Big Purple Pirates.
©2015 By Ken Cartisano
Earth Date: l/16/22,515
We were checking out an unexplored planet and bumped into a scout ship of unusual aliens.
They’re mostly humanoid, which is nice, but they’re big. They look like nine-foot tall, hulking, purple barbarians, with pincers. Despite their lack of weapons, they aren’t exactly helpless. One of these things could take my head off with one punch, or snip. I keep my weapon trained on the closest one as he approaches and offers me a bottle of water. It’s a universal custom. I take a sip and hand it back. My First Mate arrives with two bottles from the ship, and the big, purple alien accepts the full one and guzzles one third of it, then hands it off to his buddy.
He smirks. I smile. We both know he’s not being polite. Water offerings are sipped, not guzzled. I guess you could say pointing a loaded vaporizer at his mid-section isn’t that polite either, but I can tell these purple fucks are major assholes and I’m not taking any chances.
They’re looking for water, just like we are. It turns out that this particular part of the universe is filled with plenty of stars and planets, but not that much water. So the galaxy is rife with parched life forms, zooming around looking for water. Some will take it by force, if you let them.
That’s not all we do, of course. I’m a small freight courier, I shuttle insignificant loads of specialty merchandise between star systems. On my way to wherever I’m going, I always make a few stops along the way; to look for water; make some contacts; maybe get laid. Nothing like a little ‘strange’ to help a lonely spacer through the dry spells, if you know what I mean.
The translator isn’t working, so we communicate by UHS: Universal Hand Signals. He indicates he wants water, but just for him and his buddy.
What you probably don’t know, is that we both have mother ships nearby. Nobody ventures into deep space without a mother ship. We’re both flying small shuttles, hardly fit for deep space. So we latch on to huge Interstellar Cruisers, for a fee, and they conveniently make stops along the way, because, as it happens, they’d like to find water too. So he’s implying that their mother ship has plenty of water; which we both know is a lie, because no deep-space cruiser in the universe has more water than it needs.
My First Mate clears his throat. “Should I get ‘im a couple of cases of water, Skipper?”
“Nah.” We both take a look at our nine-foot ‘friends.’ “One or two more bottles ought to do it.”
While my First Mate hustles back to our ship, I watch the nearest purple pirate grab the bottle from his shipmate, drain the contents, and then toss the bottle to the ground.
I pick up the bottle and slip it into my pocket. I hate litterbugs. I keep my weapon trained on Big Purple’s ample mid-section while we wait, and take a small sip from the second bottle we brought, and savor it like I don’t notice him. A good trick, considering that he towers over me. My First Mate comes trotting up with two more bottles and the purple bastard can barely wait to get his hands on them. He polishes off half of one bottle before offering the rest of it to his crewman, who also proceeds to guzzle it like it's actually water.
I’ve seen my share of aliens in my travels, and only a handful find alcohol enticing, but these two appear to have no sense of smell or taste, because they’re not drinking water. They're sucking down enormous amounts of white lightning; 190 proof. You could jump-start a nuclear reactor with this shit.
In no time at all the alcohol hits his nervous system like an incoming comet. He waves his arm in my general direction, like he’s seeing triplets; that’s because he’s got three eyes and none of them are in sync any more. I tell my First Mate to get back to the ship.
The big, purple alien sways back and forth, then motions at the bottle and makes the universal sign for water, with a question mark.
I make the universal sign for ‘fire,’ and then ‘water.’
I leave him to ponder this while I hoof it back to my ship and make preparations for lift off.
We were checking out an unexplored planet and bumped into a scout ship of unusual aliens.
They’re mostly humanoid, which is nice, but they’re big. They look like nine-foot tall, hulking, purple barbarians, with pincers. Despite their lack of weapons, they aren’t exactly helpless. One of these things could take my head off with one punch, or snip. I keep my weapon trained on the closest one as he approaches and offers me a bottle of water. It’s a universal custom. I take a sip and hand it back. My First Mate arrives with two bottles from the ship, and the big, purple alien accepts the full one and guzzles one third of it, then hands it off to his buddy.
He smirks. I smile. We both know he’s not being polite. Water offerings are sipped, not guzzled. I guess you could say pointing a loaded vaporizer at his mid-section isn’t that polite either, but I can tell these purple fucks are major assholes and I’m not taking any chances.
