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Who wants to write a sailing based noire film


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#1 Mastadon

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Posted 06 December 2012 - 03:42 AM

Fuck, it's winter in New York, sailing-wise. We all spend a lot of time watching Weido and the Vendee. Maybe it's the wine combined with old Volvo race vids and Strikeback on demand, but I wanna see a 40's-50's style hardcore film noire with more sailing than gunplay. And Nicole Kidman can come, too. I got this so far...

(Voiceover) All I wanted was to die at sea, but as soon as I decided to live for a while, she showed up. I had taken a job delivering a boat across a stretch of water that no one in their right mind would sail, but the client wasn't looking for someone in their right mind, and neither was I. They got me, and I got her.

Scene- Late night on a pier with signs in English, French and Arabic. At the dark end of a floating dock is a large, well-dressed man using his fedora to shadow his face while his compatriot hangs back in the deeper shadows. As our hero approaches, grunting under the weight of his laundry that passes for his sailing gear, he says

Mr.Macguinness. Would you like to inspect the yacht"

I have a three day hangover and a twenty day delivery. Do you have an envelope?

This way, sir.

#2 Bump-n-Grind

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Posted 06 December 2012 - 04:24 AM

btw, call me Mac, my father was Mr. MacGuinness.

We descended the companionway ladder into a spacious salon. To starboard was an elaborately equipped nav station.
Just aft of the chart table seat was a cozy little pilot berth, into which I tossed my bag.

#3 Snaggletooth

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Posted 06 December 2012 - 04:32 AM

She never licke when I didde that, butte she settellede in. "Any Cup O Noodelles on borde?" I asked withe a smille.

#4 Bump-n-Grind

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Posted 06 December 2012 - 05:06 AM

No Mac, I dont believe there are, but I'll have the chef bring you down some dinner after you get the rest of your gear stored.
Is there anything else I can get for you this evening? If not, let me show you around the boat. The gun locker is behind the chart plotter.

#5 Nettles

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Posted 06 December 2012 - 11:04 AM

Looks a little small, what's it got in it? Why do I smell diesel?

#6 yowie

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Posted 06 December 2012 - 12:04 PM

There was fresh-cleaned brass and cedar and ash trimmed paneling.
She showed me a pair of pristine Mae Wests, "For emergency use only, Mac,' she said, her hair shimmering in the kero lantern.
She spoke with a lilt like a yacht bumping against a pier.
This boat.
This pier.
And now mine for twenty days. "If you need to get your hands on them in a hurry, they're above my bunk."
She pointed to the port bunk just visible through the open cedar door and a hammock oscillating slightly above it.
It was only then I noticed her hand, alabaster- no hint of sun, resting lightly on the curved pump handle.
Where was this frail from? What was the game?

#7 bugger

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Posted 06 December 2012 - 02:56 PM

On the salon table a large chart was unrolled. It was kept flat by a book placed on each corner. The titles of three of these books were "A pilot guide to Turkey", "Learn to Speak Swedish", and "Diesel Maintenance". The cover of the fourth book had been removed.

The chart showed the eastern seaboard of the north Atlantic Ocean from Canada to to South America. A number of passages had been plotted on this chart. The most obvious ones seemed to be amongst various Caribbean islands and small ports in the southern US.

#8 fyschebone

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Posted 06 December 2012 - 03:31 PM

http://www.imdb.com/...599/plotsummary
?

#9 A_guy_in_the_Chesapeake

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Posted 06 December 2012 - 04:21 PM



#10 Rum Runner

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Posted 06 December 2012 - 05:58 PM

Fuck, it's winter in New York, sailing-wise. We all spend a lot of time watching Weido and the Vendee. Maybe it's the wine combined with old Volvo race vids and Strikeback on demand, but I wanna see a 40's-50's style hardcore film noire with more sailing than gunplay. And Nicole Kidman can come, too. I got this so far...

(Voiceover) All I wanted was to die at sea, but as soon as I decided to live for a while, she showed up. I had taken a job delivering a boat across a stretch of water that no one in their right mind would sail, but the client wasn't looking for someone in their right mind, and neither was I. They got me, and I got her.

