A Gay Old Pirate's Tale Sneak Peek

Emery C. Walters

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First Edition.

ISBN: 978-1-304-84814-7 Also by Emery Walters Last Year’s Leaves Mending Rainbows Cabin Boy Out Is In Finding Avalon As I Am Boots, Dogs, and the Sea Ghosties and Girlies

Printed in the United States of America Cover Photo by Emery C. Walters Edited by Robyn Walters dba EmRob Publishing; Maui BecHavn.com

The two gunmen in front of him stared, and then one shouted, grabbing at his arm, “Lady, come on! You’re free at last!” Only then did Declan realize he was wearing one of his cross-dressing, crazy ancestor’s ball gowns. With his fashionably long, curly red hair, well, the song ‘Dude Looks Like a Lady’ could have been written in his honor. At any rate, with great timing but not on purpose, Declan fainted dead away. Swooned like a lady, right at the feet of the old geezers who had taken his – HIS! – ship.

Emery C. Walters

To all who support my inner child in his belief that he is a pirate. The rest of you can go walk a plank, unless you're secretly a pirate too. And to my seven grandchildren, none of whom can do a thing to change the fact that they are one/fourth pirate. Gotta love genetics!

A Gay Old Pirate’s Tale Emery C. Walters

A ninja outwits. A pirate out-stabs.

Drystan looked down at his boot in disgust. There were teeth lodged in the toe of it, sharp teeth that were digging into his toes like thorns from a kiawe tree in the woods. Ah Hawaii, how he loved it – except for the frigging thorns, the local missionaries (damn them to hell), and this. This face, this coconut shaped head, separated from its body by Spike, his very own sword, had died while attacking his foot.

The stupid yellow dog named Excalibur that his first mate had brought aboard was gnawing on the head and trying to get his attention. Its stupid yellow tail was wagging, hoping for him to throw the ball! Throw the ball! Good boy, fetch the fucking ball! That was not a ball.

He hoped that someone would throw the head into the ocean and that the dog would jump overboard to fetch it, never to make it back. He knew Beelzebub, his cat, no, the ship’s cat, would like that too.

It hadn’t been his idea to attack the Golden Lance, the English ship that had looked like easy pickings to that idiot, Cadwallen. Why in hell their mother hadn’t drowned his younger brother – his twin – at birth, he did not know. The man had nine lives; Drystan should know; he himself had tried to kill him often enough but somehow, it just never worked. On the plus side, Cadwallen had no idea that it was he – Drystan – who had been laying traps for him all these years.

Traps that never seemed to work, damn it all.

Oh God, and to top off this day of complete misery? He’d broken a nail!

Beyond his ship, he could see the English ship burning. It was

floating away, unlooted, ready to sink to the bottom. This pissed him off immensely, almost as much as having broken a nail. What was Cadwallen thinking? Cadwallen had been too busy saving the young cabin boys (well, that was a good idea, yeah) and the women, that’s what. What about the loot? Get your priorities straight, man! There are always more women! Who needs them? At least you could sink your teeth into a good golden doubloon, and it wouldn’t try to slap the shit out of you!

Although, to be honest, two of the cabin boys were already in Drystan’s quarters, firmly tied up and rolled in carpets. You could never have too many cabin boys. How did that delightful song go?

Drystan shook his leg trying to dislodge the face. The dog got excited – really excited. He started humping the neck of the coconut-shaped head. Drystan yelled at one of the ship’s many, many children to get down off the rigging – why he’d ever decided it was wrong to drown them, too, when they were little, escaped him. There were so many – drat that brother of his insisting on saving all the women and children – the women especially, because they just continued to make more children – but he suddenly remembered his favorite pirate ditty.

“Oh you can’t make a baby in the cabin’s boy’s rear.” Oh hell, how did the rest of it go? Damn!

Finally he got the teeth scraped off his foot. Oh there was a mark in his boot leather now! Well that’s why he had cabin boys, to clean his boots. Ah, I know what you were thinking, but no. He was not like that. Not that he let his fool of a brother know! But he allowed no-one, including himself, to hurt the children. Not on HIS ship. Let his brother think what he wanted. He did have his image to protect, that of Drystan the Dire, Pirate Esquire! If anyone ever found out that all he did with the cabin boys was teach them to play whist and read Shakespeare, he’d never live it down.

There was a collective “OOOH!” from the crew as the English ship began to sink. This pissed Drystan off even more, and he kicked at the dog, who grabbed the head and ran off, tail wagging furiously.

Drystan hoped he’d eat it and get sick, preferably somewhere on Cadwallen’s side of the ship. Just for spite, he stuck his booted foot over the line the crew had painted across the ship, dividing his – Drystan’s – rightful half from that of his brother, the interloper, Cadwallen. “So there,” he thought snidely, seeing that no one even

noticed his daring.

He’d do for him yet, that Cad, Cod, Codwallop, whatever. The bastard. As was he.

Drystan the Dire stroked his lovely beard admiringly, struck a pose, and went below to his cabin.

Pirates eat meat off the bone. Ninjas eat low fat yogurt.

The old man was still dreaming of the old days when he was shaken gently by a young and gentle hand. “Wake up!” was the next thing he heard. “Wake up Great-great-grandfather Drystan, Sire!

Dinner is ready.”

Drystan opened one pale blue eye a slit and glared at the handsome young man who was beside him. Then he slammed his eye shut again. He sighed in disgust and gave up. Although he loved this, his last relation, he could not abide the longer hair style the lad sported. Why he ever let it grow out after the lice shavings…

Sometimes he thought his progeny should have been a girl. “Yar, you know me too well, don’t you, Declan?” he grunted, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “Sure and wasn’t I back in the old days when Cad, Cod, whatshisname and I sailed the seas in the original Blue Feather.

You know he married four times and sired fourteen children, but only three of them lived to sire their own progeny. One of them – must be a third, fifth or some-such cousin of yours– now captains his own ship, one of the Canary Line Acme Super Ships. Imagine that, to have sunk so low as to have become the enemy, a target.”

The young man smiled. He’d heard the story at least eighty times before, but it never failed to amuse him, how much the old man relished the telling. In his mind, behind his own savagely deep sea blue eyes, he carried on with the tale as his ancient ancestor spoke on.

He knew it by heart, and did not fail to notice when his progenitor forgot to define the cruise liner as the ‘A.S.S. of the C.L.A.S.S.’ “I myself sired a dozen, most of whom captained their own pirate ships, and…” the story staggered on. The cabin door opened and dinner was brought in on one of those newfangled wheeled tables that Declan had ordered. The table was positioned by the bedside, the

silver covers lifted off, and the stemware shining, filled to the brim with luscious looking deep red wine. A small glass of prune juice stood beside one of the two piled-high plates. Drystan looked hungrily at the leg of mutton; although it had a little sleeve of frilled white paper at both ends, the bone was sticking out one end like a little handle. He grinned in appreciation.

Drystan had to admit that the wee table on wheels was one of the better innovations that Declan had provided. The toilet seats with seat belts, when screwed down onto the aft rail where the men ‘did their business’, (what a sissy term THAT was) did indeed save many of the more drunken sailors from falling overboard and having thus to be replaced at the next port. Declan had flat out refused to have any more shanghaied crewmembers!

Just the same, the ship was still your typical pirate ship, except for the broken elevator cage stuck halfway up the main mast, where it hung, useless, used only as a ‘tree house’ by some of the younger cabin boys, not that they knew what a tree was, except for the gallows kind.

Declan had said the ship had to be brought up to ADA standards for the disabled, whatever that meant. And the slide over the back end, the ‘water slide’, like there was anything else to slide into, well, in the mornings after the men had used the back end for their back ends, yeah, har har, but well after that, the young’uns and the new breed of fussy men would use it when taking their daily baths. Declan had tried to install an elevator back there too but it also failed on its first use.

Lack of electricity was the major problem. Common sense was another, Drystan thought uncharitably, glancing at his progeny’s progeny. Ah well, must eat you know. At least the food was ALL improvement.