They’re looking for water, just like we are. It turns out that this particular part of the universe is filled with plenty of stars and planets, but not that much water. So the galaxy is rife with parched life forms, zooming around looking for water. Some will take it by force, if you let them.
That’s not all we do, of course. I’m a small freight courier, I shuttle insignificant loads of specialty merchandise between star systems. On my way to wherever I’m going, I always make a few stops along the way; to look for water; make some contacts; maybe get laid. Nothing like a little ‘strange’ to help a lonely spacer through the dry spells, if you know what I mean.
The translator isn’t working, so we communicate by UHS: Universal Hand Signals. He indicates he wants water, but just for him and his buddy.
What you probably don’t know, is that we both have mother ships nearby. Nobody ventures into deep space without a mother ship. We’re both flying small shuttles, hardly fit for deep space. So we latch on to huge Interstellar Cruisers, for a fee, and they conveniently make stops along the way, because, as it happens, they’d like to find water too. So he’s implying that their mother ship has plenty of water; which we both know is a lie, because no deep-space cruiser in the universe has more water than it needs.
My First Mate clears his throat. “Should I get ‘im a couple of cases of water, Skipper?”
“Nah.” We both take a look at our nine-foot ‘friends.’ “One or two more bottles ought to do it.”
While my First Mate hustles back to our ship, I watch the nearest purple pirate grab the bottle from his shipmate, drain the contents, and then toss the bottle to the ground.
I pick up the bottle and slip it into my pocket. I hate litterbugs. I keep my weapon trained on Big Purple’s ample mid-section while we wait, and take a small sip from the second bottle we brought, and savor it like I don’t notice him. A good trick, considering that he towers over me. My First Mate comes trotting up with two more bottles and the purple bastard can barely wait to get his hands on them. He polishes off half of one bottle before offering the rest of it to his crewman, who also proceeds to guzzle it like it's actually water.
I’ve seen my share of aliens in my travels, and only a handful find alcohol enticing, but these two appear to have no sense of smell or taste, because they’re not drinking water. They're sucking down enormous amounts of white lightning; 190 proof. You could jump-start a nuclear reactor with this shit.
In no time at all the alcohol hits his nervous system like an incoming comet. He waves his arm in my general direction, like he’s seeing triplets; that’s because he’s got three eyes and none of them are in sync any more. I tell my First Mate to get back to the ship.
The big, purple alien sways back and forth, then motions at the bottle and makes the universal sign for water, with a question mark.
I make the universal sign for ‘fire,’ and then ‘water.’
I leave him to ponder this while I hoof it back to my ship and make preparations for lift off.
Dumbo
Ding!
I listened carefully as she barked out instructions. As the local D.A., Helen Wheels is not one to trifle with.
“His name is Al, Al Dente,” she said to me. “He owns a fancy Italian restaurant on the boulevard, and lives in a penthouse overlooking downtown. His girlfriend, Rita Book, is a cute little dish with brown eyes, black hair and lips the color of tomatoes. Green tomatoes. She’s a Goth or something: Works at the library. You following me so far, Dumbo?”
“Yeah. Listen,” I said. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me that in public anymore. It’s a little humiliating.”
She looked me up and down. “If you didn’t stick your big fat trunk in every peanut jar that strolled down the street, I’d show you a little more respect—Dumbo. Anyway, your perplexing ability to charm every bimbo on the planet is the only reason I’m putting you on this job.”
I took that as a compliment.
“This little Rita chick is dating one of my investigators. I want you to get her two-timing ass out of the building before we descend on the place like a plague of chainsaws. Think you can do that?”
“Sure. How hard could that be?” I say. So maybe I ain’t so smart after all.
“What about the body guard?” I said. "He knows me by sight and my jaw is still swollen from the last time he said hello.”
“Yeah.” She shuffled some papers on her desk. “What’s his name?”
“Soul,” I said. “Xavier Soul.”
She said. “He’s the big black albino that works as his point man, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He's good at making points.” I rubbed my jaw. “And he really loves his work.”
My real name is Caesar, Caesar Assets. Just so you know. But most people call me Dumbo. I’m what you’d call a trouble-shooter. “So what’s my strategy, here, Helen?”
