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"Starve Goat Island"
May. 16th, 2022 10:52 pm"Starve Goat Island"
7/28/- 7/30/2017
I.
It was getting foggy as the temperature dropped and the wind blew in from the Pacific. In a port city like Hernandez, wise citizens did not stroll about the docks unless necessary, but here came an American carrying bags of equipment, with a knapsack across his back. The man was tall but heavy around the waist, with plenty of grey in his boring brown hair and with bloodshot brown eyes. He wore a tan suit, with a white dress shirt but no tie, and he had three cameras in cases on slings hanging from him. "Hi there!" he sang out cheerfully. "Fred Bigelow, I'm in Cabin 8."
The crew member by the boarding ramp watched him with a noticeable lack of friendliness. "All in order. Come aboard."
"Wish I could stay in Argentina longer," said the American, walking up the ramp with just a bit of difficulty. "Beautiful country. Got lots of great shots!"
From the railing, a short stout man in a black jacket and a billed cap watched. His drooping mustache and untrimmed hair were white with a touch of yellow as if stained. "We set sail in one hour, Mister Bigelow. Get yer gear stowed."
"Ah, Captain... Dutton, wasn't it?"
"That's right," said the captain, turning on his heel and heading aft. "Ready to weigh anchor," he called out. The ship was a steamer of minor size, in good repair but getting old. It smelled of burning oil and fish and cabbage, none of which worked well together. Fred Bigelow found his way to Cabin 8, smelled the mildew and smiled dryly to himself. It was tiny but he didn't need much. The American got his bags and knapsack and equipment put away securely. He heard the engines thumping and vibrations beneath his feet. Looking out the grimy porthole over his bunk, he noticed that no one was at the dock to say farewell to any of his fellow passengers. Just as well.
There was a light bulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling and he tugged that chain, then went over to the mirror on the dresser. From an inner pocket of his jacket, he took out a small plastic cylinder and some saline solution. Wiping his hands first on paper towels someone had left on the top of the dresser, he bent his head and removed the colored contact lenses. Good to get them out, he never liked wearing the damn things. When he raised his head and looked in the mirror again,a pair of pale grey eyes stared back at him with a distinctive glare. Carrying everything to the bunk because he had to be ready to put the lenses back in quickly, he stretched out. This was not the way he liked to handle things, he was by nature direct and confrontational.
Bigelow tried to doze without success. He was a light sleeper at the best of times. A few hours later, a knock came on the door and a sullen voice said, "Dinner ready in the passenger mess." He called out a pleasant thanks and got the contact lenses back in. Heading down a companion way, Bigelow passed two sailors standing with their elbows on the rail. He nodded politely and caught a predatory smile in the face of the skinny one with the flat nose. There was no mistaking that leer, he had seen it too many times before and for the first time he felt he was on the right trail. In the mess, at a round table, were three other passengers and he joined them for stew, biscuits, apple pie and coffee... all of which was not as bad as he had been expecting.
Introducing himself as a retired insurance salesman, Fred Bigelow went into too much detail about his hobby of photography, making sure he came across as dull and boring. One of the passengers was also an American, an elderly frail scarecrow with just wisps of white hair and a beaky nose. He ate in silence, chewing slowly and looking down at the table. To his side was an attractive woman around thirty, with glossy black hair and a roundish face with bright dark eyes. She was wearing a light cotton dress with a thin white cardigan over it. Her companion, on the other hand, loomed up over the table. he was several inches over six feet in height with impressive wide shoulders and a long narrow face filled with gloom. They made an unlikely pair. She did most of the talking as soon as Bigelow let her get started. Her name was Maria Patino and she introduced the somber man as her cousin, Raoul. Yes, she was from San Francisco and in no hurry to get back from her visit to relatives here but Raoul did have to get back to his landfill business, boring as it was.