Scene- Late night on a pier with signs in English, French and Arabic. At the dark end of a floating dock is a large, well-dressed man using his fedora to shadow his face while his compatriot hangs back in the deeper shadows. As our hero approaches, grunting under the weight of his laundry that passes for his sailing gear, he says

Mr.Macguinness. Would you like to inspect the yacht"

I have a three day hangover and a twenty day delivery. Do you have an envelope?

This way, sir.


Any porn in the movie? That's the only reason to but a ticket.

#11 Bump-n-Grind

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Posted 06 December 2012 - 06:53 PM

I wondered why I would need to know where the gun locker was. I pondered this for a few minutes, then pondered the pounding in my head
and asked "ok so the gun locker is here, where is the gin locker?" I really didn't like gin, but is was spelled almost the same as gun, just one letter different. Why do I think about things like ... oh never mind.. "

#12 Great Red Shark

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Posted 06 December 2012 - 08:30 PM

Needs more fog, and foreboding.

I wasn't worried until I noticed all the Warren Zevon titles in the music library, "The tide will be with us in the morning" I said wearily, hoping for a few hour's sleep to clear my head after the crazy events of the evening.

"We should get underway as soon as possible" was her reply,- "I don't mind your gunpowder aftershave."

#13 yowie

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Posted 07 December 2012 - 04:20 AM

Mist condensed and dripped off the springers; black water sucking and popped in the late-night quiet.
Quiet like you could imagine the sound of crabs sharpening their claws for a fresh-meat meal.

The chart sprung into a roll as the fourth book opened in my hand, a signed, first edition Mein Kampf.
'Time to go', I looked up. She nodded without shifting her gaze from my hands.

It was just after the top of the tide and pitch black 0400 as cold wet,coils of hemp splashed aboard.
Pushing the bow out into the tide as I stepped aboard, we slipped silently seaward, no sails or engine.
No bow-wave, no reflection.
The sea opened out before us. Black on black, just like her eyes.

#14 mustang__1

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Posted 07 December 2012 - 05:40 AM

ok, yowie, that was fucking funny with the Mein Kamf thing - caught me totally off guard.

carry on with the thread, this is good.

#15 jerseyguy

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Posted 07 December 2012 - 05:41 AM

It was a dark and stormy night
Suddenly, a shot rang out
Meanwhile, the young Prince. . . . .

#16 Left Hook

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Posted 07 December 2012 - 05:44 AM

the bright, unmoving, uncaring eyes of empty brick buildings were the only witnesses to our silent escape. They stared unceasingly through us, almost as if contemplating a funeral procession or prison execution.

#17 BrianM

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Posted 07 December 2012 - 06:04 PM

We'd cleared the harbor. The broad hadn't been on deck since we slipped our lines.

Sitting in the cockpit watching the sun try to rise. It seemed unwilling, like it felt guilty to show its face. After all the things the ungrateful world had done to me in the last few days, I agreed.

By now I had eight slugs in me. Seven were gin. Did I mention that I hate gin? The eighth one was lead, a present from the last dame I tried to make part of my life. Thank god she wasn't stalking me any more. Too bad she couldn't swi...never mind.

#18 Ajax

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Posted 07 December 2012 - 07:10 PM

Thread of the year. I love this place!

#19 Beau.Vrolyk

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Posted 07 December 2012 - 09:23 PM

As Mac nursed his hangover with a gin soaked sunrise, a thousand miles away a filthy crew secured the tackle of an ancient crane they'd been using all night. "Juan, you think they'll make Florida in that piece of shit?"

Squinting into the dawn, unable to make out the shape of the rotting fishing boat they'd been loading, Juan mumbled: "Stupid to haul a load like that in one run. The boat'll make it." Then mostly to himself. "What a waste. Better to break the load down, fill a lot of pangas, at least some of them would get through." Then after dropping the last coil of rope on the pier, "We can go buy that boat in Miami at the DEA auction next month, then sell it to another stupid fuck."

Putting the sun behind them the crew walked heavily up the pier, it had been a long hot night, a heavy cargo, too much work, too little money. They didn't notice the rusting van parked in front of O'Donnelly's as they headed into the bar for beer and breakfast. Sean never saw a thing, or so he'd tell the cops, as the crew crawled into the bar, blood pouring from the bullet holes the 45 had put into their backs.

The Marjorie T cleared the harbor mouth and headed north as the last blood oozed from the only witnesses who had seen her cargo. Through the grime of fish guts on the wheelhouse windows he stared across the empty windless ocean. The battered Detroit Diesel howled and wailed below his feet pushing the ugly overburdened boat through the oil smooth gray water, its wake a solitary wave reaching out to the horizon.