Drystan gulped the juice, making a ferocious face at the necessity of it, and returned to his tale while stuffing his face. Beside him, Declan ate delicately and sipped at his wine.

“All of my progeny, weakening as the line disintegrated due to the poor families my wives came from, blah blah blah, and the only surviving offspring any of their offspring’s offspring had, is – you.”

And that, he thought grimly, chewing madly with his disgust, was the end of the line. His eyes watched with annoyance as the handsome lad ate gingerly, wiping his full and shiny lips after each bite, both little

fingers lifted delicately. He’d have made a fine cabin boy in the old days, Drystan thought meanly, wondering about things he didn’t really want to know. Sure he was, though, that Declan would sire no children.

As the two dug into the pineapple pie that was dessert, Drystan worried about the future of his ship. He was old, true enough, and knew he would not live forever. And the only scion he had to take over his beautiful ship was this – beautiful boy. At least they looked good together, but the crew would never obey someone who still sang tenor! It was enough to make an old man shiver. It was then that he got his bright idea. Yes. He’d make the boy into a man if it killed him!

And get rid of that rich fourteenth cousin or whatever he was, at the same time. Yes. If his brother’s offspring had not had children himself yet, then that would be the end of his line, too! I’m a genius, Drystan thought, patting his full stomach and belching long and true. He watched with annoyance as Declan’s right eyebrow rose into his hairline, but the boy had too much class (WAY too much class) to comment.

They then returned to an ongoing discussion they had over singing classes for the men; Declan had said opera and light-opera would be fine, but Drystan thought sea shanties and songs about whores would be better. The hell with the operatic bit.

It was the custom for the crew to gather for breakfast all together, to set the tone for the day. It had been Declan’s idea, and Drystan himself had never attended, but the next morning he arose, donned his best clothes, and arrived majestically in what was now known as ‘The Salon’ in time for eats. Gouging his way through a plate of waffles and bacon, he finished before the rest and smacking his spoon against his water glass (and rolling his eyes – water – ugh!) he shouted, “Avast! Hark ye! Today we begin a new adventure. We’re to take another ship – loot for everyone! Women and – and –“ here he cast a sideways glance at the boy, Declan, “and whatever.’ He tried hard not to make a face, but failed.

There were cheers. “I have it on best authority that the Canary Line’s latest cruise ship ‘Buttercup’ is sailing near us. What a fine addition that will be to our scorecard!” (Scorecard? How did he come up with this crap? He’d always just kept track by drawing a ship on the prow of his ship and putting a line through it.) But everyone

cheered maniacally anyway. “And,” he continued, “I give you your new Captain - Declan the – the – “ (but only dick-monkey’ came to mind, so he kept thinking, came up with ‘dainty’, kept thinking, but only ‘dazzling’ and ‘dramatic’ came to mind.) He gave up and fakesneezed into his sleeve in an effort to make some sound that started with a D and sounded scary enough to the crew. “Let them fill in the blanks,” he thought grouchily.

But the crew, as usual, got the wrong message. They thought he was having a game of charades with them and they had to guess what word he wanted. The shouts came from all over: ‘Different!’

‘Delectable!’ (Everyone turned and stared at the man who had shouted that. He blushed.) ‘I know, I know – dromedary!’ (Laughter and gestures indicating one lump or hump or two ensued with great hilarity. Only Drystan’s angry growl stopped them. ‘Dominatrix?’ One man offered timidly – but he was booed down. Drystan shouted this time, or started to shout, ‘dammit’, but only got the ‘da’ out before several men screamed out ‘DASHING’ in unison, and everyone nodded. “Hup hup for Declan the Dashing!” Three rousing cheers ensued and Drystan was quite satisfied, at least, until he looked at his heir and noticed the deep, embarrassed blush rising over his cleanshaven young face.

Drystan watched the boy, wondering idly if he even had to shave at all. He stared at the boy with one eye shut, trying to see what others saw; was he man enough? Was his litheness and leanness sturdy enough to hold up to battle? Was he strong enough and mean enough to earn the men’s respect? And what was all that Ninjutsu crap about; how many years had he spent learning karate while away at school? “Oh my lord,” Drystan moaned inside. “Why the hell hadn’t he taken up archery or swordsmanship or something manly like sumo-wrestling? Geez.” He had to allow that the invisibility part, though unlikely to be true, might come in handy though. Well, they’d soon see. The Buttercup was supposed to be sailing this way. They should encounter the huge ship quite soon, probably even later today, if that newfangled gadget called radar or whatever was accurate.

After downing some celebratory rum to toast the new officerin-charge, Drystan ambled back to his cabin. He must have eaten too fast, he thought, rubbing his ample stomach. He belched loudly, but it

didn’t ease the growing pain in his stomach and chest. When he reached his cabin he saw that the boys had already made his bed, which pissed him off. How was a fellow to take a nap if those damn kids he’d saved off the last ship he’d sunk, insisted on cleaning and neatening all the time? Were they hanging around Declan too much and learning bad habits? Why he’d have that – oh crap, my chest – he thought, and he fell onto his neatly made bed, face down, and expired.

Pirates get to drink as much rum as they want.

The crew being how they were, they broke out the rum and had a tot all around, toasting their new captain. Then another round was passed, and this time, at the crew’s urging, Declan was given a glassful, which he downed with alacrity, coughing and choking afterward to their great amusement. The bravest of them told him he couldn’t be their captain until he’d downed it like a man! Cheers followed this announcement and Declan took another wee glass of rum.

One thing led to another and by noon most of the crew were quite happily drunk, and singing was heard (but not opera). Declan was passed out on the deck with his arms around one of the younger crew members and the man who had shouted ‘delectable’. The oldest hand bent over them, arranging their limbs this way and that to the laughter of the few of the crew who were still conscious.

Eventually Declan was dragged into the captain’s cabin and deposited next to old Drystan on the bed. They were all so drunk that nobody cared that Drystan never moved. Certainly Declan didn’t notice, being completely befuzzled and snoring loudly.

As the sun rose high and began to slide down the other side of the sky, Declan awoke to someone pounding on his head with a twoby-four. As he managed to open one eye, he saw that other than his ancestor, who seemed to be sound asleep, he was alone in the room.

Next thing he knew he was on his knees beside the bed, spewing loudly. He wondered idly if he’d contracted food poisoning. Certainly Drystan was unable to tell him, and if he had been able, would not have, but would only have laughed loud and long.

The ship, which was currently unmanned, as all the crew were

drunk or asleep, was wallowing and climbing, lurching and leaning.

Declan had never been sick like this before, and what a mess. After a while he poked at Drystan, angry with the old man for sleeping so soundly. When he got no response, he started to sober up, and eventually he took the old man’s wrist in his hand and felt for a pulse.

As he realized there was none, there came another pounding, not on his head this time, but on the door of the cabin.

“It’s her – she – the ship! The liner! Captain, there are few of us standing! What do we do?” The panic in the young voice was unmistakable.

Declan shouted back, “How the fuck should I know! I’ve only been captain for half a day!” but it went unheard over the sudden creaking and groaning of the ship, and the booming sounds of large, well aimed guns. Were they his own? Or – those of the liner?

Declan stood and fell in his own mess, stood again gingerly, his hands grasping at the old man, of whom he had been truly fond, and very dependent on as well, the young man now realized. He started to cry, but as the pounding on the door grew louder, he panicked, squealed like a little girl, and fell to his knees again, afraid to open the door.

As he went to rest his head on his now deceased but beloved ancestor, he saw that one of the old man’s eyes was looking at him, nay, into him! Had it just opened or had he died with – a sound of misery was sucked out of his throat, mixed with fear. “ARRGH!” he shouted, and he slid toward the door as if on a tilting iceberg. He fell against the door, which opened inward, and felt himself to be trapped!

Trapped in here with a dead man! The room was suffocating and smelled bad! The boy did not know what to do.

