Which reminds of the time when I once ran the barricade during the inner-outer conflict of '63 with a hold full of contraband french Red wine vinegar . . . but thats another story.
So. There I was right. Minding my own business, as you do, just landed at the Port of Interplanatory Transport and Commenwealth Humanity (or as she was more affectionatly know, the Big I.T.C.H. On account of what you came away with if you stayed there too long.) and looking to do a spot of grounding. A man adrift in space as a few needs to take care of on his return to land. My usual Earth Stopover was not going to be a possibility this time round on account of some mounting unpaid Dollars for the services rendered by a one Madam Jovinne of 16 Sahara Crescent, Croft Old Town, New Heathrow, Democratic Union of African Equator States, CF45 9PXV42. I know this address so well because it has been indelable emblazoned on my right buttock, rather thoughtfully backwards so I can read it in the mirror, by Madam Jovinne' two older brothers who where both remarkable larger than me. Who had seized upon me, rather unfairly as I was in a post 'business' state, after I had informed Madam Jovinne that I could not pay for her services at this time. At which point I was transfered in a not to gentle fashion to the street outside via the second floor window accompanied by nothing more than a new tatoo to aid in my modesty.
And so thus I found myself looking for a different house of ill repute on the opposite side of town. One recommended to me by my mechanic who was patching up my ship for me. Got a few loose rivets you see, and the reactors pinking. Got a bit of over run, just won't stop, even when I've taken the key out. But anyway, I digress. I found myself and a new venue of garanteed oppurtunity. The glowing Neon Light above the door announceed to anyone that might have passed along this blind, dark and forboding alley that this was Rose's Bar. I went in not expecting much and I wasn't dissapointed. Rose was behind the bar and I hoped to god that she would stay there. She was a big girl. Not fat, you could never call her fat, not even if you where half way to Alpha Centauri could you call her fat because she would hear. And she would find you. No, she wasn't fat but she was big. She had forearms like anvils, you could crack walnuts on her biceps. I know this because she was doing it in front of me and once she finished that the bar creaked as she spread her gigantic hands and leant on it.
"W'oo'ant"
"Er." I'm normally pretty good with women. Look at their eyes not their breasts. Listen to what they say, nod at all the right moments and always comment on their new hair do. But Rose had me stumped. Because, despite all her . . . . . physical attributes (And believe me there where many more than the ones I have mentioned . . . . Oh. I did mention breasts. Ok just a few more than the ones I mentioned) I found myself strangely attracted to her. And I wasn't sure that was a good thing.
"P.P.P.Pinta best please" I stammered out. How the hell was I going to ask this woman if she kept any ladies of alternative employment in the building. It was all I could do to stand my ground and just drink my drink. (As it would transpire I would never have to get around to asking that question and nor would I worry myself further about Rose and my strange attraction, just to allay your fears. In case you where getting worried or something). I sat at the bar as far from Rose as possible. Which seemed to be a common theme as I found myself in a considerable body of men all crowded intot the dark receses of the bar. I nodded a few greetings and rolled my self a cig. It was then that I noticed him. he was watching me from up against the back wall. Shrouded in smoke and looking suitable gaelic under his black beret. He continued to stare, holding my gaze. I broke away to pay acute attention to my ciggerete rolling. I risked a glance and he was still staring. Oh god. I thought, it's one of those places. I'll kill my Mechanic when I see him next. Not one to draw undue attention to myself I supped my drink as fast as politly possible and inhaled my ciggy. It soon came apparent my mistake. As my eyes grew accustomed to the place the abundance of leather, feather and latex became apparent. The body of men around me seemed to be a little too close for comfort. i looked around to see that my Gaelic friend had left his station at the wall and was nowhere to be seen. I began to think that I should follow suit. I am not to proud to say that I scuttled out of there. My head low, Libedo cowed and my buttocks clentched. Don't get me wrong I am all for an individuals life choices and would not dream of taking any personal freedoms away. So long as they don't think that they can liberate me I am cool with everything.
Needless to say I hotfooted it out of Rose's with nary a glance back and slunk away up the alley back to port. It was then that I realised my garlic friend was still around.
"Bonjour" He said, emerging from the shadows.