It was times like this when he thought about her. Thought about those dark eyes. Those lips. What she could do with those lips..... It was over, she was gone, working for some rich ass up north. The jealousy crawled through him like maggots. His hands crushed the pegs on the wheel. He'd kill him. Once he'd run this load of crap in, he'd be done with this work. He'd walk away. He could do it. He didn't use the shit he just hauled it. At least that's what he kept telling himself. Sure he used a little of it, but he could quit. Anytime, anytime he could quit. No problem.

The Marjorie T left a streak of oil on the water in her wake and a trail of . The sun climbed, heating the slime of fish that covered her. Her skipper stood still and silent at the wheel, lost in the hate that had owned him for years. The course was as straight as a highway in Nevada - straight towards Mac.

#20 nolatom

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Posted 07 December 2012 - 10:00 PM

The morning watch.

I recalled my training on the old schooners--"You can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning".

My old teachers would've been proud, the marks on the compass were a blur. Intercardinal points were close enough, the voyage was young. This baby steered herself anyway, just like every dame I'd gotten mixed up with. What's one more?

#21 dacapo

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Posted 07 December 2012 - 11:00 PM

as I sat there, my gaze transfixed upon the binnacle, watching the compass slowly turn to the left as I eased the wheel over. A sudden shudder washed over my body as i thought about the events that had transpired last night.

#22 bugger

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Posted 08 December 2012 - 03:43 PM

The evening started out like most evenings. A combination of alcohol, poor judgement and low standards.

(yeah, I copied that from somewhere, but can't remember where).

#23 Timo42's sockpuppet

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Posted 08 December 2012 - 05:50 PM

I looked up and hanging above the radio equipment I spied a greek fisherman's hat, a sudden chill came over me...was it the dt's or was it DT?

#24 Dude

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Posted 08 December 2012 - 06:04 PM

As the sun raised above the horizon so did the wind and swell, the boat was rolling from rail to rail. The smell of rotting fish and diesel had made its way up to the flybridge and was making me sick. The autopilot would not hold the boat on course, I needed to remove my jacket and take a leak. After slowing the Marjorie T down she rolled violently and the sounds of breaking glass could be heard from the salon. From down in the engine room the chefs voice could be heard, "Who in the fuck is driving this beast?" Staggering down from the flybride, I worked myself into the cockpit and leaned up next to the bait tank. A sigh of relieve came as I was finally able to unbutton my jeans and pee off the port side. As I looked up, a fast moving ponga was moving directly for the Marjorie T, then suddenly the the port side salon window exploded from automatic gun fire.

#25 Timo42's sockpuppet

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Posted 09 December 2012 - 03:02 AM

Meanwhile, on a rotting hulk moored in a back bay on Long Island, a shadowy figure emerges from the dank cabin...

#26 Bump-n-Grind

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Posted 09 December 2012 - 04:27 AM

Capt. Wallbridge had been working all night on their departure plans and needed some air. The Bounty hoped to meet up with the Anne and the Marjorie T off Diamond Shoals near Cape Hatteras. "I guess we're off to chase another hurricane" he muttered under his breath as climbed up on the fantail.

#27 DRIFTW00D

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Posted 09 December 2012 - 05:45 AM

Silently the departures were noted into the National archive of Home Land Security .

By a silent drone cursing 4000 ft above the Southern Coast. Yes an intrusion into foreign air space. The new stealth long ranger had the coast covered. Day and night . An agreement between nations made it possible The boats were going under water to avoid tracking but this old tub the Marjorie Tjust seemed to be going fishing AGAIN.

The other in an ipad linked the the HLS Secure border log by sleepy Dave sitting in a cold RCMP SUV on the Canadian coast. Every day his day was the same sitting, watching,calling in and worrying about a transfer to the southern Saskatchewan boarder , Far from home and the North Atlanyic he loved to sail on. Cuts were comming a jobs a job. He just shook his head so many years here and he would be leaving.

There she was," had some real problems still" the yard boys said. but time was up and out she went! She looked nice and shiny he thought, the yard made her look as good as they could. His brother inlaw shipwright working on her wondered about the season being late and all. "Why would a fool take that a half fixed old movie prop out this time of year? Times up thats why! The home office said get her out" and out she went into her element.