He could hear his own guns now, as they fired at the huge liner. Pulling himself to the barred window, he gasped in shock at the sight that met his eyes. Towering over their tiny boat was a huge yellow ship; the Buttercup! As his eyes traveled up and up, he saw there were men on the open decks and more men on some of the balconies, all armed to the teeth. They all looked pretty old to Declan, who after all was barely in his twenties, but then he was used to gnarly, dangerous old men and was not eased. Besides, they were all armed and firing.

A rifle twanged and something behind him crashed to the

floor. Turning in horror, he saw that the empty bottle of rum that had been beside Drystan’s bed was now shattered and spinning on the floor. Declan gulped and threw up his hands in defeat, not realizing that nobody could see him. He closed his eyes, waiting to be killed, not remembering that he was cowering behind a foot thick wall of solid mahogany. “Cease firing,” he commanded, but it came out in a whisper, and of course, nobody heard. Anyway, he realized, if he wasn’t man enough to go out there and command his ship, nobody would obey him anyhow. He knew what Drystan would say, and with a sneer, “Be a man! Die like one! ARRGH!” so he took a deep breath, whimpered a little, and then turned and stumbled toward the door.

Whipping open the door, he realized something. He was naked. WTF? A crewman with a blunderbuss. (How did he get that?

Did it even work? This was the 21st century for God’s sake! ran through Declan’s mind with absurdity.) The man laughed heartily and pointed. Declan slammed the door, thinking he was going to shoot and not wanting to take the chance that the antique gun would not fire.

Indeed as he stepped away from the slammed door, it splintered and fell apart and a mirror across the cabin blew into shards, the pieces that were left reflecting back his pathetic, puny body. He ran to the closet and grabbed the first garments he could feel.

“We’re holed! We’re sinking!” came a shout from the deck.

“Stand and be arrested!” came another voice and through the hole in the door Declan could see the old men with guns descending from the Buttercup by ropes, clambering all over his lovely ship. He cast a glance at Drystan, and then walked toward the door, ready to surrender and pay the price for his short-lived captaincy.

He whipped open the broken door, and emerged onto the deck, to be met by the stares of the gunmen from the other ship.

Indeed this incarnation of the Blue Feather was on her way to Davy Jones’ locker, tilted and holed and running with water and blood.

There were splashes as his crew jumped, fell or were pushed over the sides.

The two gunmen in front of him stared, and then one shouted, grabbing at his arm, “Lady, come on! You’re free at last!” and only then did Declan realize he was wearing one of his cross-dressing, crazy ancestor’s ball gowns. With his fashionably long, curly red hair,

well, the song ‘Dude Looks Like a Lady’ could have been written in his honor. At any rate, with great timing but not on purpose, Declan fainted dead away. Swooned like a lady, right at the feet of the old geezers who had taken his ship – HIS!

A pirate smells of rum and gunpowder 100 yards away.

It was a nightmare! He was fighting for his virtue! It must be true that he was one of his ancestor Drystan’s captive women, the many he had talked about when full of rum. “The Good Olde Daisies” he had called them. Declan hadn’t really believed the old man, but now as he struggled with the hands that were trying to undress him, he knew it was true.

“This one’s a fighter! She really must love that antique dress!” came a voice as hands held him down.

Another, quieter voice replied, “Well why not, look it’s an 1890 Flora Del Rue de Putain from Paris! An original!” Then that voice continued, “There, there, miss, we won’t hurt the dress, mmkay?”

The first voice again, “Sir Percival, cut it out. And cut it off too!

Let’s get this woman checked out and put to bed to recuperate from her ordeal – honey! Stop fighting! What a bitch! I hate redheads! Damn ratbag bloodnut firecrotch gingers! And look at the hair on these legs!

She must have been unable to shave them for months! And stink? Oh my mother of – whew – you could smell her coming from a hundred yards away!”

The one called Percival laughed, though giggled might describe it better. “She’s flat as a pancake, maybe that’s why, mmm, holy shit… Roger, would you go get a liter of glucose for me?” Percy’s eyes were ready to pop out of his head. Ah yes, what a hairy bitch indeed! And – the carpet matched the drapes - in more ways than one though he wasn’t going to tell anyone else that.

“Lazy bastard, though why you want the woman to yourself is more than I know!” Roger replied, at least Declan thought it must be the one called Roger, as the deeper voice trailed off into silence. There

was muffled rustling and the sounds of the door shutting.

“You little hussy, you’re not a woman at all!” whispered the soft voice, from the one named Percival. “Hee hee hee, I won’t let anyone know! It’ll be our little secret! Stop fighting me now and open those eyes, honey, and let’s see what you have under… Hey! Hoo hoo!

That’s nothing to be ashamed of, big boy!”

“Ow, fuck!” yelled Declan in a very unladylike manner, as he felt the hard pinch on his rear end. “Let me go, you…” and he opened his eyes to see a smiling pert face above him, lips pursed and laughter in the deep brown pools of eyes. A pink tongue ran around perfect lips. Declan blinked and caught his breath. Just as he felt a warm hand rest on his definitely-not-a-woman parts, the door opened, and Declan gasped out, “Unhand me, you brute!” He smiled pathetically; where the hell did he come up with these crappy lines, his great-great, oh hell, he was just going to call him ‘that dirty old pirate’ from now on.

So much easier and so very true. That’s where he’d learned all those crappy lines.

The lips above him made a kissy shape and the face withdrew.

“She’s fine,” Percy said. “Once she’s settled, I’ll go get her some clothes. I think the two girls with the cabin below mine are about her size. I’m sure they’ll have something to spare when they hear about her.”

Roger said, “Uhn. And for the sake of all that’s holy, get some soap. Lysol if you can. Flea soap as well. Oh, by the way, I ran into Dr. Dmitri; he said when we’re done here to take her to a cabin on the Daffodil Deck – ‘deck twelve, get the fuck off’” Roger finished in a good if inaccurate imitation of the artificial voice used in the elevators.

Declan had opened both eyes by this time and was taking in the repartee between the two men standing above him. He tried to look feminine. He was slimly built and graceful, from all the karate he’d taken at college. He knew his deep sea blue eyes were attractive.

He knew how to apply make-up too, having had to tend to the ‘dirty old pirate’ many times when he wanted to ‘dress for dinner’. You never know what’s going to come in handy, he thought. In his lightest voice, he spoke, “I can walk, if you’ll take me to my cabin. I’d really be grateful for soap and I need to shave – my legs…” (Oops! That was close, he thought, feeling sweat break out on his brow. “I need a shower… that dirty old ship…”

“That dirty old captain!” Percy giggled. Roger blushed beet red to the roots of his stiff blond hair, shushing his irrepressible coworker.

Where the hell that one had gone to nursing school he had no idea; certainly in Germany he would never have been allowed in. He squared his already bulky shoulders and offered a hand to the patient to help her up. He was surprised to feel the hard grip of the lady’s rough hand, but chalked it up to the rough sea-faring life she must have led. Anyone could see she was a lady of quality. He nodded to himself, thinking how gorgeous she would look once she had cleaned up and had some decent clothes to wear.

Roger took the woman to her cabin. As soon as he shut the door behind him, Declan ripped the gown from his body and stepped into the shower, letting out a huge sigh of pleasure as the warm water caressed him. There was shampoo and soap – glorious soap – and fresh white towels galore. He stayed in the shower until there was a tap at the door, sending him into a panic.

A voice came, “It’s just me, darling, Percy. I’ll just leave these clothes here for you. I hope they fit. I didn’t know your ‘BRA’ size of course (hee hee).”

Declan glowered as the hysterical giggles joined the steam in the room. The voice filtered through again. “I’ve arranged for you to have credit in the stores and dinner time is at six. I’ll leave your cards here on the counter; tomorrow will be soon enough for you to see the purser and tell him your name and where you’re from. Perhaps your family will be happy to hear you’re alive and well?”

Declan lilted his voice to reply. “Thank you; you are so kind!”

“Now get the hell out of my room,” he thought grimly, his heart pounding. Did the man suspect? Those giggles… how annoying!

For just a moment, he hated men – all men. Then he sighed. No. Those dark eyes, mmm. Oh well. He was relieved when he heard the cabin door shut, and the silence beyond the bathroom door was delightful.