"Arrggg!!!" I said.
"Zere is no need for panic Monsiour. I am a friend."
"Your not a friend of Madam Jovinne are you?"
"Who?"
"Doesn't matter. What do you want?"
"You are the owner of a cargo tug yes?"
"Might be, who wants to know?"
"Let's just zay we are friends of zer peoples reziztance against the willful Dizzstruction of the ze Vinegar Trade."
"Oh, no Mate. I'm not getting into anything political. I don't do political."
"Not even for 1,000,000 Dollarz!!"
"This is 2342 mate. I couldn't even buy a a cheap citrus fir tree air freshener for my cockpit for that. Try again."
"Ok. Ok. I've been out of ze loop for a while. Name your price."
"For what. you havn't told me what the job is yet"
"We have a consignment of Ze Finest French Red Vine Vinegar that we need to get to Europa-1 in time for Bastille day."
"If I remember correctly the Bush Dynasty Corporation outlawed all things French."
"Ar yes. But ze outer Planets havn't. And as French Ved Vine Viniger can only come from France. Then we must produce it here and get it there".
"But what with the Earth-Mars embargo against all things Europan and vice versa how the hell do you propose we get it there?"
"You just need to get past the Inner Border Patrols. And for zat we have labelled the bottle 'produce of California' ve zink that will fool them."
"You think. Have you done this before?"
"No."
"Right"
"Zo?"
"How much again?"
"How much vould you like?"
"10 to power of 20. In Dollars."
"Znot zat much".
"Ok. 10 to the 19."
"Deal."
"Deal".
And we shook.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Border patrol stopped me just short of the Asteroid belt. They must have seen me shitting myself from low Earth Orbit. The rather fierce Fleet Captain ordered me too pull over and to be prepared to be boarded. And so I was. I would have called them Gorilla's but that would have been an insult to anything Ape like. These guys didn't exsist to think, they existed purely to be a trigger fingure and to listen to the words 'Arrest him' Which they often got confused with the words 'Kill him'. They really couldn't get their heads around 'cease fire!' or 'STOP FIRING!' or 'FOR CHRIST SAKE CEASE FIRE OR I'LL HAVE YOU GUTS FOR A MEDAL RIBBON AND TAKE YOUR MOTHERS OUT TO FOR A RUDDY GOOD SEEING TOO!'. Empathy was not what they where employed for. Their Captain on the other hand was a Captain for good reason. He knew his men where grenades that had pulled their own pins out and where just looking for somewhere to throw themselves but he knew how to interpret orders not just follow them. He ordered his men to search the ship and one of them had come up to the cockpit where me and the Captain where sharing very few words and a number of fruitful silences. The soldier who had come up to the cockpit was carrying a bottle.
"Found this Sir."
"Just this Seargent?".
"No sir. It had quite a few friends sir. Shall I take them into custody Sir?"
"You can't take a bottle into custody Seargent. You confiscate a bottle Seargent."
"Sir. Yes Sir. Shall I Confiscate the cargo Sir!"
The Captain hefted the bottle and read out the label. 'Ze Finest French Ved Vine Vinegar.'" He read further down the label. "Made in California, America. Honest."
By this time I was really getting nervous and I was sure the funny smell that had engulfed the cockpit was me. I had to think quickly . . . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
the Captain turned the bottle over in his hands. I thought some more.
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . Ah! . . . No.
The Captain asked his Seargent how many of these bottles where there. The Seargent looked like he would have trouble counting his fingers. "Lots' Sir".
I really needed some sort of plan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .'Damn it'
"What?" Replied the Captain.
"It's coolant. Yes. That's it. My reactor, it's pinking you see. Running a bit hot. You don't know how many things I've tryed but this stuff does it. I've gone through Ketchup, Hard Water, Soft Water, Tap water, Marsian Gin, Mercurial Sulpher Ice. Everything. But this stuff. Amazing. I don't know what those Frenchi . . . . Californian' put in it but it damn keeps my motor cool."
"Show me."
"Hmm. What."
"Show me."
"Show you?"
"Yes. Show. Me."
"Right. yes. Ok then. This way."