#28 Bump-n-Grind

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Posted 09 December 2012 - 05:48 AM

deja vu

deja vu

#29 Ishmael

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Posted 09 December 2012 - 06:17 AM

He remembered the Saskatchewan boarder well, a surly young man with a hint of a limp. His sister was a half-breed, half white and half Ukrainian.
Sitting in the dark, damp cockpit of the RCMP boat, waiting for the evening run of hockey bags full of weed to roar by, he stifled a yawn and listened to the radio crackle.

#30 DRIFTW00D

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Posted 10 December 2012 - 01:19 AM

enter - send the ipad screen flashed received and noted the log time and date.

The Marjorie T file red flagged the bot programs that look for hits in the area. An automated system scanned the thousand of hits sea birds,floating logs, turtles anything larger than flying fish got its photo file looked at. The low radar profile boats really semi subs were out there and getting through.


The harvest from Afghanistan was in transit. Talkers on the street were silent about this "big harvest going out" . Just watched it go by / down the Road. The men with the long beards controlled the poppy crop now. U lived or starved on the money. Now as ever the farmers cash crop. This was only the latest war about who controlled the profit from these fields. With the US troops heading home farmers were smiling again. Life was as it always had been in the hard land. Fine black seeds sat in jars in safe places behind the stone walls the farmers called home, wanting the warn soil of spring. The land white with flowers now gone waited.. The cold and snow of late fall were on the fields ..

#31 yowie

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Posted 10 December 2012 - 01:30 AM

In a sea for all time and a ship of many times and forms, we were two fools painted lost on an oily ocean.
The sails reduced the rolling.
No land, no sea-life. The only sounds the canvas, patched sails slatting, the peeling timber gaff overhead an admonishing finger swinging port to starboard and back again.
The morning sun already stung my back as I nursed the wheel looking for wind. Like everything, we were short on fuel.
"Storms make me feel so awake, so alive. Don't you agree?", she said, one hand on the companionway to balance while placing a foot over my legs, a musky black butterfly tattoo fluttered noislessly before my eyes.
There was not a cloud, just the memory of tiny beads of perspiration and unrelenting heat.
"What...?", I started to ask, reminded immediately why I prefer my own company, especially in summer.
"When I swim, a storm often will turn up. I am bringing us luck," her words a smoky thousand cigarettes, "and don't lose my place," she inserted a St. Christopher holy card into the plain-covered book and gave it to me. It sat on the teak next to me like a newly-diagnosed psychosis.
With that, she took hold of a line and slid off the transom, bobbing looking darkly at me before rolling over and silently breast-stroking away, her lazy umbilical cord curving behind her.

Of all the crazy dames in all the crazy ports, I had to ship with a broad who tempts man and shark in equal measure.
She reminded me of them all as a tight, inconspicuous white thunder-head pierced the meniscus.


#32 Beau.Vrolyk

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Posted 10 December 2012 - 04:23 AM

Picking himself up off the fish-oil slick deck, shards of glass clattering to the deck his back, he locked his cold furious eyes on the panga that had slowed alongside the Marjorie T. His battered sea coat and Helly Hansens dripped, pooling a disgusting mixture of seawater and fish guts from the lapel, from the cuffs, from his c***. Shit, those chicken shits had caught him with his C*** out!

Without a backward glance he turned towards the cabin door as another burst from the panga clawed bits of wood from the hull, the rail and then the house. He could feel the cabin sides shake as they took the hits. Sliding down the rails alongside the companionway ladder he moved cat-like to the forepeak. Tearing the starboard berth cushion up he pried up the planks, cracking them to splinters. There, in a flat black plastic case, was a Marine Corp 50-cal sniper rifle. Without romance or nostalgia he lifted the heavy rifle and slammed a clip home.

As he lifted his head up through the fore hatch, he could see the panga 25 yards away. Two heavy thugs with AK-47s were looking for targets. Dropping back down into the forward cabin he set his site for the distance and chambered a single giant round. "Who the FUCK is driving this...." the chief shouted as he stepped onto the aft deck. "Shit" he thought, "Damn Chief will get himself killed."