He supposed he’d better go take a look at the clothes he’d be forced to wear to keep up the façade of being just a captive woman and not the newly appointed captain of the pirate ship himself.

Oh my God! He thought suddenly. What if there were other survivors? What if they recognized him, even though he’d be dressed as a woman? Oh he’d hang for sure then! And yet – if all his

crewmates were dead – what an awful thing to wish – is that what he wished for? A small voice inside him answered, “Oh hell yes.” He chided himself for being so selfish. That too, he supposed, he’d learned from ‘that dirty old pirate’.

He’d never really had to think for himself before. He’d always been at the bidding of this elder or that, then sent to live with his ‘dirty old pirate’ when his own parents had given up on him. They’d known he was gay before he did. It was not a thing their rich, Republican, extremely right-winged ‘Christianity’ had been able to accept. If they’d only known what Drystan was like, they would have shuddered themselves senseless. It always satisfied Declan greatly to realize that there was nothing at all they could do about his, Drystan’s, DNA running through their veins, and making up part of their very cells.

Maybe it was a good thing that Percy knew his secret – if he would keep it a secret, of course. Hidden beneath the girly clothes and underwear – he lifted a couple of padded bras with just the tips of his fingers, making a wry face as he did so – were shaving supplies and what was this – condoms? Oh that dirty boy! Declan was embarrassed but found himself giggling. He must be hysterical, he thought; yeah, that was it.

He found himself alone for the first time in years; clean, for the first time in months. And strangely enough, happy. He wondered how long that would last; how long he could keep this game going, though it was not a game, well, a game of life and death, yes then. He lifted a brown skirt and swirled it in front of him, catching sight of himself in some mirrors, realizing with horror that he would have to shave his chest. Thankfully the skirt was swirly and loose, and would cover – what needed to be covered.

There was a knock at the door. Declan panicked and threw himself behind the closet, covering his nakedness with the brown skirt, his breath heaving in his lungs.

A lilting voice came through. “Would you care to join the captain for dinner, miss, in half an hour? I’ll be back to accompany you to his private dining room. Shall I tell him you’ll be there?”

Declan gulped, not realizing that he could say no thank you, and nodded, then realized nobody could see him nod. “Yes, thank you,” he called back lightly, sweating again, hoping there was deodorant, and wondering how to style his wild, curly hair – it had

been long for a pirate, but it was short for a lady. Well he couldn’t, could he? He’d just say, if anyone asked, he’d had it shorn because of head lice, which was, unfortunately, true enough, though well in the past. Just the same, he found himself scratching rabidly at the edges of his hair, then drawing his hand away in disgust. The last dosing of lye or whatever it had been had only been a few days ago. It was only his imagination. He hoped.

The half hour passed, and Declan modestly awaited his escort.

He had put on the brown skirt and a brown and white print silky blouse, made up his face (he felt like a harlot and washed it all off and then applied just a touch), and hoped he wouldn’t look like an idiot in the sandals that had been beneath the pile of clothes. He had to admit he cleaned up well, and felt he made a better looking woman than his – great-great whatever had. Of course, Drystan had to have been at least seventy or eighty years old or more, and he himself was barely an adult. He tried making a kissy face himself and wondered if that lovely Percy would be there.

Pirates SWASHBUCKLE. Have you ever heard a cooler verb???

“Cabin Boy!” came the voice accompanying the knock at the door. “You ready?”

Declan stood, smoothing the skirt nervously. He hoped he didn’t have lipstick on his teeth. He walked to the door, took a deep breath, and opened it. Was this his room steward? Holy cow! He was adorable! He was – blushing! Declan took a deep breath.

“I’m to take you to the captain’s table, good lady. The captain’s name is Cadwallen, Captain Cadwallen.” The room steward looked Declan up and down approvingly. He nodded. “It’s a good thing you’re so covered up. He can be… oh my, I’m not to be talking birdshit about the captain, the dirty old bugger, but, keep your distance just in case.”

Declan followed the steward up the hall and into the elevator, which was completely enclosed in mirrored walls. There were dozens of himself and the steward, repeated ad infinitum. The more he looked, the more he forgot who he was.

They reached the captain’s deck. “Urania, top deck, invitation only please,” said the seductive, electronic voice of the elevator.

The steward murmured in falsetto, “’Uranus, Captain’s Ass, get the fuck off my’ – oh sorry, lady.” Declan looked around in awe as the door slid open, the room revealing itself. The opulence made him think of a king’s castle, not that he’d ever seen one except on TV, and that only years before. There had been no television on The Blue Feather! And no opulence, either.

The steward walked Declan into another room. Declan couldn’t help himself, he was so nervous that he swished. He hated when that happened, but there it was. The long brown skirt swished around his calves and he felt his hips sway beneath it. So he put up his chin, and

looked down his powdered nose from beneath extra-long, glittery fake eyelashes. What the hell, in for a penny and all that. Though Declan contained a lot of fear, he never allowed himself to act cowardly because of it.

There was one long table with about a dozen people scattered around it. The only empty place was just to the right of the person who was at the head of the table, dressed in a fine white uniform with gold bars on the shoulders. The captain. The captain was not what Declan had expected, but a young-looking man with golden hair and a tiny almost military looking moustache trying to stand up beneath the onslaught of what was rather a large nose. Declan realized with horror that this was, had to be, the man related to his own ancestor and hated by all who knew him. Was this man his own ancestor too then, the younger half-brother to Drystan; the dreaded Cadwallen? But wait: Declan realized that though he’d been expecting to see the original Cadwallen, old Drystan’s nemesis, this was not he but one of his descendants; so he was ‘only’ a distant cousin of some sort. But still… oh … my … god … His heart fluttered with relief, or something.

Luckily ‘nerves’ are attractive in a young lady, he thought.

The steward led him to the empty seat and pulled it out for him. He sat, trying to pull his chair some little bit away from the captain, but it was shoved ruthlessly under the table and a napkin whisked in front of his face – fine Irish linen, he noticed – and strewn across his lap.

He looked around with wide eyes and a smile that was a half rictus of fear. All eyes were upon him. The captain leaned over. “I don’t believe I know your name, my dear,” he smiled and showed his teeth, so perfect that they had to be fake. And – horror of horror – the resemblance to his deceased Drystan was very strong, shockingly so.

Declan gulped in horror. A name – he had to have a name!

Quick, he told himself, think, you idiot! His whole body shivered as he ran quickly down the years from Irish Catholic to American Baptist.

Drystan, Declan, Decla? Something he wouldn’t get confused by but would remember to answer to! Something that wouldn’t give him away. Something that wouldn’t give his ancestry away, either. He had to say something, and quick; everyone was still looking at him (who were all these people, anyhow), expecting an answer. Think! Think!

And think he did.

What did Drystan call me? Vivian, wasn’t it? And his last name is Morgan. Could I be Vivian Morgan? Wasn’t Vivian “The Lady of the Lake” and became a fairy or something? Why that dirty old pirate! He was calling me a fairy even before I knew I was a – gay. OK, let’s see how this plays out then. At least I’ll remember it.

He cleared his throat and stated pleasantly and firmly, “Vivian.

My name is Vivian Lafaye Morgan.” Take that, Codwallop!

“May I say,” the leering captain smirked, “That you look quite – recuperated from your ordeal. I hope your accommodations are to your satisfaction?”

Declan nodded, unable to speak. Wine was being poured and he desperately wanted to down the whole glass and ask for more, but remembered in time to act like a lady. It was second nature to crook out his little finger when he lifted his wine glass, and all those dressup meals with the dirty old pirate had taught him fastidious manners.

He began to feel a bit more comfortable in his new, chosen identity and decided to have some fun with it. Why not? He had been so certain of death only scant hours ago, and here he was alive and welldressed, being wined and dined, the sole survivor of the good ship the Blue Feather.

