Pirate Sven’s sleeping quarters were done entirely in a Waterworld theme with a five foot by six foot headshot of Kevin Costner in a place of honor on the wall. This dude had the shittiest taste I’d ever witnessed. I would not want to sleep with Kevin Fucking Costner staring at me. It was creepy.
Posters and still shots from the film littered the walls and little plastic characters from the movie—for lack of a more fitting word—were arranged in battle scenes all over the enormous dresser. Not a spec of dirt anywhere. How was that even possible? Did the Crab have a dusting fetish?
“Poseidon’s hairy balls,” I mumbled, staying low. “The Pirate Crab is freakin’ neat.”
What the hell was with the spotless room? He was a Pirate. I thought all Pirates were disgusting.
Making sure the coast was clear, I belly-crawled across the carefully raked carpet. Who in the heck raked their carpet? It was so clean it made me itchy. Whatever, I was on a mission and nothing short of my own death would stop me.
Why?
I had no fucking clue. It was some horrid compulsion I had to save the dumbass sea creatures—a real buzz kill, but I’d quit questioning it about two hundred years ago. It was what it was. Kurt had the same affliction. Bizarrely, it made me feel good to save lives—kind of like Aquaman. It took almost a century for our parents to realize we’d been setting dinner free for our entire lives. Initially we were sent to therapy where we were diagnosed as vegetarians. Thankfully we’d never let on that we could talk to the fucking fishies. Our disease was bad enough as it was.
Wedging myself into a spotless corner of Pirate Sven’s bedroom, I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer to Poseidon that today wasn’t going to be my last. Letting my mind wander, I zoned in on the hostages. There were six.
Damn it, Sven must be really hungry.
“Hello? Is anybody in there?” I asked letting my thoughts float out to the lobsters.
“Pink Floyd is dat you?”
“Pink who?” I asked confused. Was the lobster being tortured?
“Okay… lemma try again. Roger Waters?” the lobster asked.
“Dude, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Well, youse is singing Comfortably Numb. I figured youse was Pink Floyd,” the male voice responded.
“First of all, I wasn’t singing, dongwhistle. Secondly, the only thing numb is your brain and soon to be your nuts if you get boiled, jackwadhole,” I replied.
“I only know two sumbitches with mouths like dat. Don’t sound like Kurt. Is dat you, Keith?” a voice asked frantically.
“Yep. Don Guido?”
“Thank Poseidon’s hairy ball sack. Yep it’s me, Don Guido,” he answered with relief in his voice. “It’s gettin’ a little hot in here.”
Don Guido and I went back about 50 years. He was an idiot, but well versed in American TV and film pop culture—a useless talent I found impressive. The lobster was amusing. He was full of shit most of the time, but made a killer spinach and dried cranberry salad with feta cheese and could drink me under the table—not an easy task since it was difficult for a Selkie to tie one on.
He was known in the ocean world as Don Guido. Of course he’d given himself that title due to his Marlon Brando obsession. He wasn’t a Don by any stretch of the imagination. He was a scrawny little crustacean, with a wandering eye and a tremendous amount of manwhore tendencies—also more of a pacifist than a fighter. Although, to be fair, his taste in violent Mafia movies was truly outstanding. Don Guido was my go to lobster when I was in the mood for some bloody shoot-em-ups on the screen.
“My Gods, man, are you already in the pot?”
“No. Not yet,” Don Guido told me with a terrified shriek.
“Is the Pirate steaming you?”
“No. My wife is trying to decapitate me—or possibly castrate me. I’m a little unclear at the moment.”
“Not following.”
“The Pirate got me. He got me, my fifth wife —Stella, my current mistress— Carmella, and three of my kids from my first marriage—Sonny, Fredo and Vito. It’s like the bloody horse head in the bed, but way fuckin’ worse.”
“You watch entirely too many movies,” I said, ignoring the fact that I did as well. Don Guido clearly named his kids for the Godfather. However, he probably should have gone with other character names considering the fates of those he’d chosen.
“Pot, kettle, black,” Don Guido shot back. “Youse can recite all the Aquaman cartoons ever made. And I’d bet my soon to be severed balls dat youse is gonna name your first son Jason Momoa.”
