and we went to a bird show in an outdoor theater where, for the big climax, a guy chosen from the audience holds up a plum so a parrot can swoop down from the back of the theater and snatch it from his hand. At least that’s what the announcer says is going to happen. What really happens is, while the guy is looking up at the parrot, a totally unexpected and fugly bird the size of Shaquille O’Neal comes barreling out from backstage and grabs the plum.

  Then what’s supposed to happen is the victim, totally surprised, lets go of the plum, jumps back, maybe even screams a little. The audience has a big laugh, and the cassowary, swallowing the plum, trots off to his trainer.

  That’s not what happened with my dad. He jerked the plum away and threw a left hook at the cassowary’s noggin that connected pretty good. The cassowary totally freaked out. Things got hairy then—workers trying to restrain this huge, pissed-off bird, people running for the exits, a lot of screaming. When things finally calmed down, the trainer tore into my dad about how this was an extremely rare and valuable animal, and he could have killed it, and for that matter it could have killed him, and what the hell was he thinking? My dad’s position was: Fuck you, and I’m keeping the plum.

  Now that you know what kind of guy my dad was, you probably know what he did when he found out about Artie Bermitt. First, he smacked me in the head, hard, for
crying like a girl. Then he said, “Next time that punk starts with you, you hit him hard, right in the nose. If I find out you chickened out, I’ll beat the living shit out of you myself.”

  So the next day, when Artie Bermitt came to my locker and told me to give him my lunch money, I hit him hard, right in the nose. And you know what happened? I’ll tell you what: Artie Bermitt beat the living shit out of me and pissed in my locker. It’s a lesson I never forgot.

  This flashed through my mind when the crew started hitting me in the stomach. (I mean Artie Bermitt flashed through my mind, not the cassowary. I included that here just for background.) I knew there was only one way I was going to get out of that ship alive, and that was to fall on the floor and cry like a girl. If you think I’m a coward, you can eat me.

  So I dropped down and curled up on the floor, eyes closed, whimpering, expecting to get yanked back to my feet or maybe kicked. Instead I heard this commotion, and then Horkman shook me and said, “Get up! We’re being attacked by pirates!”

  I opened my eyes and said, “What the fuck do you want me to do about it?”

  He said, “We need to help repel the attack!” Those are the actual words he used: “Repel the attack.”

  I said, “Why, so those assholes can get back to punching us?”

  “It’s better than getting keelhauled by pirates.”

  I didn’t answer that, because I didn’t want Horkman to know I didn’t know what “keelhauled” meant, although it sounded enough like “cornholed” that I had a pretty good idea. When you think about it, a lot of pirates are probably gay. Look at Johnny Depp.

  We went up onto the deck, where most of the crew were gathered along a side rail. We joined them and looked down into the ocean. Next to our ship were two speedboats, carrying a dozen or so dark-skinned guys with guns. They were putting ladders against the side of our ship. Our crew didn’t seem to be doing anything about this. In fact, our ship was no longer moving, which made it even easier for the pirates. It’s like we had a big sign that said WELCOME ABOARD.