Bigelow tried not to give it away, but he immediately had picked up that he was sitting with dangerous people. Maria and Raoul, with the way they sat and moved and the way they glanced at each other at certain moments, made all his instincts twitch a warning. Whoever they really were and what they were up to, he could not guess yet. Then he caught just the barest glint of an expression in her eyes that suggested she was suspicious of him, too. Bigelow did not change his manner, he let some clumsy compliments pass that Maria accepted with good nature. One of the crewmen with a rag over one shoulder came and took their plates in a manner that said he would as soon have smashed them over their heads. Maria watched him with a faint smirk.
"The captain hasn't made any sort of speech," Bigelow said. "Usually the captain of a ship at least wishes his passengers a happy voyage and remarks what a good ship they are on."
"Maybe he's just a modest man," she countered, without any extra emphasis on the word modest. But it was enough. The spark between them was palpable. Bigelow got up and excused himself, he had been up all night before boarding and said he hoped to see more of everyone before the trip was done. Maria presented him with the present of a beautiful smile and got up as well, followed by Raoul. Only the ancient one remained at the table, reluctant to finish the second cup of coffee.
The next day went without incident. Bigelow kept to his cabin, thinking and waiting. Searching carefully, he satisfied himself that there were no peepholes through which he could be seen. Wedging a chair under the doorknob, he removed his contact lenses and rinsed his eyes. Then he kicked off his loafers, got out of his tan slacks and dress shirt. Wearing shorts and a T-shirt, he was suddenly a bizarre figure. Arms and legs showed long wiry muscles, and strapped to sheaths on his forearms were two throwing daggers, hilts toward his wrists. The man who called himself Fred Bigelow unbuckled padding from under his shirt and yanked it off. Without it, he was slim to the point of being gaunt.
The man spun into a series of stretching and flexing poses that became a complicated martial arts form. He was amazingly fast. His fists made whistling noises as they snapped out and back, For fifteen minutes, he whirled through combination kicks and punches and blocks, then slowed again. He bowed to his Teacher far away, then hurried to put the padding back on and get a fresh shirt from his bags. Yanking on the slacks, he grudgingly put the contact lenses back in. Fred Bigelow checked his hair in the mirror, longer and greyer than his own. With a resigned frown, he went to his bunk and sat unhappily. For those few minutes, it had been good to be Jeremy Bane again.
( the rest of the story )
7/28/- 7/30/2017
I.
It was getting foggy as the temperature dropped and the wind blew in from the Pacific. In a port city like Hernandez, wise citizens did not stroll about the docks unless necessary, but here came an American carrying bags of equipment, with a knapsack across his back. The man was tall but heavy around the waist, with plenty of grey in his boring brown hair and with bloodshot brown eyes. He wore a tan suit, with a white dress shirt but no tie, and he had three cameras in cases on slings hanging from him. "Hi there!" he sang out cheerfully. "Fred Bigelow, I'm in Cabin 8."
The crew member by the boarding ramp watched him with a noticeable lack of friendliness. "All in order. Come aboard."
"Wish I could stay in Argentina longer," said the American, walking up the ramp with just a bit of difficulty. "Beautiful country. Got lots of great shots!"
From the railing, a short stout man in a black jacket and a billed cap watched. His drooping mustache and untrimmed hair were white with a touch of yellow as if stained. "We set sail in one hour, Mister Bigelow. Get yer gear stowed."
"Ah, Captain... Dutton, wasn't it?"
"That's right," said the captain, turning on his heel and heading aft. "Ready to weigh anchor," he called out. The ship was a steamer of minor size, in good repair but getting old. It smelled of burning oil and fish and cabbage, none of which worked well together. Fred Bigelow found his way to Cabin 8, smelled the mildew and smiled dryly to himself. It was tiny but he didn't need much. The American got his bags and knapsack and equipment put away securely. He heard the engines thumping and vibrations beneath his feet. Looking out the grimy porthole over his bunk, he noticed that no one was at the dock to say farewell to any of his fellow passengers. Just as well.
There was a light bulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling and he tugged that chain, then went over to the mirror on the dresser. From an inner pocket of his jacket, he took out a small plastic cylinder and some saline solution. Wiping his hands first on paper towels someone had left on the top of the dresser, he bent his head and removed the colored contact lenses. Good to get them out, he never liked wearing the damn things. When he raised his head and looked in the mirror again,a pair of pale grey eyes stared back at him with a distinctive glare. Carrying everything to the bunk because he had to be ready to put the lenses back in quickly, he stretched out. This was not the way he liked to handle things, he was by nature direct and confrontational.