“Fuck,” he thought. “Everyone else is dead, food for the fishes, sinking to Davy Jones Locker. I have no business being here. I was their captain, though they hadn’t even really realized it yet. I should have gone down with the ship.” It was right then that the first course arrived. It was fish. Declan’s stomach turned over, and he went an odd shade of green. The shade a moldy corpse in a watery grave would…

“My dear, are you all right? Perhaps a little green pea soup would be better?” young – or rather, old – Codwallop, er, Cadwallen, whatever, asked. Was the ship rolling? Was his stomach rolling?

Declan did not feel well at all. Was he going to faint? Did they use barf bags here, like on airplanes? His eyes began to pitch and roll along with the ship, the dinnerware and what, was that music? Was he hearing violins? No way!

Yes, way. A violinist was standing between him and the captain, sawing away at something sort of classical. To Declan it sounded more like something Victor Borge would have done if he had played the violin instead of the piano. And it blocked the Captain’s

view of Declan which gave him the time he needed to calm himself with some words from his Ninjutsu classes. He breathed deeply and pushed mashed potatoes over the top of the fish. He managed a smile for the violinist, who winked at him! The man playing was quite old, with a crop of curly white hair that made him look like an upended floor mop.

When Declan was able to tear his eyes away, wondering if the man’s wink was only a twitch, he gazed around the table at his companions. They seemed like anyone normal you’d expect to see at the captain’s table, whatever normal might be in this case, old people, and their parents. At last his eye reached the person seated directly on his right. It was a child, a little girl. She was glaring at him. He smiled at her disarmingly. He liked kids, he really did.

“I hate you,” she growled ominously, her entire five-year-oldsized frame reverberating with it.

Declan curled one side of his lip, leaned closer to her, and went, “ARRGH” as menacingly as he could. He felt like Alice must have felt in Wonderland. He wasn’t dead (he was pretty sure of that, or had been, until the violin started), he wasn’t sick, and he sure wasn’t – here he hiccupped – sober anymore either, so he must be dreaming. In that case, he might as well make it a good one.

The little girl had red hair and freckles and light blue framed glasses perched on a snub nose, making her deep blue eyes, so much in color like his own, look even bigger, and slightly crossed. “You’re not a real pirate!” she scoffed. “You’re not even a real lady!”

“Yes, you’re right,” Declan answered quietly. “I’m not a real pirate; they wouldn’t let me because I’m a Ninja. And I’m not a real lady; a real lady wouldn’t pinch your arm like this...” and here he reached over and pinched, but not too hard, the back of her skinny freckled arm. “Or call you a red-headed orphan and a ninny, so there.”

The child continued to glare at him, reaching one hand up and inserting a finger into her tiny nose, her lip curled up beneath it mirroring his own.

Meanwhile the fish was taken away and another course served.

He had no idea what it was but it looked tasty. He looked back up and across the table. The woman there, Countess VonOehley, was staring at him, her mouth hanging part way open, chewing like a cow with a

cud. Her advanced age may have excused her, or perhaps not. Declan wanted to push her overboard. Instead he remembered he was supposed to be a lady, little girl’s opinions notwithstanding, and smiled brightly, picking up his fork and taking a bite of the – holy mackerel, what the hell was it?

Poor Declan reacted with violence to the heavy taste. He’d never had pickled oysters before. The unchewed morsel flew from his mouth like a rock from a slingshot, hitting the old lady in the center of her forehead. She did not know what hit her. Feeling totally unreal, Declan hissed at her, “Chew with your mouth closed, you old trout!” and heard giggling from both sides of him.

Both the child and the captain were laughing. The child was giggling behind her hand like a little lady and the captain was trying to turn his into sneezes. From behind him a white sleeved arm reached out and rapidly refilled his wine glass. Oh yes, that’s what he needed.

Desperate to regain his respectability, Declan sat up straight and looked down at his plate. Whatever had been there was now whisked away and replaced by some sort of salad. At least, he hoped that’s what it was. He leaned over to the child and whispered, “What is this shit?”

“ABC salad with snotballs,” she replied, digging into hers with a stabbing of her fork.

Declan had to think back to his childhood. “ABC – ‘already been chewed’, right?” he asked her, sotto voce.

“No,” she replied daintily, spearing something that did indeed resemble a snotball. “’Already been crapped!’” she crowed loudly, which gained her a stern ‘pipe down’ and a sharp back-hander from the man to her right, Admiral Forde. After giving him stink-eye so bad he finally wilted, she ignored him.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur of glares, stares, giggles and hiccups. There was wine before dinner, wine with dinner, and something after dinner, maybe brandy? Declan didn’t know and didn’t care, just drank it down with delight. By the time the postdinner mint was brought around on a tiny platter, Declan saw two of them; in fact he saw two of everything and remained sitting at the table after everyone else had left. When he noticed he was alone, a sob escaped his open mouth, and a tear ran down from his eye. The waiters looked at each other. There was at least one such scene every

night; another drunken passenger. These rich people, they murmured to each other, they were all alike. Pathetic, wasn’t it?

The captain had invited Declan back to his cabin later. Declan would have gone but couldn’t remember the number of the cabin – it was ‘Number One’ – nor did he know the way (it was directly to his left.) These were actually good things in his case. As it was, one of the junior waiters was elected to escort the now sobbing woman back to her cabin. Only the fact that the room key had the number on it saved him from a night on the floor of the nearest lounge. Later the waiter would regale his roommates with the tale of how this lady he was escorting swished her skirt, tripped and would have fallen had he not caught her, let him feel her up (which was a lie), and hiccupped so loudly she belched the word ‘arrrgh’.

Pirates get to wear boots...which are totally in style right now.

The next morning Declan arose late, to say the least. After he’d been deposited in his room, there’d been a quiet tapping on the door and he’d whipped open the door in a state of undress to find the nurse, Percy, in a black satin shirt and black jeans. Declan grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside, slamming the door behind him.

“Your breasts!” Percy shrieked. “They’re – they’re gone!” and he followed this with a brace of giggles and pulled a bottle of champagne out from behind his back. “Drink up girl! We’re going dancing! I’d say ‘shake a leg’ but I see you have two of them! And you call yourself a pirate – where’s your wooden leg?” he scoffed, then realized what he’d said.

Much giggling ensued with various phrases giggled out at random. “I’ll show you my wooden leg if you’ll show me yours” was one of the first ones. The champagne cork was popped and flew around the room and out the fortunately open balcony door. “Get out of that ugly skirt!” was heard. Clothing was tossed around the room.

Shoes thudded off the ceiling. It was glorious. There were fireworks, sort of. A sandal flew out onto the balcony and took out a seagull in midair. They both saw it happen and laughed so hard they forgot what they were doing and settled down to drinking instead. After half the bottle was gone, Percy decided they had to go dancing.

“But I’ve no shoes!” exclaimed a very drunk Declan.

“And no breasts!” countered Percy. “We’ll make a man out of you. Let’s go shopping, dear. Hmm. We could wear each other’s clothes, I’ll just slip on your skirt and you wear my old rags and we’ll buy stuff for both of you, what was your name? Or names?”

“Well, let’s see,” said Declan, pulling on his nylon panties and Percy’s tight jeans. “At dinner with the captain I was Vivian - see, my

great – oh hell, someone I knew used to called me that; it means ‘fairy’ in Celtic” – they had to stop to fall against each other and giggle. “But my name is really Declan.”

“And mine is Percival – gah, ugh – Percy for short, and tonight I shall be – Priscilla! Queen of the Buttercup!” They laughed so hard they both had to run for the bathroom, where they got stuck in the doorway. After having a pissing contest – winner was the one who could stop laughing long enough to actually aim into the shower and finish first – they untangled themselves, discovered kissing, and then broke that off to continue getting dressed.

“Pitching AND rolling, rolling and pitching and elephants, oh my!” roared Declan a few minutes later as they lurched down the hall.

“Avast me hearties, to your – your – your what? Oh, yes. To the – shops! Charge it!” he bellowed. Turning to Percy who pitched and rolled along beside him, he asked, “You really have shops on board?

My ship sucked! We had stores, but they were ‘stores’, stocks of food and liquor. Rum. Extra boots. Whist games and piano music, crap like that. Except the rum of course. You can’t run a decent pirate ship without rum.”