I poured a whole crate into coolant before the Captain was satisfied. He wasn't stupid. He must have thought that anyone stupid enough to pour their own contraband into their engine woulldn't be able to get to where they where supposed to be delievering it. He let me go. But not without writing me a ticket for altering my registration with some convieniently placed rivets.
I limped into Europa-1 a day after Bastille day. So with a depleted stock and having missed the very reason that I was running this stuff for in the first place I got a fraction of what I was supposed to be paid. Barely enough to cover the cost of a new Coolant chamber and reactor lining.
And I still havn't got enough money to get laid.
Reminds of the time I fought alongside the Dread Pirate George in the Battle for O'Briens Drift. But that's another story. . . . .
-Edit- Yes. Yes. I know I got the date wrong. So sue me.
oh my gosh i havn't been so hooked on reading since Starwars.. (that wasn't too long ago, i had to borrow the books) omg shoule there be an off topic thread just for this?
It was the foothils of Olympus Mons. O'Briens drift. A god fawsaken dust blown sun scorched sand filled hellhole of a place. I was one of the Six Hundred. You may of heard of us. The Casual Stroll of the Demi-Light Brigade is how it's remembered to history. But I was there. I was one of the Six Hundred and I stood next to the Dread Pirate George. He wasn't really a Pirate and he wasn't all that dread. He was Field Marshal George 'Charlie Boy' Bingham. Apparently he got some family history going on involving men numbered six hindred. I should have studied harder during history classes. Prehaps if I had then I wouldn't be here now, in the Earth Combined Nation Forces as a Seargent in the The Light Dragoons of the British Commenwealth contingent stationed on Mars just after the colonial uprising. We where outriders, quick strike teams designed to get in, hurt things lots and get out. Our machines, effectionalty known as 'Buckaroo's', where three men gun platforms. The Ion generator generating an Ion stream cushion that enabled the 'Buck' to pass over land, water, rock, sand, pretty much anything that wasn't vertical. The only problem was, and hence the nickname, was whilst it was great on Earth out here on Mars with the high metal content in the soil the Buck's Ion field would interact with the magnetic anomalies in the Marsion ground. The things would buck and jump all over the place. A few of the guys had retro fitted some white noise generaters to try and cancel the effects, they worked to some degree but the system was far from perfect. All this meaning that to get any accuracy from our .50 Cals mounted we had to slow to an almost dead stop so the auto levelling and guidance locks could work properly. Not good when your supposed to be a crack strike squad. Which is why we where here. At O'Briens Drift. We where the only troops for miles, and with the volatile atmosphere Terraforming storms roiling in the upper atmosphere there where no hope of air support. Our 'Chief' had received reports that enemy guns lay up the valley, in fact from where he had set up his camp he could see the bloody things. But us, down in the valley, we didn't have a clue. So when we got word that we where to make a run up the valley to take out a line of artillery we had no idea what we where heading into.
I knew something was afoot. You don't become Seargent without knowing which way the wind was blowing, and my wind was blowing well. I was watching a dust devil weave it's way down the track from the upper camp through the window of our inflatable workshop. These workshops doubled up, tripled even as a garage, mess and bunk room for my squad. We housed three 'Bucks' in one tent. Each Buck carried a crew of three and also had the support of three engineers who took care of the garage and the vehicles. Corporal 'Buffer' Jones came up beside me. "Call the boy's." I said. "Rupert incoming". Rupert is rank and file speak for an officer. I knew who it would be, Captain 'Lord Lucan' Luckner. Lord Lucan on account of his ability to dissapear just when you need him the most. I had seen him head to head with a recon team that had been just come back. He had headed up to Rupert town as fast as he could. And now he was returning with the good news. We had two officers to cushion the blow before Lucans news got too us. Second Lieutenant 'Kid' Harris came into our pressurised tent.
"Lads. Good news." That was Rupert speak for we're all going to die in terrable heroic and painful ways.
"We have orders to move up the valley and take out a line of Artillery. Shouldn't be too much bother. Quick in and out. Back for tea and medals what."
"What?"
"What? Hmmm?"
"Nothing sir. When do we move out?"
"11.10. Have the men ready. I expect you to perform to your usual standard Seargent. Good luck."
"You not coming with us Sir?"