He only had seconds, the AK-47s were swinging towards the chief. He came up through the forward hatch and set the 50-cal on the cap rail in one smooth well-trained movement. His right eye to the scope and his left eye open to pick the shot without hesitation. The thug on the aft end of the panga was the closest to getting the chief. Less than 1.35 seconds later the back side of the first thug exploded as the 50-cal round exited. Click-click-click sent the next round into the breech. He moved the barrel about three degrees to the left. The second thug's skull exploded as the second 50-cal round blew through it.

"Holly FUCK! What the FUCK is going on!! Samson!!! Where the fuck are you? There is a panga out here and someone's shooting the shit out them!!" the Chief bellowed.

Samson was slowly and steadily scanning the panga - looking for movement. Nothing so far, but Samson didn't move. The fish guts and water were still dripping off his coat, running off the tip of his C***, pooling in the forward cabin. Nothing slowed the steady search of the panga through the high-powered scope. Something wasn't right. There would be more of them, there always were.... always. "I wish to fuck i'd been able to pull up my fucking fly!" he thought as he ground his teeth.

Something moved. There was another one over there, another guy hiding in the bowels of the panga, splattered with the brains of his comrades and thinking about how to make his next move. "The engines, he'll try to get going." Samson scanned the controls of the panga with his scope and there it was, a large brown hand. It was reaching up to push the throttles forward; to get the hell out of there. Just as the first finger tips reached the throttles Samson took his shot. His breathing was stopped, just as they'd taught him in Marine Corp sniper school. His body was calm, his heart rate slowing, and he squeezed the trigger. The heavy 50-cal slug took the man's hand off at the wrist. It simply vanished. Samson's last view was spurts of blood squirting from the stump where the man's hand had been. Three shots from the same position, he had to move! They knew where he was.

Samson found the Chief down in the engine room, pale, shaking. "Hey, you damn Jar Head! I'm a submariner Chief. I'm no fucking small arms guy. What the FUCK is going on?""

"Quiet!" Samson hissed at the Chief with a look in his eyes that froze the Chief's bowels that all the gunfire had loosened. Without unlocking his eyes from the Chief's he continued with a sound like a broken steam hose. "When you hear the next round, go to full throttle."

"Skipper," the Chief responded using Sampson's title for the first time in months, what the hell he was carrying a REALLY big gun! "Skipper, who's steering?"

"No one." Samson hissed again, the hostility of the sound filling every corner of the foul cabin.

"Aye aye." answered the Chief, standing a little taller.

"Chief," Samson said in a slightly more normal voice. "We're going to get these Assholes, we're going to kill every one of them. They shot up the Marjorie T!" and then he was gone, aft to the lazerette hatch.

"I hope to God I never piss HIM off." mumbled the Chief to himself as he went to the engine room throttles. "Never Piss Him OFF!" the Chief repeated as a life enabling mantra.

Aboard the new all alloy panga, equipped with four 200HP outboards, the latest GPS and now covered in the blood and brains of her crew, the last crew member had tied a tourniquet around the ugly stump that used to be his left arm, military style. In his right he held his Uzi without flinching, without any sign of pain, just fury at having been maimed by this insulant fisherman. "Who is this fisherman?" he pondered staring at the slowing ooze of blood from his stump. "Who would fight like this? Why not run?"

The two boats were slowly drifting apart, 45 yards now, nearing the end of the effective range of the uzi. But the one-handed drug smuggler didn't dare put his head up to check. Aboard the Marjorie T Samson was constantly scanning the panga for movement through his scope. He knew the one-handed man wasn't dead. He knew if the roles were reversed he would have been a dangerous target, even with only one hand. Then he saw movement. It wasn't any part of the one-handed man, Samson could see the panga move. Something heavy was moving aft.... yes, something was moving to the aft end of the boat.

"He's looking to use the engine blocks on the outboards for cover." Samson evaluated coldly.

Aboard the panga the last smuggler had almost made it to the transom... his destroyed arm was killing him... he was shutting it out of his mind... he would wait for his opponent hidden between the mass of the engine blocks. They were his only cover.

"Chief" shouted Samson.

"Sir?"

"Forget what I said, go to full throttle."

"Aye aye, Skipper.

The Detroit Diesel screamed as it was revved up to full power. Samson, still standing in the lazarette, felt the Marjorie T accelerate and felt the mass of her hull and cargo, ten or twenty times as heavy as the panga. Still, there was no movement aboard the panga. Ducking below the deck and aft Samson grabbed the steering cables and tore them from the quadrant. Bracing his back agains a frame on the starboard side he pushed the quadrant with his legs and started turning the fishing boat towards the panga.