The lobster’s statement gave me pause. It was an excellent idea… The thought of a tiny Jason Momoa that looked like me was delightful. Of course, I had to find a mate to accomplish that. The only one I wanted didn’t want me—crazy, but true. I mean, really…I was a great catch.
So much to do and so little time…
First things first. Save the lobsters.
“So I’m guessing that the wife doesn’t know about the mistress?”
“She does now,” Don Guido shouted. “Youse gotta save me. Stella’s got pinchers like razorblades.”
“Dude, you need to keep your pecker in your shell. I’m here to save all of you. If you die after the fact, that’s on you.”
This was certainly a shitshow. Lobsters were doinkbrains. Don Guido was most likely going to bite it today at the claws of his fifth wife who was pissed off about the side gal-pal. I liked the dumbass mouthy bastard, but he was a randy little shit. I’d save him from the pot of boiling water, but after that the manwhore was on his own.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he whined. “Just save us. I’ll make it up to my wife.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” he yelled. “I’ll talk to Manny and get some fucking pearls.”
“Manny’s still hawking pearls?” I asked, shocked.
Manny was a slimy eel with sticky fingers. He’d been fencing pearls for years until the oysters got wind of it and tied Manny into a knot that took him three years to get out of. No one fucked with the oysters. Those lumpy shelled asses were crazy.
“Yep. Dat eel has a death wish,” Don Guido said with a chuckle.
“Sounds like someone else I know,” I shot back.
“Touché,” Don Guido moaned.
“Give me the lay out. Where are you? And what’s the Pirate doing?”
“We’re in a bucket in the kitchen—nice bucket—very clean. Hang on a sec,” Don Guido muttered and then grunted. “Had to take a peek. I think he’s watching Waterworld and eating grapes, hummus and kale chips.”
“That’s pretty dang weird for a carnivore,” I said while my mouth watered.
“That’s some girly food he’s eating,” Don Guido commented.
“Shut your pie hole, lobsterdick. Hummus is not girly,” I snapped.
“Whoops. My bad. But I’m going on record that kale chips are girly.”
“You want me to save your sorry ass?” I hissed. “You take that back about kale chips right now. They’re healthy and delicious. And just to be one step ahead of your waterlogged pea brain, grapes are not girly either. You feel me, cheeseballs?”
“I feel youse,” Don Guido said quickly. “My apologies. Can youse just hurry up here? Stella already removed Carmella’s left claw. It’s gettin’ ugly in the bucket.”
“Hang tight and be ready to run,” I instructed. “I’m making my move.”
What was my move?
No clue.
I was going to yank it out of my ass. It was how I liked to roll.
* * *
Deciding to use the front door, I climbed back out of the window. However, before I left I quickly rearranged all the action figures on the spotless dresser. It would drive Pirate Sven nuts. I really wished I could see the old bastard’s face when he discovered Kevin Costner running like a scared weenie from a mob of women. I also grabbed a green marker drew a stash and some zits on
the giant Costner face on the wall. I couldn’t help myself. It was completely satisfying and I was sure I’d live to regret it—that is, if I survived the next twenty minutes. And if I did live, I could blame the vandalism on Kurt before he got back with our dirty underpants. Good plan.
“Knock, smile and then yank a strategy from your ass,” I said to myself as I slowly ascended the steps of the Pirate’s porch. Shite, even the steps were pristine.
Wait a freakin’ minute… A delighted and slightly devious grin pulled at my lips. This might just be easier than I’d thought.
Knocking, I quickly backed away from the door. The assknob might come out swinging. I was pretty sure he was still mad about the dick in his yard.
“Who is it?” he shouted.
“It’s me, Keith,” I shouted back.
“Ye mean, Tar Stain?” he challenged without opening the door.
Closing my eyes and trying to suppress the enormous urge to call him a rectum wagon, I swallowed my pride. There were innocent lobsters in that house. I’d call the neat-nick Pirate all sorts of names after dinner was happily swimming back in the ocean.
“Yesssssss,” I hissed and rolled my eyes. “It’s Tar Stain. I need to take a whizz. Open up.”