Helen looked out the window. “I need you to get her to like you, and follow you out, in 30 seconds.”
“What about expenses? I’ll need a little cash to grease the wheels of seduction.”
“You want expenses? Here’s a little something for your troubles.” She turned around and gave me the middle finger. “You still owe me 3 grand for bailing you out of that little mess with the hockey team.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “I forgot about that.” I still had a bruise on my back in the shape of a hockey stick.
“You got a bad memory, Dumbo. That’s one of your best assets. No expenses. You’re doing this as a favor. You pull her out of that mess, and I’ll wipe the slate clean. Are we clear on that?”
“Sure, Helen. Sure. This one’s on me.”
Next day, there I am, standing by the elevator.
Rita approaches the elevator and looks me over. “Hey,” she says.”
“Hi,” I say. “What’s a nice girl like you, etc., etc.”
“What makes you think I’m a nice girl? You blind or something? I got green lips.”
“Green’s my favorite color,” I say. “Same color as money.”
She looks me up and down. “How would you know?”
The lift arrives with an annoying ding. We get on and she pushes the top button. We rocket to the top floor so fast I have no time to turn on the charm. That stupid bell rings again and the doors slide open. And what d’ya know, there’s old Xavier. His fists are the size of basketballs, only three times as hard. Maybe it’s just an illusion, as I don’t see it until it’s a half an inch from my right eye. Boom!
When I come to, I’m lying on the floor of the elevator with my head in Rita’s lap. The elevator is dropping so fast my stomach feels like it’s having an out-of-body experience.
“Nice move, Bozo.” She says. “Where’d you learn to fight, kindergarten?”
“The name’s Dumbo,” I said, still a little dazed.
“Dumbo,” she says. “You ever think about changing your name?”
“All the time.” I start to sit up when that stupid bell rings again. Ding!
“I’m all right,” I say, as I stagger to my feet.
“No your not. You’re bleeding all over my brand new breasts. I’d better get you to the hospital.”
Next day, Helen shows up at the hospital. “Nice job, Dumbo. Way to use your head.”
“His name is Al, Al Dente,” she said to me. “He owns a fancy Italian restaurant on the boulevard, and lives in a penthouse overlooking downtown. His girlfriend, Rita Book, is a cute little dish with brown eyes, black hair and lips the color of tomatoes. Green tomatoes. She’s a Goth or something: Works at the library. You following me so far, Dumbo?”
“Yeah. Listen,” I said. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me that in public anymore. It’s a little humiliating.”
She looked me up and down. “If you didn’t stick your big fat trunk in every peanut jar that strolled down the street, I’d show you a little more respect—Dumbo. Anyway, your perplexing ability to charm every bimbo on the planet is the only reason I’m putting you on this job.”
I took that as a compliment.
“This little Rita chick is dating one of my investigators. I want you to get her two-timing ass out of the building before we descend on the place like a plague of chainsaws. Think you can do that?”
“Sure. How hard could that be?” I say. So maybe I ain’t so smart after all.
“What about the body guard?” I said. "He knows me by sight and my jaw is still swollen from the last time he said hello.”
“Yeah.” She shuffled some papers on her desk. “What’s his name?”
“Soul,” I said. “Xavier Soul.”
She said. “He’s the big black albino that works as his point man, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He's good at making points.” I rubbed my jaw. “And he really loves his work.”
My real name is Caesar, Caesar Assets. Just so you know. But most people call me Dumbo. I’m what you’d call a trouble-shooter. “So what’s my strategy, here, Helen?”
Helen looked out the window. “I need you to get her to like you, and follow you out, in 30 seconds.”
“What about expenses? I’ll need a little cash to grease the wheels of seduction.”
“You want expenses? Here’s a little something for your troubles.” She turned around and gave me the middle finger. “You still owe me 3 grand for bailing you out of that little mess with the hockey team.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “I forgot about that.” I still had a bruise on my back in the shape of a hockey stick.
“You got a bad memory, Dumbo. That’s one of your best assets. No expenses. You’re doing this as a favor. You pull her out of that mess, and I’ll wipe the slate clean. Are we clear on that?”
“Sure, Helen. Sure. This one’s on me.”
Next day, there I am, standing by the elevator.