“You really had rum? Were you piratical and…” here Percy had to stop as he was assailed by hiccups. They fell together laughing.

A cabin door was swung open, and an angry old face poked out. “Pipe down! Damn fool kids!”

As they tiptoed away, almost but not quite abashed, Percy whispered into Declan’s ear, “But mister, we’re not on your grass!”

This was followed by their falling against each other, stifling giggles.

Percy finally noticed that Declan was barefoot. “Boots!” he exclaimed, pointing. “You need boots! Tall black ones that lace up the back and go all the way up to your, um, what do you have again?”

Without waiting for an answer, Percy started singing a raucous version of the ‘Hello Kitty’ theme song, substituting another word for ‘kitty’. Declan had never heard of it but approved and joined in on an impromptu chorus. Considering neither of them had one, nor wanted to interact with one, it was really quite hilarious.

They were still singing when they pushed onto a crowded elevator. People gave them plenty of room. The two of them almost fell out the door – or were pushed – as soon as they reached Deck Ten

– “Goldenrod, spend your money and then get lost!” Percy declared, hanging onto Declan, adding, “Isn’t that right, darling?”

Declan flashed his card. “Charge it!” he exclaimed again and then stopped so short that Percy, that is, ‘Priscilla’, bumped into him and had to grab onto him to keep from falling. He couldn’t tell why Declan had stopped so hissed in his ear, “What the fuck, darling?”

They were hanging together in the door of a shop. Inside at the register stood a pair of pirates. It looked like a hold-up. Declan began to hyperventilate. “Drystan, you dirty old fucker. I knew you weren’t dead!”

The man of the couple turned around, glaring. “We’re on our way to the costume party, young man. I’ll thank you not to swear in front of – don’t I know you?” The old man looked remarkably like Drystan, but not that old, and also not that dead. It was probably only the costume that made the resemblance so strong.

Declan was turning white with fright. “But – you’re not Drystan! And you’re not dead! And he’d – he’d – never be seen with such a trashy bottle-blond as that – wench with you!”

Percy was turning white now. “Come away, dear,” he hissed.

“That’s the Duke of Tarragon and his wife. They own this cruise line.

Sure and they’re just dressed up for the party.” To the couple gaping haughtily at them he soothed, “So sorry. Drunk, don’t you know. And a little feverish with the seasickness, aren’t you, DEAR?” Declan nodded frantically and lurched away in Percy’s firm and sudden grasp. Together they minced down the hallway until Percy shoved Declan in front of him into another shop. “Spend! Spend!

Get whatever you want and so will I, only for God’s sake, ask me first if it looks ok, OK?” “Look here!” blared a shaken Declan back. “You’re not the only queer here! I have good taste too, you know!”

Percy rolled his eyes and his dress shifted on his fake bosom.

“Bitch,” he hissed while smiling grimly at the dazed clerk, a girl who knew him when he was himself. He could tell she thought he sounded, or looked familiar, but was determined not to give it away. It was sort of a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ kind of ship, after all, though if everyone told, they’d have to replace half the crew and a quarter of the officers.

Declan calmed himself with his Ninja tactics. Then they spent.

They bought. Boots were purchased, but not as sexy as suggested.

They staggered out of the shop burdened with bags and boxes. All was in chaos and confusion with merchandise tossed everywhere by the time they left. They went directly to the elevator, boarded, and during the ride down they dug through their bags; Declan put on Percy’s shoes and Percy put on the new boots (which he had picked out, after all). Percy also slid the new dress he’d shoplifted over his head, and gazed at his many reflections with joy.

Finally reaching Daffodil deck, they went to the cabin and entered. The bed was turned down, and a long satin nightie was laid out on the bed. The steward, a slender Asian boy with short dark hair, was still there, fondling the red slinky material and smiling dreamily.

Declan was still giggling from something Percy had said in the hallway. Percy, however, glared at the steward. He knew the kid, and liked him, quite well in fact. Too well. Just the same, and to hide his own identity, he falsettoed his voice and hissed, “You! What is your name, cowboy!”

The steward turned beet red, dropped the silky nightgown with some reluctance, and turned to stare at the apparition that faced him. He knew quite well who it was; in fact, they had often shared dresses when he himself wished to appear as a femme fatale. “Is that – you?” he asked, astonished.

“I beg your pardon!” hissed Percy, realizing he was found out.

“My name is Kittibun Toy,” the steward replied with as much dignity as he could manage. The other person who had entered was still giggling, draped all over the person he knew – quite well – as Percy, or sometimes as Priscilla, although he thought both names were quite stupid, even for an American. And just who was this young man he had brought into this cabin with him, and where was the woman to whom this delectable nightgown belonged? Kittibun, who really went

by Toy to make it easy for the Americans, glared at him. “Who you?” he asked ungrammatically. “Get out! Dis lady’s room!”

Declan giggled helplessly, and then farted. This brought horror to Toy’s face, humor to Percy’s, and caused Declan to fall helplessly onto the bed and kick his legs into the air as if to free the (rest of the) spirit within. He kicked his legs into the air making the shoes fly off, and called for his new boots.

There was a knock on the door. Percy was closest and whipped

it open. “Yes?” he simpered, acting as the occupant of the room.

An old man stood there, the old man from the store, the one that Declan had thought he knew. “God help me, miss, I thought – this was – the room of – who the fuck are you?” he asked as he watched the man on the bed giggle and kick in helpless good humor, reaching for Toy, who was backing away. “Miss, are these men bothering you?”

Just then the porter with the rest of the shopping bags arrived and sidled in to place the bags on the floor beside the bed. “Your shopping, kids…” he said, and then left with a wink to Percy. He managed to hold in his snickers, but as he passed the old man, he whispered, “She’s a high-priced one but quite capable of giving an excellent blow job sir. You’ve chosen well.” And he almost ran down the hall. That bitch!

Percy was still standing smiling. “I’ll kill that bitch,” he thought behind his mask. I know where he sleeps. He should; they shared a crew cabin.

The older man curled one lip and raised his eyebrow. He raised his hand and pointed. “Ye shall suffer a pirate’s curse for this, MISS,” he hissed.

Percy backed up. “Me?” he thought. “Oh I doubt that.” Aloud he said, “Thank you sir and good night,” and slammed the door almost in his reddening face. He sighed deeply and turned to the bed, eager to rejoin his new best friend. Declan, however, was fast asleep, legs and arms everywhere, clothes slipping off, shoes nowhere to be seen. His shoes, Percy thought meanly. He’d have to go back to his own cabin barefoot. “Nothing like a walk of shame for no reason,” he thought with mixed emotions. Declan looked so young and innocent, splayed out like that, dead to the world. Percy sighed, and set to work to remove his own clothes from his friend’s body. It was not easy, and halfway through Declan turned on his side and vomited over the edge onto the floor.

As he watched, impressed in spite of himself, Percy saw his shoes, and knew that he would still be going back to his own cabin barefoot. The room steward – dear little Toy - could clean that mess up in the morning. It would serve him right. Pulling the sheets back up over Declan and donning his own clothes once more, he eased himself out of the room, shut the door quietly, and, barefoot, went back to his own cabin below on the Banana Deck. After all they weren’t even

really his shoes; he’d borrowed them from his roommate, Toy. This, for some reason, made him extremely happy, and he whistled all the way down the hall.

Ninjas are masters. Pirates are drunks.

A horrendously bright spotlight was shining in his face. Was he on stage? Why? Had the ship sailed into a movie set? Declan tried to keep his eyes closed, but it was no use; they opened as if they had life of their own. They were the only part of his body that had any life left in them at all. Now he knew - he was dead, and that was the white light people talked about, except in his case, he was sure it was a train coming at him in a tunnel. His head was certainly roaring with the noise of it.

As his eyes moved, he saw the walls of a small room, cabin, yeah. Then he began to remember, the attack, his – that – dirty old pirate dying on him (what a nerve! Why did those things always happen to him? That selfish old man.) Being mistaken for a woman, being taken aboard the cruise liner, being – dinner? Drinks? And – and, what was his name, Percy? Who in hell named their kid ‘Percival’ nowadays?