“Ye can whizz on the phallic topiary outside, ya blunderin’ swamp rat,” he bellowed.
The Pirate was a lame murdering dookie wad with no manners at all. Fine. No worries. I would simply channel Aquaman and beat the Crab at his little game.
“Okay,” I yelled in my best Jason Momoa voice. “But just so you know, Selkie peepee is very concentrated. Pretty sure I’ll kill everything in your yard. Or maybe I’ll write you a note in the grass. You know… something like Pirate Sven is a mean ass Crab shifter and a crunchy booger binkie.”
“What in Poseidon’s Seven Seas does that even mean?” he bellowed.
“I have no idea, but it sounds bad,” I replied. Kurt might be the insult master, but I was no slouch.
“Are ye right in the head?” Pirate Sven asked as he opened the door and stared at me.
“No. Are you?” I inquired, trying to peek past him and spot the bucket.
“Not at all,” he admitted. “However, ye have a way with words—granted it’s disgusting in a ten year old boy sorta way, but ye are growing on me. Like a fungus, that is.”
“Thank you.”
“Wasn’t a compliment, Tar Stain,” he informed me as he moved to the right to grant me entry. “Do yerr business and then ye can watch Waterworld with me. Where’s the other Tar Stain?”
“Kurt went to get our laundry that you’ve so kindly offered to do,” I told him, quickly casing the house. Dang, if the whole place wasn’t totally immaculate.
The Crab’s laughter was loud and made me think he had no plans to do our laundry. So be it. I probably wouldn’t be alive to wear clean clothes anyway… or maybe I would.
The bucket was in the kitchen next to the table. No pot was on the stove and the counters were empty save a bunch of bananas and a bowl of apples. Odd. He certainly didn’t seem prepared to cook my friends.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” I said.
“Aye,” the Pirate replied. “The head is down the hall and on the left. If ye dribble on the seat ye will be licking it up.”
“Dude, that’s gross,” I gagged out.
“No more gross than me going into to bust a grumpy and sitting in yerr peepee,” he announced, making a fine point.
The time was now. It was do or die. Or do and die. Breathing in through my mouth and out slowly through my nose, I gasped and jumped up on the couch.
“Sweet Poseidon in a thong paired with black socks and sandals,” I shouted in terror as I pointed down the long hallway facing away from the kitchen. “Is that a dust bunny I see?”
“Nay, it can’t be,” Pirate Sven squealed, appalled as he looked down the hallway in shock. “Thar be no dust bunnies in me house.”
“It is,” I said with a shudder and then looked away in horror for effect. “It’s a big one and might be multiplying. It’s fucking awful.”
“I’m on it,” Pirate Sven shrieked like a girl as he yanked open the front hallway closet and grabbed a vacuum, a broom, a feather duster, a can of spray, a rake and a sword. “Watch out, Tar Stain. This could get ugly.”
“Can I ask a question?” I inquired.
I knew I had a job to do, but…
“Aye, but make it fast. Them dust bunnies are evil. They multiply like Mormons.”
“Why the sword?”
“So I can behead meself for having a dirty house,” he replied as if what he said was even remotely logical.
“Umm… hang on a second,” I said, not as sure of my plan anymore. If the Pirate chopped his head off, it would be my fault for lying. Shite. I couldn’t let the lobsters die either. Although, for all I knew Don Guido was already a goner.
“Ain’t got time fer yerr blubberin’, Tar Stain. I just want to thank ye fer seeing the dirty varmits.”
“Dude,” I said, reaching for the sword. “You’re taking the Mormon dust bunnies a little seriously.”
“Help me!” Don Guido shrieked inside my head. “She’s got my balls.”
“Well, you know what?” I shouted, forgetting Pirate Sven couldn’t hear Don Guido. “Maybe you don’t deserve your nards. Have you ever considered that?”
“Wait. What?” Pirate Sven asked, narrowing his beady eyes at me. “Ye think I should chop off me nards because of the Mormons?”
“NO,” I shouted, grabbing the sword and throwing it across the room. “Keep your nards. I was talking to myself.”
“Ye don’t deserve yerr own nards?” he asked, now completely confused.