"Not this time what. Damn well wish I could. Ride with the men into the heat of battle, face the enemy,look into their eyes. But alas my orders require me to be of more use here. Far from the enemy guns. Mores the pity. What."
"What?."
"Carry on Seargent."
"Right you are sir."
I must say. We where a fine sight. 25 Bucks all lined up across the valley floor. Some heavy caliber's comeing up the rear and 15 'Bongo's' to provide some covering fire. A small infantry unit would be riding shot gun, maxing out the 'Bucks' as they would be carrying over their capacity as well as towing a small barge that carried the rest of the platoon.
All in all, six hundred men lined up for the advance. And the order was given.
We charged up that Valley. Charging for the guns. We six hundred into the Valley of Death.
It soon became apparent that some one had made a mistake. But it was not out place to reply, not ours to reason why. It was ours to do and bloody well not die.
There was Artillery to the left of us, laser to the right and a hell of a lot of fire power in front. Like hell unleashed, an almighty storm of biblical performance. On we went, intot he jaws of death, into the gates of hell itself.
We flew into their lines. The 'Bucks' releaseing the barges as they leaped the gun emplasements then we span and returned to lay on covering fire for the infantry as they stuck in hand to hand. We pounded the emplacements and becuase we had men in there we couldn't blanket fire. We had to pick our targets, so we where stationary. Holding position on the gentle rise behind the big enemy guns. Silohetted against the afternoon sun that was. Bucks where going down all around us. Some of them going up like mini nukes as the big guns found the Ion Source and the ammunition stores. taking their neighbours with them. My pilot took a small bore laser round through his right leg. 'Big Mick' McKensie.
"I'm ok. Damn it. Clean through and through. Just kill the bastard who threw that at me."
My gunner doubled his fire rate, testosterone lighting up the enemy like no computer ever could. I saw men fall through my zoom lens. Their suits decompressing as they took multiple shots through the different isolated compartments. My Pilots suit would have tournequed automatically as it sensed the pressure change as the round passed through the suit and the leg. His leg would be fine, the suit would continue to run heat through the threads that lined the suit and with laser rounds cauterized the wound so there would be very little blood loss. Mick continued to hold the Buck as steady as he could as the ground shook and pressure waves battered the side of the vehicle. I would shout and movements to him if I could spot incoming only to be cursed at by the gunner as he had had a good bead. We lost a lot of men and women that day. Too many hero's died that day. We had gone into the mouth of hell and returned but boy did we pay the price. On the misguided orders of an overzealous officer we destroyed the enemy to the cost of nearly a third of our vehicles and nearly 200 hundred men.
But we must have looked a fine sight charging up that valley, raising hellish dust, the sun refecting the red Marsian dirt casting a rose tint across the valley floor. Our armour glinting, the roar of our propulsion jets. Men hanging from the sides of the Bucks and griping the sides of the barges as they jumped and swayed. It was a fine sight if heros and bravery. All it needed was for that bravery to be tempered by the better part of valour - Discrection.
And thats how I found myself stood beside the 'Dread Pirate' George. Getting a commendation for courage under fire and praise for our support and execution of our duties. I could have knocked his hat off and called him a fool there and then. He couldn't car about the casulties, the wifes and mothers who would never here from their husbands and wives, their sons and daughtersagain. The children that these men and women would leave one parent less. He took us on a fools errand and could think of nothing better than to crow about it and praise us for our bravery and moral fibre.
I couldn't stay in the army after that. I am no mans fool other than my own. I got an honourable discharge having done eight years long service.
I bought my self a classic Cargo Tug and went about hauling stuff around the solar system.
I havn't seen my old army buddies for years. You don't always keep in touch. Somethings you just need to put behind you. Alot of us left after O'Briens Drift. Our faith in the army broken. 'Dread Pirate' got transfered on rotation back to Earth. Not in disgrace I add. The casulties mat have been great but the the higher ecolongs of power its the result that matters. And the result had far reaching consiquences. As a result of our victory there the Army was able to push the enemy out of Olympus Space Gate and into the Marsian desert. A spirited young chap took over the Mars campaign and the rebellion was quelled for a number of years. There are still rumbles that Mars will never be happy untill it has independance from Earth but since the Acendance of Europa-1 and the outer colonies and the squabling over the Asteroid belt the Mars problems are generally pushed into the background. No, I don't see any of my old mate. After something like O'Briens Drift you don't want too. Too many friends lost. Too much of your heart taken away. Soldiers we where and a soldier I shall always be to some degree but I shall be my own commander.