Declan felt sick. He was afraid to move and afraid not to. If he moved, the universe, and his head, would explode, but if he didn’t move, he was going to throw up like a fountain, straight up into the air and then back down again all over himself. His stomach forced him to sit where he hung over the side of the bed (is that where the term came from?) and his stomach let him know who was boss.

After a while he fell back onto the bed and lay there sprawled every which way and decided that life sucked, and then, if you’re lucky, you die. Which he wasn’t, lucky that is. Everyone he cared about had died or abandoned him, and he had no one who cared about him at all. He was an – orphan, well not really, but when his father had found out he was gay, he had kicked him out of the house,

literally. He’d never forget the look on his mother’s face as she stood behind her husband.

His chin began to tremble. He was all alone in the world. As Declan let loose with his self pitying orgy, he had no idea that sometimes a lack of family could be a very good thing.

The tears flew, the sobs echoed, his head pounded. After a while, he got antsy and kicked at the bedclothes, not that they were over him anyway, but it was great exercise and very good therapy to attack something that was easy sport and very handy. He was in the midst of a tantrum that was almost as satisfying as sex when three things happened; first he hit his foot a good whack on the wall, second the bed beneath him snapped with a loud crack, and third the door opened. And there he was naked and sweating and his temper hadn’t been the only thing to ‘rise’ that morning.

His room steward stood there, admiration making his face beam with approval. “Um,” Toy stammered, blushing furiously, “very nice, I like you too, but I’ll come back later, unless, of course,” he had to stop to clear his throat, “I can give you a hand with anything?”

From his skewed position, half on and half off the bed, angling toward the open balcony door, Declan glared, reached around him, found a shoe and threw it at the young man. Leftover puke flew everywhere, coating the walls, the bed and, of course, Declan himself with a motley mix of gray and green – something. A string of pirate curses he hadn’t known he knew flew from his mouth as well.

Toy laughed, ducked, and the shoe flew out the door into the hallway. As he eased the door shut, his laughter slowed and died, because as he looked closer, he recognized the shoe as his own.

By that time, the fact that he, Declan, had enough Ninjutsu training to call himself a Ninja whenever he wanted to impress anyone was the farthest thing from his mind. He felt like a pirate, a dirty, illnatured brute of a pirate, with enemies galore. No one cared about him, and furthermore, he smelled awful. Again. Now two other people on the ship knew he wasn’t a lady, three if you counted that pig-tailed brat from dinner last night. Who else knew or would know? When would they all figure it out and throw him in the brig? And what about the old fart from the store last night who said he thought he knew him. What was that all about?

Well, he thought. What can I do about any of it? What should I be doing right now? He tried to sit up again, though with the bed broken and at a slant, he was afraid he’d slide right out the door. He managed to slide the balcony door shut, and stumbled toward the bathroom, er, the head, to take a long, warm, shower.

But once he got in there and the warm water worked its magic, the sadness of his recent losses overwhelmed him once again. The fear of being discovered disappeared under the loneliness of losing everything he had known for the last, well, his whole life. First his father kicking him out, then living with his – ancestor aboard ship, thinking he was having a great adventure. And just look how that turned out. Everyone dead, and him an – orphaned pirate. No job, no prospects, no family or friends. He felt his self-pity rising again but then was blind-sided by the reality of just how badly off he really was.

It wasn’t just pathetic drama, it was sad truth. He was alone, he had nobody, and he had nothing. Once the ship docked somewhere and he was pushed off, that’s assuming he wasn’t discovered and thrown in jail, he had nowhere to go. And no money. He was twenty, and he knew Ninjutsu; that and a couple of bucks would buy him an espresso.

He allowed himself a good, unrestrained cry while the shower was running. Then he forced himself to appreciate the shampoo, conditioner, soap, body wash, razors and everything else that had been provided for his use. Eventually, wrapped in a soft, luxurious towel, he let himself back out into his stateroom to see that it had all magically been cleaned up and there was a card next to a basket of fruit on his counter. He almost cried again at the sight. Oranges!

Apples! Bananas! Sitting on the bed, he opened the card.

“Dear Miss Vivian; please come to the captain’s quarters at 10:30 am to discuss your situation and what we may do to help you.

Signed, the captain, first officer, and Dr. Dmitry.”

It was 10:00 a.m. already. He had to dress! He had to find the captain’s quarters! Oh holy Jesus! No, he told himself, he wouldn’t panic. He could do this. He just wished he could be himself, however, and not this Vivian creation. But, one does what one has to do. He dropped the towel and began to hunt for clothes. As he dressed and put on make-up, he tried to find his Ninja Mind of Mastery but was waylaid by his piratical past at every turn.

“Ugh,” thought Declan as he slipped on some nylon bikini

panties with orange and green circles on them. “Double-ugh,” he growled to himself as he fought to get a bra snapped behind his back and some tissues stuffed in them just so. He tried to figure out pantyhose for a while but figured the best use for those was to strangle himself and get it over with. He was sitting in a slip crying when there was a knock at the door and it slid open. Toy sidled in.

“Oh honee, let me help you, sweetie!” All was forgiven when he saw his charge, whom he thought he understood all too well, sobbing and helpless. “There now, I brought you one of my own dresses. It’s too large on me.”

Declan looked up at Toy from under lashes dripping with black, mascara-runny tears. He hiccupped.

Toy’s heart melted. Babbling on while he finished dressing his new darling, he murmured, “There now, until you have your surgery, I’ll take care of you. I’m saving up for mine too. Are you taking hormones yet? I’ve only been on…” and he babbled happily on about things Declan had never heard of. By the time he was fully dressed and Toy was ready to take him up to the captain’s quarters, he had finally figured out that Toy thought he, Declan, was a transsexual on his way to surgery and becoming a woman, apparently, as was Toy himself, er, herself.

Toy went on, “The very best surgeons are in my country, blah blah blah,” was all Declan needed to hear to finish shocking him into sanity and sobriety once again. It was only his Ninja Mind Tricks that kept his breathing steady as Toy led him to the elevator.

This time he - a shaking young woman in a swishy, fully skirted white dress that made Declan feel like Marilyn Monroe - was admitted to a room by a butler, or someone in uniform anyhow.

Declan took a deep breath and prepared to be charming.

“Velcome!” boomed the captain from across the room. The old man with the white hair was sitting next to him – oh fuck, thought Declan. Why? Dr. Dmitri he sort of remembered. He didn’t know who scared him the most. He remembered it was almost OK to be afraid, which he truly was. He took a deep breath, which made his cleavage rustle, and reminded himself that he was a Ninja, and therefore unafraid of anything. It almost worked.

“Hello,” Declan got out, trying not to simper, whatever that

actually was. “Your captainess, nice to see you again, and Duke… and uh oh um, Duckess?”

The Duke of Tarragon looked equally as fearful in a black tuxedo as he had looked in the previous night’s pirate costume.

“And your lovely wife?” Declan murmured, trying to avoid eye contact.

“By Jove, I DO know you. Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out, young… woman…”

“But sire,” Declan managed to get out, starting to get the hang of this thing. “I’m sure we’ve never met; there’s no way I could ever forget you…” But he had a sneaking suspicion he did know the man after all. Maybe from his college days? Could he have been a professor?

“Well,” boomed the captain. “How about if you call me Walter, miss? Walter Cadwallen is my name, captain of the Canary Line Buttercup. He smiled, or smirked, actually, running his hands over his lovely moustache of which he was very proud.

Declan bit his lip so as not to break into song. “I’m called little Buttercup, dear little…” He felt somewhat hysterical.

“I have a lot of questions to ask you, young woman. How did you come to be on that nasty ship? Do you have family who are looking for you? Where would you like us to take you?”

“Act, damn you!” came Declan’s inner voice. “Give it all you’ve got,” came his ancestor’s growl in his inner ear. “Draw that sword and swing it!” Wait – where did that one come from?

