So yesterday started out with everything going along just fine, though I was still unable to wear a brassiere due to my severe sunburn. I assumed Mr. A. and Molotav wouldn’t mind and that it may even assist me in my negotiation attempts – I figured my yo@ss worked in my favor so why not use the yo-busters in like manner? Anyway, the Limo & Molotav fetched me at precisely 1:00 p.m. and we shortly arrived at dock 114 on the Bay of Havana where Mr. A’s 220 foot posh pleasure yacht was moored.
(photo of Molotav & I arriving on Mr. A’s yacht, ‘Porpoise in Life’)Social niceties were taken care of straight away. Mr. A appeared to be fully recovered and in a good, if not somewhat gregarious mood. This should have been my first indication that something was amiss, as Mr. A is normally quite reserved and subliminal. Molotav, on the other hand, was being his usual sour-ass self, which motivated me to give him the occasional evil-eye of contempt and loathing. At one point while Mr. A. was intent upon his meal, I caught Molotav's eye and displayed an open mouth full of chewed food which merely caused him to look away without any change in his expression what-so-ever. Jerk!
It was during this delightful luncheon that I got all swimmy headed and fell full-face into my plate of shrimp salad in mid-chew. That is the last thing I remember about lunch. Upon awakening, I found myself in an impressive bedroom suite with the sounds of water gently lapping close by. I assumed I was somewhere in the bowels of the yacht. I made my fuzzy way to the door, set on the task of finding either Molotav or Mr. A. to see what the hell had happened. Much to my consternation, I discovered that the door was locked. My reaction was to immediately start throwing a royal fit of screaming and pounding. Nothing appeared to be getting anyone’s attention, so I started to threaten to clog the toilet and flood the joint. That worked, for Molotav finally spoke to me from outside the closed door and informed me that I was now a piece of Mr. A’s property and I needed to shut up and behave myself or things would only get worse. My response was to scream (note: edited), “Bull-doodoo you mother-effing son-of-a-beached-whale! I am going to rip your effing head off and then cut off your god-doodled wanger with a hatchet and feed it to the effing sharks!”
Not surprisingly, this statement got Molotav to open the door…
…I’m afraid I must take pause at this point, as the recollection of these cursed events tends to exhaust me greatly. I shall write again soon.
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