He wasn’t the only one. I was sweating. Selkies didn’t sweat.
“Let’s leave my nards out of this,” I said as calmly as I could. Clearly pulling plans out of my ass was a bad idea. I hoped he didn’t take me for my word and make me remove my balls.
“She’s got a ball,” Don Guido screamed. “I repeat. Stella has a ball.”
“Look, Tar Stain, if ye got something pertinent to say, say it now. I got some bunnies to kill.”
“My Gods, man. Carmella has joined up with Stella. It’s a bloodbath. My balls are goners,” Don Guido screeched.
I was now bent over in phantom pain for Don Guido’s nuts and still terrified that Pirate Sven was going to remove one of his appendages because of the Mormon dust bunnies that weren’t actually there. If I ever saw my parents again, I was going to headbutt them. None of this would be happening if they hadn’t deserted us.
“Carmella and Stella, if you remove Don Guido’s balls, I will let the Pirate cook you. You feel me?” I shouted. Sprinting across the room, I grabbed the sword and stood over the bucket with it aimed at the creatures I was supposed to save. “Don Guido, I hope this is a good lesson for you and your pecker if you still have one. And Pirate Sven, you douchenozzle, if you so much as scratch yourself while killing the Mormons, I will peepee all over your toilet seat and then smear that delicious looking hummus all over your walls and crunch the kale chips that I want to eat into your carpet. I’ve had about all the shite I can take today and I’m about to blow.”
“Who are ye talking to, Tar Stain?” Pirate Sven inquired so calmly, I was sure I was about to die.
“Umm… no one,” I replied.
“Coulda fooled me, ya eejit,” he said, putting the cleaning apparatuses back into the closet and seating himself on his couch. “Ye wanna tell me about it?”
“No?”
“Wrong answer,” he said. “Are ye talking to the lobsters?”
Rolling my eyes, I laughed. “Of course not. That’s ridiculous. Talking to crustaceans? What kind of dorktowel can talk to fish?”
“I let ye have some homemade kale chips if ye come clean with me, Tar Stain,” Pirate Sven said as he held the bowl out to me.
“Homemade?” I asked, eyeing the green chips with longing.
“Aye,” he replied
. “Who are ye talking to?”
“They’re gone,” Don Guido yelled in a pitch much higher than earlier. “My testes are toast.”
“Hold that thought,” I told the Crab.
Grabbing the now soprano lobster from the bucket, I gently put him in the sink. I wasn’t sure if Don Guido could regrow his nuts as he wasn’t a shifter. My ball-less buddy was just a regular sea creature. Maybe I could use a little magic on him, but if I had to touch his nards it was a no go.
“Thank you,” Don Guido said sounding more like a Gina than a Guido at this point.
“You’re welcome,” I replied, not bothering to talk to him in my head.
The Pirate had already heard me. The jig was up.
“You’re going to think I’m insane,” I said, turning back to the Crab.
“Already do,” he replied. “Only an assjacket would have trimmed me bushes into a dong.”
“Fine point. Well made.”
“If ye want to know yer gift, I’d suggest ye start yappin’, Tar Stain.”
“You’ll tell me my gift if I tell you the truth?”
“Aye.”
“Fine,” I said, shaking my head and wondering if Aquaman would give up his secrets for some homemade kale chips. “Are the chips salted?”
“Do weevil eatin’, rum swiggin’ sea serpents have greasy hair?” Pirate Sven demanded.
“Umm… yes?” I guessed, having no fucking idea what the Crab had just said.
“Aye,” he said with a chuckle. “The chips are salted—sea salt.”
“Okay. Well… umm… You captured Don Guido, his fifth wife, his mistress and three of his sons. It was a shitshow in there since Stella—fifth wife—didn’t know about Carmella—the mistress. Pretty sure Don Guido lost his balls in that bucket,” I explained as the Pirate simply stared at me. “I know. I know it sounds fucked up, but even if you have a go at me, I’m going to return my nutless friend and his dysfunctional family to the sea. I have to. It’s a sick compulsion which you should understand on account of your obsession with Mormon dust bunnies.”
Ariel’s Antics: Sea Shenanigans, Book 2 Page 6