Declan smiled and sniffed. He forced tears to his eyes; it wasn’t hard, his head still hurt, and his stomach was still rolling. And even worse, he’d broken a nail when the bed had collapsed beneath him, though he couldn’t remember why it had broken or what he’d been doing to make that happen – or with whom.

Oh, back to the subject at hand. “I have no one, no family at all, and nowhere to go. That horrible pirate – I was kidnapped and oh, I just can’t go on! It was so terrible! My beautiful jewelry, all gone! And my money… and my clothes…” (“I’m overdoing it, aren’t I,” Declan asked himself.) Just the same, he forced out more tears and a few primordial sobs. He threw his hands in front of his face, and as he peeped between his fingers, he saw the old man staring at him intensely.

He saw the captain’s face melt into sticky goo, but from behind him he heard a little voice trilling, “She’s not a real pirate and she’s certainly not a lady!”

“Oh my lord,” thought Declan as sweat broke out on his brow, “it’s that little harridan from last night.” To his added mortification, his body chose that exact moment to release an unexpected ‘silent but deadly’, though from the faces around him, it was obvious that they all knew immediately who had farted.

It was the saving of him. Everyone laughed horribly, except Declan, who did manage a tiny and extremely fake giggle. The imminent exposure he had expected was averted and the little girl climbed onto the captain’s lap, from where she regarded Declan with a steely and hateful glare, one finger in her nose, another in her mouth.

Declan prayed she would not reverse them. As if he should speak, after farting like that in front of everyone! I’m asleep, he decided, and this is just another perverted nightmare.

The captain kissed the little blond head fondly. “This is my daughter, Autumn Whimsy,” he said proudly.

Declan just caught the rolled eyes of the other man, and for just a second, he looked very familiar to Declan.

The seven of them sat there uncomfortably as the laughter evaporated from the room. A cell phone sounded and the captain put his hand on his side, stood up abruptly, which dumped his precious daughter to the floor, and, nodding once briskly, left the room. Declan stooped and helped the little girl to her feet, for which she gave him an expression of mixed embarrassment, hatred and gratitude, or something. She glared at him anyhow and hissed, “And I forgot to tell you, your name sucks. Vivian means fairy, I looked it up! You’re named a fairy name!”

Declan looked her straight in the eye and returned, “And you’re named a horse name, ‘Autumn Whimsy’ - how many races have you won!”

Autumn’s mouth opened and shut like a fish, and she turned and stomped out of the room. Dr. Dmitry nodded and exited with her and the Duke and Duchess of Tarragon.

Declan sat back up and regarded the other remaining occupant, the elderly man with the shock of white hair, who had not been

introduced. He looked closer at him and paled.

At the same time, they both blurted, “You look like…” but neither finished.

Just then the captain returned to the room, in a hurry. “Sorry, but you have to get out, I’m afraid. I have important stuff to do now. It seems the Sharpshooters 50th Reunion people are up on the Lido deck, standing on the forward railing, shooting at seagulls again.” He stared at Declan for just a moment. “And you, young miss, should be grateful for their skills. They’re the ones who sank that filthy ship from which we rescued you.” He hurried on by, muttering, “And wouldn’t you know it’s that goddamn transsexual woman in the red dress who’s bagged the most birds again!”

Declan caught the other man’s eye, and they were both wearing identical smirks with the same eyebrow raised. Laughter threatened them both. They rose as one and exited, stage left, sort of.

Out in the hallway, the old man reached his hand out toward Declan. “Let me introduce myself. My name is…” but here his words were drowned out by the sound of the ship’s whistle, the term ‘whistle’ being nowhere close to describing the cacophony of sound that blasted their ears into total submission. This was followed by a voice that echoed from every speaker within range, “All crew to their stations. All passengers to their cabins. Do it now.” This was repeated in several languages.

Nobody knew what was happening or why the words ‘do it now’ were added to what was obviously a pre-recorded announcement, but suddenly there were people rushing everywhere, Declan took the stairs at a run, not even thinking to assist the older man, just hoping this had nothing to do with him. After all, how many pirate ships could there be in this one small, well OK, it was the Pacific Ocean, but still? As he shut his cabin door behind him he caught the snicker of sound as the watertight doors in the hallway also slammed shut. He could still hear the voice on the speakers though; it must be broadcasting into every stateroom as well as all the public rooms. It was a real voice speaking now, and damn, Declan knew that voice, but so far, like the old man he had just left, he could not figure out whose it was or where he knew it from. It was a man’s; that much he knew.

His cabin was spotless, and there was a new bowl of fresh fruit on the table, along with some fresh flowers, a bottle of wine, a box of

candy, and even more clothes. The fact that there were red high heels made him groan, but the rest looked OK, some men’s and some women’s. He could have done without the box of tampons, but apparently someone was thinking of everything.

He picked up an apple in one hand and the candy in the other, stepped out onto the balcony, and dropped the apple overboard as he saw a twin of the ship that had just been sunk from beneath him hove to alongside, the top masts reaching up just past his face. A monkey hopped off it and scampered into his cabin, picked up a banana and sat on his bed peeling it as brazenly as a drunken pirate’s whore.

Declan figured with his luck, the monkey would start flinging poo at any moment. Though, of course, it would have to poo first, wouldn’t it?

“You know,” Declan thought, “I could climb down that mast and be free again, but then free of what? Or would I be captive again?

Or – hell – I guess I’m better off here, but wait, what if they’re commies or ‘real’ pirates or, wait, I’m a real pirate. Oh hell, I don’t know.”

He sat, pulled the wine toward him, twisted off the cap (must be crap, he thought fondly), and took a drink. And then another. He and the monkey sat there eating and drinking and regarding each other solemnly, waiting for they knew not what.

Since nothing did happen, Declan took off the white dress and sat there in the skimpy panties and stuffed bra. About half of the way down the bottle, with the monkey now sitting on his lap peeling yet another banana, a jaunty black pirate’s hat appeared over the side of his balcony and a very handsome pirate was wearing it. He climbed over the balcony, stood there in shock, and shouted, “DAMN IT! There’s a woman in here! We’ll have to shoot this scene again!”

Declan smiled dreamily. “But I’m not… wait, what? What ‘scene’?”

In character, the pirate replied, “Have ye not never heard of moving picture shows?” he roared. Then followed that with, “Give me that there rum, wench!”

“This was better than a movie,” Declan thought fuzzily. “Just look at this guy, what a stud!” Declan wanted him. He turned sly; he felt old Drystan stirring within, then chuckled as something else

stirred. “I’ve never heard that called ‘old Drystan’ before,” he giggled to himself.

Just as the pirate doffed his hat and tipped the bottle to his (gorgeous) lips, Declan lunged. The monkey flew off his lap, landed briefly on the pirate’s head, and then was last seen scampering down the masts to the ship below.

Declan had his man. “Gotcha!” he bellowed happily, sitting astride the pirate and tearing at his clothes. He tickled as he went. The stuffing fell out of his bra and annoyed, he paused and ripped it off over his head. He had just reached the pirate’s belt when yet another interruption occurred. “John!” it roared, climbing over the balcony.

“Are you all right? We have to – what the hell are – oh I’m so sorry!

We can… um… wait…”

“Leave us!” shouted ‘John’ happily, tossing the newly empty bottle behind him, where it circled in the breeze and dropped to shatter on the deck so far below.

John and Declan had a pirate fight, for a while. Then it got personal. The other guy present – the one who had been supposed to leave, but hadn’t yet - watched for a while and then shouted, “That’s absolutely disgusting!” (But he didn’t really mean it.)

John winked at him, and the man went away. Declan had something to hold onto now, and things were progressing rather pleasantly, when the fucking cabin door burst open.

It was Toy, and he complained, as he backed in, “Sir, I came as fast as ever I could. You’ve been pushing on the service bell for half an hour but the watertight… Oh my… can I just… a wee bit here? Or maybe I could fit in right…”

“NO!” John and Declan bellowed simultaneously. “Beat it!”

“Well, now, uh that’s what I want to do, yes, is ‘beat it’, your American colloquialisms, so funny, ha-ha. And just look at all these banana peels, but where are the bana – oh. Oh. OH!”

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