But enough of the maudlin tails. I never told you my nickname did I.
'Naked'
Yep. Naked.
I could tell you how I got that name. But that's another story . . . .
There is a story there certainly. But prehaps I need to practice what I preach. Discresion surely is the better part of valour here as I am v drunk. A little stoned and need to find a handy asteroid to tether my barge to until I have slept this off.
It is too good a story too mess up through a drunken retelling . . . . .
What you need the handsaw for? OK, pills can be hard to split sometimes...
(@Mods: Can we have a separate subforum for Funnybear's postings?)
On a more serious note: Funnybear, you should really consider becoming a writer. I sense a dazzling mixture of British humour, command of language, and an imagination at the brink of going haywire (presumably not all produced by mind-altering substances). If you can add a bit of energy and self-direction, who knows... It might buy you more than a beer someday. (Failing that, start a blog. You've already got yourself an audience.)
You know what. Having been considering it for some time now I think I shall investigate in a bit of blogging.
I'm not all that internet savvy as it doesn't come easy for me to just start these things. I'm always a bit shy of pushing forward my stuff. In that I am not a 'proper' writer. I like doing it and I guess if poeple like reading it then I'm having my cake and eating it. And who knows what the future could bring.
I am thinking of moving Europa-1 from Europa and onto Ganymede though. You see Europa is only 600,000Km or there abouts from Jupiter. Thats very close and Jupiter has a very strong magnetic field. It's Van Hallen belt is enough to kill a man if not protected. Whilst Ganymede lies around 1,000,000KM's out. Whilst still very close is would be slightly more realistic to put a colony on there. But then would the Ice of Europa be thick enough to give decent protection and plus you have the oceans. Which could support life. If thats the case then you could have a fully sustainable Colony that could grow and develope into a producer. But Europa isn't actually all that big, about the same dimensions as our very own moon. Wheras Ganymede is similar to Mercury (Which still isn't huge.)
Hmmm. Need to do some thinking. But. I have a story line for the next installment. Let's see if it's workable. . . .
Ah yes. Where was I. My nickname. You see,alot of my friends now me as 'Naked'. It's one of those earned nicknames, which are always the best. An earned nickname, whether you like it or not, can say alot about you and what you have done. Like my friend, 'drunken Bob' Wilmot. Who is the best frieght tug pilot you've ever seen so long as he is drunk. Sober him up and he can't fly for toffee. Or 'Stinky' Harris, who's personel hygene leaves alot to be desired. Some are more ephemeral. One of my mates is called 'clive'. his real name is Simon and nobody can remember why we call him Clive. But thats what he is and that's what we call him.
I started working entertainments on one of the Earth based Cruise ship firms. These where your typical tourist junkets. It didnt' really matter where you where going so long as you had a bloody good time getting there. in fact this was to be my first time working in space. Of course I'd done the whole school trip exchange program to the lunar bases and done some touristy things with mum and dad when I was a kid going out to Mars on the obligitory 'Red Sand Safari' but this was the first time alone. I was a young, foodhardy teenager. Spotty, oiky and very very cocky. I had that kinda cockyness that you can get away with in school and with your friends who think your just funny and amusing but a cockyness that fellow workmates and boss's find annoying, rude and alot of the time, dangerous. I was entrusted to Bosun 'Smee' I can't remember his real name and I'm not sure that he actually ever told me. Everyone called him Smee, even the Captain. He was a broad, stout fellow who could hol his liquer and spoke his mind. He never took any nonsense and every one younger than him where 'boy'!
"Come here boy!"
"Boy! Move your Arse!"
"Boy! If I can't see my face in that floor in five minutes I'm going to be 'avin you polishing the entire ballroom on your hands and knees with a toothbrush. Boy!"
