| |
|
“Beefy ‘Bruiser’ Bhingham”
Tezcatlipoca rests leisurely against the ropes in the Substandard’s gymnasium, watching the glistening body of Beefy ‘Bruiser’ Bhingham, his muscles rippling and knotting as he struggles to peel the captain another grape.
“Now remember, Beefy, things are getting distinctly nasty on board, so I need you to stay close.”
“Stay close,” echoes Beefy. “Gotcha, boss.”
“Frankly I don’t like the looks of the lynching mob this time around, so I’d be grateful if you could have a word with any of them that get out of line. In short, I want you to break their spines, Beefy.”
“Spines,” grins Beefy. “Right, boss.”
“A new victim, sir”
A shadow falls across the captain, a thin strip of darkness amidst the glare of the electric lights.
“Yes, Ponsonby?”
“Your life-raft is ready, sir, as is the sworn confession you asked me to prepare, stating that you were the victim of mutiny, sir.”
“Good man. Now nonchalance, that’s the ticket. One whiff of us vacating the ship and those bloodthirsty bastards will be upon us.”
“I’m happy to say, sir, that our swift departure will not be necessary.”
“What do you mean?”
“I passed the mob on my way here, sir. They appear to have got themselves a target for tonight. I have come from them as envoy, sir, requesting permission to remove the unfortunate from the ship.”
Tezcatlipoca lets out a groan, his head sinking into his hands.
“Oh God. Who have they picked on now?”
“Roger”
A half hour later, the crowd gathers on the aft deck, assembled around the open hatch that leads to a section of the hold. A low shuffling can be heard in the darkness below, and, occasionally an angry snort. The crowd exchange nervous glances, and some of the women place their hands on their hearts and look faint.
Tezcatlipoca, standing on a raised platform clears his throat, then begins to address the assembled people. “Aiko Norrplast, known to us as Iconoplast, you stand accused of being a member of the mafia, and, consequently, a menace to the decent people here present. It is the sentence of this rather hastily cobbled together court that you are to be thrown to Roger, the ship Yak, who for no good reason is contained in this hold, has not been fed since we set sail, and is probably in a really foul mood I expect. The sentence will now be carried out.”
Iconoplast, erstwhile reporter for the Granton Gazette, and aspiring pulp author is pushed forward, and, with one last despairing scream, plummets through the darkness to the bovine fate that awaits him.
For a few moments the crowd lingers, horrified by the mixture of screaming and mooing that seems to blend into one awful sound that rises from the hatch and hangs on the very wind, piercing the dusk like a banshee’s howl.
“Congratulations”
Iconoplast’s cabin is searched in earnest. Floorboards are ripped up, curtains are torn down, and hands are stuck thoroughly down the back of the sofa.
An hour drifts idly by, then two. Finally, a crowd gathers outside the cabin, a pile of looted evidence lying on the centre. Half an hour later, sufficient indication as to the deceased’s status is gathered.
Ponsonby checks the articles again, then a third time. Finally he steps up to the captain and whispers in his ear. A slow grin begins to stretch over the captain’s face, the white teeth clicking with satisfaction.
A hush settles over the crew and passengers. The captain gives a dramatic sigh, then begins to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen. For a long time it looked as though failure stood between us and success, but now the upper hand is on the other foot and tomorrow looks like another day. Iconoplast was one of the Mafia. Congratulations, under my flawless leadership, you have succeeded in removing half the threat to this ship. Remember however, that the personal effects of those who have died will be divvied up amongst the survivors when we land. Ponsonby informs me that there are only a few days to go before we arrive at Catlipoca. We have one Mafia left to remove, and two Detectives still with us. Enjoy the remainder of your cruise!”
And with that, the captain turns and leaves, whispering something to Ponsonby about having Beefy guard his cabin that night.
Remaining Mafia, Detectives, please PM me your actions. |
|
|