Bigelow tried to doze without success. He was a light sleeper at the best of times. A few hours later, a knock came on the door and a sullen voice said, "Dinner ready in the passenger mess." He called out a pleasant thanks and got the contact lenses back in. Heading down a companion way, Bigelow passed two sailors standing with their elbows on the rail. He nodded politely and caught a predatory smile in the face of the skinny one with the flat nose. There was no mistaking that leer, he had seen it too many times before and for the first time he felt he was on the right trail. In the mess, at a round table, were three other passengers and he joined them for stew, biscuits, apple pie and coffee... all of which was not as bad as he had been expecting.
Introducing himself as a retired insurance salesman, Fred Bigelow went into too much detail about his hobby of photography, making sure he came across as dull and boring. One of the passengers was also an American, an elderly frail scarecrow with just wisps of white hair and a beaky nose. He ate in silence, chewing slowly and looking down at the table. To his side was an attractive woman around thirty, with glossy black hair and a roundish face with bright dark eyes. She was wearing a light cotton dress with a thin white cardigan over it. Her companion, on the other hand, loomed up over the table. he was several inches over six feet in height with impressive wide shoulders and a long narrow face filled with gloom. They made an unlikely pair. She did most of the talking as soon as Bigelow let her get started. Her name was Maria Patino and she introduced the somber man as her cousin, Raoul. Yes, she was from San Francisco and in no hurry to get back from her visit to relatives here but Raoul did have to get back to his landfill business, boring as it was.
Bigelow tried not to give it away, but he immediately had picked up that he was sitting with dangerous people. Maria and Raoul, with the way they sat and moved and the way they glanced at each other at certain moments, made all his instincts twitch a warning. Whoever they really were and what they were up to, he could not guess yet. Then he caught just the barest glint of an expression in her eyes that suggested she was suspicious of him, too. Bigelow did not change his manner, he let some clumsy compliments pass that Maria accepted with good nature. One of the crewmen with a rag over one shoulder came and took their plates in a manner that said he would as soon have smashed them over their heads. Maria watched him with a faint smirk.
"The captain hasn't made any sort of speech," Bigelow said. "Usually the captain of a ship at least wishes his passengers a happy voyage and remarks what a good ship they are on."
"Maybe he's just a modest man," she countered, without any extra emphasis on the word modest. But it was enough. The spark between them was palpable. Bigelow got up and excused himself, he had been up all night before boarding and said he hoped to see more of everyone before the trip was done. Maria presented him with the present of a beautiful smile and got up as well, followed by Raoul. Only the ancient one remained at the table, reluctant to finish the second cup of coffee.
The next day went without incident. Bigelow kept to his cabin, thinking and waiting. Searching carefully, he satisfied himself that there were no peepholes through which he could be seen. Wedging a chair under the doorknob, he removed his contact lenses and rinsed his eyes. Then he kicked off his loafers, got out of his tan slacks and dress shirt. Wearing shorts and a T-shirt, he was suddenly a bizarre figure. Arms and legs showed long wiry muscles, and strapped to sheaths on his forearms were two throwing daggers, hilts toward his wrists. The man who called himself Fred Bigelow unbuckled padding from under his shirt and yanked it off. Without it, he was slim to the point of being gaunt.
The man spun into a series of stretching and flexing poses that became a complicated martial arts form. He was amazingly fast. His fists made whistling noises as they snapped out and back, For fifteen minutes, he whirled through combination kicks and punches and blocks, then slowed again. He bowed to his Teacher far away, then hurried to put the padding back on and get a fresh shirt from his bags. Yanking on the slacks, he grudgingly put the contact lenses back in. Fred Bigelow checked his hair in the mirror, longer and greyer than his own. With a resigned frown, he went to his bunk and sat unhappily. For those few minutes, it had been good to be Jeremy Bane again.
( the rest of the story )