He was harsh, but fair. If you did what you where told and did it will then he let you alone. But if you messed him around then he rode your arse like a gay man on heat. And I fell into the latter catagory. I messed him around good and proper. 'Your problem Boy.' He used to say. 'Is your too clever by half. You think you've got it all figured out and that you got people pegged. But let me tell you boy, people are never what they seem. If you want my advice on how to get on in the 'verse then you keep your head down and do the best you can with what ever you are doing. So get your 'ed down and mop that floor.'
"But I already dun it once'.
"then you do it again. And again. And again again unitll I tell you to do something else. If you don't I'll have you stripped stark bloody naked and have you up on the prom deck doing a titanic for a week. You hear me boy?"
And there it was. The threat. An often heard but never seen demonstration of chastizment. Naked on the Prom deck. The Prom Deck was a large observation deck that plexiglass bubble could be adjusted to various opacities so the promanaders below could gaze out and contemplate the infinite universe. It was a popular deck and always had fun seekers cruising around seeing and being seen. And the titanic refered to an old disk film from the 20th. It meant you had to stand arms outstretched balanced onthe ornamental railings that surrounded on the Prom deck. Normally Smee's temperament was enough to get anyone moving in the right direction but he wa right when it came to me. I thought I had him pegged. I thought he was all bluster and no substance. Oh if only i knew then what I know now. But then if he hadn't been the man he was and if he hadn't done to me what he did then I wouldn't know what I know now and I wouldn't have the nickname I do.
Mine and Smee's relationship was strained from the start but it was steadily and surely reaching boiling point. many superiors, colleagues and friends warned me to take it easy. To let up and just get on with my work. But I was strong minded and independant. I hated taking orders from anyone (Still do), I hated authority (still do) and I hated having to do work that I felt was beneath me (Thats something I did learn. No work is below anyone. Work is work. Someone needs to do sometime). Mine and Smee's realtionship was steadily and irreversable reaching the point of no return.
I'd heard he was looking for me. And I knew why. I'd been stupid. Really stupid. I though I was being clever, I was showing off but I was stupid. And I knew it. There is a point in every ship where the gravity generators sit. The positioning of them is vital because directly above and below them their field isnt' strong enough to keep gravity. On a cruise ship these areas are usually reserved for recreation decks above the generators and heavy plant workshops and storage below. But there are also sweetspots. Areas doted around the ship that for some reason the gravity field just can't reach. They change as well in relation to whatever large body the ship is near or whereabout to the sun the ship is. You can watch a sweetspot move, by placing a coin or a your watch in it for example, as the ship moves around a planet, or rotates to keep direction with the sun. You watch, coin, girlfriend, whatever will drift across the room before being impeded by a wall will be uncerimonially dumped onto the floor as the sweetspot moves on. If you have enough patience and observation you can chart the progress of these Sweetspots and use them to your advantage. I had been following one particular spot that regularily came through the galley. It was particularily strong on this leg of our trip in relation to our position to Venus. It would drift in through the Prep Kitchen and follow a path that took it past the Hot Pass and over the heads of the servers congrating at the service hatch. At which point it would pass though the bulkhead and up into the next deck. I noticed that you could carry something in the spot untill it reached the bulkhead and fell onto the service pass.
So I picked my moment. Busy saterday night. Full restourant. The plates would be moving around so quick that nobody would notice a little extra something. I was on shift rotation on prep so I was in an ideal position. I got my little pot of super strength chilly powder. Emptied a load into my hand and reached up at just the righ moment. I felt the spot slowly pass and released my pressious load. I watched as it made it's sedate passage across the kitchen. This little red cloud eerily floating over the heads of the busy chefs and waitresses untill it hit the bulkhead. The Sweetspot moved on through the wall and as it did so the chilly powder fell into a handily placed bowl of soup.
