Back to the boat and Carlo has a little left to say.

“It will be soon. Aim high on his chest and stab as hard. It’s fragile, but plunge and pull down.” He wrings his hands a little.

“Do not get any of the green on you, clean yourself if you do. It is toxic.”

He starts talking staring straight ahead. By the end of a few sentences, his eyes search my face.

“Do it right, he will die. One chance. Be willfull and determined. See yourself killing him. Picture it.”

“Let me tell you this.” He touches my arm. Book and box between us.

“It is his nature is to be aggressive and foolish. Same time, he is at least afraid of you as you are him.” He nods at me but I can’t see his eyes, his head backlit by the setting sun through a half open window.

The ocean in my nose.

Brine on my tongue.

“He will come to you unless you prevent it. Despite his fear, it is his nature.”

“Try to make it otherwise. You have an advantage. He does not know what you have. He is aware you possess it, he does not understand it. His imbalance of late, is because you leave this place with something you did not come looking for. He is confounded by that.”

“That, and he is uncomfortable. Out of his element. He does not like it here.”

I think about Gollum.

Deja vu, the car slows to a stop and I listen to tires meeting damp asphalt ever slower. There’s a light rain. I see the weapon I carry and a green plastic sword in a grilled cheese sandwich.

He kisses at both cheeks and pulls back. His eyes glisten. “Be aggressive. Pursue. Take the fight to him. End it soon.” A rough hand on the side of my face. “Luck is bullshit. I believe in fortitude.”

Determination, I say. No worries, I assure him. I thank him as briefly and sincerely as I can and slide towards the door.

Time to get on with it.

It opens, I stand and Driver hands me my things. I realize he’s Asian, maybe Samoan. He’s huge.

Carlo’s window drops silently. He looks smaller in the waning sunlight. “By all means, pay attention, be aware. He will call on you soon.”

I tell him the meanest man usually wins.

“Well, you don’t swing hard enough to do it with one punch.”

I smile. He’s taunting me.

I board the boat, stop at the bell desk check my bag and find the first bathroom. I gotta piss like a racehorse. I’m in a hurry, I straight arm the door.

There he is. Standing with his ass on the first sink. Gore streams from his eyes, nose and ears to collect on his chest. It spatters between his feet. He waves a snub nosed revolver, grinning and sucking back drool.

Giggling and drinking whiskey from a tumbler with a pinky out. He’s fucking drunk.

Wearing an actual a suit. Black, white shirt, skinny black tie. Kinda sixties.

Still, Puma Clydes.

What an idiot.

I had to piss so bad, I put the box and book in my bag and left it at the bell desk for me to call on after a piss and a drink. Say that fast.

I’m thinking about how stupid I am, he hits me in the mouth harder than I’ve ever been hit. I go down. The back of my head bounces off the marble floor.

Not out but I can’t think. I can barely see. He’s kicking for my gut, he’s connecting with my legs. One of my feet gets purchase somewhere so I push away.

Confusion and pain tie the knot and we have rage boys and girls. Searing. Seething. I think of his stupid electric fucking knife. Then comes Shirley from Alaska, then comes a rabbit. It comes on rails at the speed of sound and I am overwhelmed. I throw a fucking rod.

I’m biting my own tongue. I’m tasting my own blood and I like it.

Up on my knees, I make a fist and swing overhand for his crotch. Somehow I score a ballseye. A wad of flesh craters beneath my punch.

That fucking hurt.

Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!

Only the sound of trying, not quite able to suck air, and his head makes a very cool sound against the brass plate at the bottom of the door.

He flops a little. He’s got no wind.

Heh.

I struggle to my feet and start to kick. I’m dizzy and not connecting as well as the choir in my hate filled brain screeches for. I stomp with my heel. Feels better. The choir agrees and begins to crescendo.

He starts to cough and pant.

I’m doing some damage.

The choir rages.

Heh.

Some liver spotted senior pushes the door open enough to get his head and hands in.

My boy on the floor flops forward.

I’m standing, kicking a man and my face is bleeding. So is the man’s face I’m waling on, only he’s on the floor.

I shriek at him to find another bathroom you idiot, and I keep fucking kicking.

I focus on my boy’s head for a minute before common sense pays a visit and a decision is reached for Elvis to leave the building.

He seems to be out. I piss. I wash up.

I literally kick him out of the way and leave the bathroom checking my hands and wiping my nose for blood. I stuff a pocket with paper towels.

That old guy’s hands and forehead looked like desert camouflage. Poor fucker. Hope he was wearing a diaper.

I sweat like an over exerted drunk because that’s what I am.

I head for a bar at the other end of the ship. My legs are elastic. Like I’m on something. It’s happy hour packed when I find it. Still, I find a seat at the end. I’m grateful. I don’t know this fool can make a martini and it’s busy, so I order two double Sapphires on ice with a twist.

He tells me he can only serve me one cocktail at a time. I tell him to watch my glass then.

I see mostly blue and red plastic swords.

I finish the first, order a second, go out for a smoke, and return to notice blood leaking from my face into my gin.

Exploratory diagnostic napkin wielding reveals the flow is from my lower lip.

I smear some on my nose to look like a nosebleed and pull out a credit card to inspire the bartender to get me a check. I gesticulate with a napkin like I’ve got a random bloody nose.

Trickier than you might think, to pretend you didn’t just kick the shit out of some zombie in the bathroom, rather just experiencing a random moist climate induced bloody nose …………

I drink my own blood mixed with gin and ice in an elevator accompanied by a gaggle of geese speaking German or Austrian or some other throaty, ugly tongue. They look odd. Out of place, but happy to be so. One of the men actually has a feather in the brim of his stupid hat. Another wears tweed.

I know they don’t speak english because I ask them about their vaginas and whether Karl Rove smokes a mean pole. I tell them an anti-semitic joke. They smile, ask my name and if I’m enjoying myself. I tell them no. I smile back. I tell them I’m locked in battle with a furious demon.

They all buy the random bloody nose act and clearly understand nothing else.

The doors open and they hold up their cameras and make friendly faces indicating they want me to take pictures. I can’t help it. They’re so damn nice. The men pat me on the shoulder and the women smile close mouthed and wave their flippers at me.

I get back to my room, call for my bag, order a grilled cheese sandwich with fries, buffalo chicken strips with bleu cheese, side of dill pickles, chocolate milk and two diet cokes and a side of mayo.

I pour a drink.

My bag with the book and the box shows first. I open it enough to verify precious cargo and take it with me to the bathroom.

My shoes are bloody so you know there’s some on the pants. Over the side.

Quick shower.

You know what makes the best grilled cheese sandwich? Velveeta. Campbell’s tomato soup to go with it. Lime jello. Grape drink.

The food shows and I’m in awe of the fried, buttery, vinegary bouquet. It’s got that low down pungent off the strip casino room service smell too. I adore that smell. Fuck me I’m hungry.

I check the balcony and throw all the locks.

He won’t be around tonight, I handed him his ass.

Ha!

Stainless cover off a plate still steaming. Excellent. Two green plastic swords pinning two black olives to two wedges of grilled cheese sandwich.

I go to bed happy.

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