Rita approaches the elevator and looks me over. “Hey,” she says.”
“Hi,” I say. “What’s a nice girl like you, etc., etc.”
“What makes you think I’m a nice girl? You blind or something? I got green lips.”
“Green’s my favorite color,” I say. “Same color as money.”
She looks me up and down. “How would you know?”
The lift arrives with an annoying ding. We get on and she pushes the top button. We rocket to the top floor so fast I have no time to turn on the charm. That stupid bell rings again and the doors slide open. And what d’ya know, there’s old Xavier. His fists are the size of basketballs, only three times as hard. Maybe it’s just an illusion, as I don’t see it until it’s a half an inch from my right eye. Boom!
When I come to, I’m lying on the floor of the elevator with my head in Rita’s lap. The elevator is dropping so fast my stomach feels like it’s having an out-of-body experience.
“Nice move, Bozo.” She says. “Where’d you learn to fight, kindergarten?”
“The name’s Dumbo,” I said, still a little dazed.
“Dumbo,” she says. “You ever think about changing your name?”
“All the time.” I start to sit up when that stupid bell rings again. Ding!
“I’m all right,” I say, as I stagger to my feet.
“No your not. You’re bleeding all over my brand new breasts. I’d better get you to the hospital.”
Next day, Helen shows up at the hospital. “Nice job, Dumbo. Way to use your head.”
The Bully Pulpit
I was always big for my age.
I towered over all the other kids in school. I was the size of the fourth graders when I was in the second grade. By the time I was in the third grade, most of the sixth graders were afraid of me, and those that weren’t, didn’t really want to mess with me.
I thought I was cool, and courageous.
By the seventh grade I was huge. All the coaches and teachers urged me to try out for the football team, or wrestling. But that didn’t interest me. It wasn’t physical activity or violence I enjoyed. It was power. The power I felt at striking fear into the hearts of others.
By the ninth grade, I found I could even scare adults. This opened up a whole new world of opportunities for me. I was still a juvenile too. I had more than my share of ‘contacts’ with the police. But in most cases, you can’t be arrested for scaring people. Besides, I rarely hurt anyone, at least, not too badly.
It was funny, and fun.
At the beginning of my tenth year in school, I was the big shit. I was top dog. I lorded it over everyone, including the teachers. I had people paying for my lunch, carrying my books, doing my homework, polishing my shoes; I had it made.
Some people think, and I know this, because I hear people talk, some people think that it’s my parents fault. ‘It’s his upbringing,’ they say. Or ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ I know what that means. But the fact is, my parents don’t believe how bad I am. They’re nice, honest, caring people. How they ever conceived a kid like me, I’ll never know. But I used it to my advantage. That’s what kind of person I am.
Then a funny thing happened. This puny little Chinese kid transferred into our school. That’s the way I saw him, and that’s what I called him. ‘Hey, you puny, little Chink. Where do you think you’re going?’ I blocked his exit from the bathroom: My usual method for quickly extracting a few bucks from the uninitiated. I leaned in close to him, ‘How much money you got, Chinko?’
And he says, “What you want to know for, Chunky?” I mean, you talk about lighting a fuse with a blowtorch. I was ready to put his head thru the wall. When I reached out to grab him, he grabbed my arm, and made me hit myself with my own, ham-like fist. Then he hit me with his feet: Both of them. I saw stars.
He knocked me unconscious. When I came to, all the kids I’d bullied for years were standing over me, laughing and pointing at me. And when I got mad and stood up, none of them were scared. The little chink was now their hero. We faced off, but I’d already had enough and made some lame excuse about having to get to class. Everyone laughed again. It was embarrassing. I was humiliated. I had no recourse. I couldn’t complain to the faculty, I’d been bullying most of them, too. The little Chinese guy was everyone’s salvation, from me.
I still had two more years till graduation. The little Chinese guy became my tormentor. He would make me step aside whenever we crossed paths in the hall or entered a classroom thru the same door. Now he was the bully and I was the victim. I learned what it was like to come to school everyday and fear for my physical safety. I understood what it felt like to be a victim, to be humbled in front of others. It changed my life forever. I learned the meaning of empathy and it gave me something in common with the rest of humanity. Until then, I knew nothing better.