Now. In my defence. How was I to know that that particular bowl of soup was destined for the captains table. And how was I to know that that bowl of soup was going to placed in front of the opera Diva Madam Clouvierre who, as it happened, was due to perform to an elite selection of the cruise ships passengers, includeing the captain and the Marsian Amabassador who had joined the ship for a week's break. And how was I to know that Chilly powder plays havoc with the vocal chords and that would prevent a proffesional singer from performing quite a few nights. How was I to any of that. I watched the soup leave the pass. I couldn't see the floor from the Prep room but I could certainly hear the results. The scream must have been heard through out the entire ship and the power. Madam Clouvierre was not a small woman. There was a lot of her to rise to the occasion but my god, once she got going there was no stopping her. She rose from her seat (So I've heard) like a kraken from the deep ocean. Her scream started low but built to a tumeltuous peak seemingly mangaging to cover every note in her range, which was consicderable, at once. The very foundations of the ship shook. Glasses smashed, ear drums pierced, chandaliers shattered. I gave more trade to the infirmary that night than they had received the entire voyage. I didnt' realise the full extent of my practical joke untill the red faced and very, very, very angry captain stormed in. At this point many of the floor staff had come running back to the kitchen and rushed explanations and descriptions of the carnage where hurtling around the kitchen. The Chefs had a look of murder on their faces and tha I didn't hang around to find out what the Captain had too say about the whole thing.
I ran. I ran like a silly child. I was kecking myself. I was going to put off on a life boat and left to drift untill a freighter deemed it nessesary to stop and pick me up. I was going to be fired. Fried, fricassied and served to the lions. I was a dead man. Everyone in the kitchen that night was accounted for except me. If I had stayed and bluffed it out I might have got away with it. I was a prep boy, backroom and wouldn't have need to go near the hot plates. I good have braved it and let someone else cop the rap. But no. I ran like a lilly livered coward and that made me suspect number one.
They sent him to look for me. I could hear him, stalking the corridors.
"BOY!"
"I'm going to find you BOY!"
"You can't run forever BOY! By god I shall have your hide for this BOY!"
It was only a matter of time. And I did the only thing I could do. I was damned if anyone was going to punish me so I beat them to it.
There is a picture of me, or rather my lilly white arse on the pass door in the kitchen. It's framed with a caption 'This could be you'. My arms outstretched, balanced on the rail. Stark. Bollock. Naked. I was up there for eight hours before Smee came and fetched me down.
"Boy". He said. "Figured it out yet?"
"Yes Boss."
"What yer figured boy?"
"That nobody will ever do anything that worse than whatI can do to myself. Right Boss?"
"That'll do boy. That'll do."
He still made me walk all the way back to my bunk with nothing more than my fair hands to cover my dignity. He bought me a drink in the bar that night as I sat silently and sulkily in a dark corner nursing a beer. "Boy." He said. "That probable saved your job. You've put back any chance of promotion back a few years but you still got your job." Smee started griining. The first time he'd ever done that in front of me "The Captain said he was glad to see the back of you. And even Madam Cluvierre has decided to turn the other cheek."
"Ok. Thanks Sir."
"So lets just put this all behind us".
"yes. thankyou Sir."
Smee called over to the bar keep and brought me another beer.
"Bottoms up" Called the Bar keep.
"Is this going to stop?" I asked Smee.
"Nope. You've made yourself a name now Boy. And well earned too. Gotta have a story boy. We all gotta have a story. Oh and a certain Mz Grant of room 452, deck eight said to pop around any time you like. As did a Miss Ellis and Mr's Wallis and a very pleasant young gentleman going by the name of Mr Pink. Nice chap. I think he took rather a shine to you. Or at least to some parts of you."
"Yes. Thankyou Sir."
So there you go. How I got my nickname. Smee was right. Everyone needs a story or two.
Ok. I get one (The kraken, which was more just topical than actually a reference. But what was the other?)
And no, that wasn't a personal one. but I did serve my time in a kitchen and you really don't wan't to know what really whent into some of the food.
-edit- Dunno. What can I be reminded of . . . . That Crashlanding on Callisto when all I had was a readers Digest from 2308 and half a packet of digestives or that time when I crashed the System Net trying to get my Navi comp to work. Or how about the time I ended up inthe Hareem of Sultan Achtachbadeer, or something. Or my winning of the Titan race trophy.
In your first short story... "She's gunna have your gut's for garters"...
(quote from the movie: "If anyone as much as thinks about 'Parley', I'm gonna have your guts for garters")
It's quite possibly just my obsessive PotC fandom making me notice any small reference to those movies, though.
(that wasn't too long ago, i had to borrow the books) omg shoule there be an off topic thread just for this? 
, is this a personal experience?