A pop, pop, pop rang out from above decks, bits of wood and glass rattled down on the aft deck and the fishing boat turned. The last smuggler was firing now, he knew what was going to happen.

Unable to see exactly where the panga was from the back of the boat, Samsom strained to put the steering cables back on the quadrant. It wasn't working. The tensioning springs were just too strong. "Skipper!" shouted the Chief, appearing at the aft hatch. "Get up and just tell me where to go. I'll steer from here!" He was a small very pissed off guy who wanted to take out that last smuggler.

Without a word Samson slipped up on the aft deck with his rifle. The Chief, with his head and shoulders protruding from hatch, stood with one foot braced against the keel and one on the quadrant, a Captain Ahab going after his own whale. The building wind blowing the small scraps of hair he still had across his brow.

Keeping the deckhouse between himself and the panga, Samson moved forward. "Pop, Pop, Pop" the rounds from the uzi, chipped small pieces off of the Marjorie T and infuriating Samson. Climbing up to the flying bridge, Samson crept up one eye above the railing, the panga was a little to starboard. "Two points to Starboard if you please Mr. Bush!" rang out across the aft deck.

"Aye aye Captain Hornblower. You dumb fuck!" the Chief responded with a broad grin. "Just kill the fucking bastard you idiot!"

As the Marjorie T turned to starboard, bearing down on the panga, Samson went completely calm. There was no need for drama now, no need for hollywood action, just death. "Steady as she goes if you please Mr. Bush"

"Right you crazy fuck! I'll steer straight." the broad grin on the Chief's face said two words: Pay Back.

As the forefoot of the Marjorie T struck the panga and started to rise, Samson could hear curses in Spanish from the one handed man. Then the groaning of bending alloy, the coughing of the motors as each was submerged, and the grinding as the body of the panga beneath the keel of the damaged Marjorie T. Her keel, still strong and covered in the slime of thousands of sea miles, rode up over the newly minted wealth of the drug smugglers and drove it deep beneath the surface.

"Get your head down!" Samson shouted aft as the Chief strained to see what was left of the panga. As certain as taxes a few last shots rang out from the water as the dying smuggler emptied the magazine of his uzi from the water. A stray round tore through Samson's thigh.

"Fuck! I haven't had a tetanus shot." was all that passed through Samson's mind as he pulled his belt off to clamp a piece of clean t-shirt over the wound.

The Chief brought the Marjorie T's engine back to an idle and set about repairing the steering. Then, sitting and smoking a foul French cigarette on the aft deck he watched as the one handed man tried to tread water. After a while, the guy sunk a few times, then didn't come up again.... gone. "Fuck you" hailed the Chief, "May you rot in hell!"

Samson was passed out on the bridge, blood seeping from his leg wound. It was probably worse than he thought. Damn it!

#33 Tucky

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Posted 10 December 2012 - 03:04 PM

Damn, Beau, you are good at this.

#34 DRIFTW00D

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Posted 18 December 2012 - 06:50 AM

'holes?? Yikes!!! BULLETHOLES!!' as the sun light of the line that traced its way toward her head got closer. In one arching movement her body was out of the berth and prone naked on to the deck. Instinct took over as the louder single Pops over head answered back. Not the best way to wake up after the slow rocking swell and the water slipping by had let her drift off to dream that night. 'Something about that guy?'

"Yes mister RAT I'm here on the deck with u,." ' Of course this place has rats, Great! ' She felt the swing of the hull as it turned. Then the deck lurched up and heard the keel grind over something. As the sound above stopped and the boat slowed she pushed up off the deck. She grabbed her robe, ran up the hatch to find the bright hot sun that hit her shin and blinded her eyes.

"Good morning!! We didnt wake U did we." The Chief smiled a toothy grin. "Now go and help lover boy over there. I think hes just a little hurt, passed out, never did liked the sight of his own blood."

"What was that all about? what a mess! Ouch" Looking down at the glass covered deck she stood on.

This blue sea seemed still in a cloudless sky. Around them the call of seabirds, the smell of gas, oil and guns filled the air. The oil patch where the outboard sank marked the wake. Birds were landing on the floating bodies already pecking at their eyes as the calls of fresh food sent others winging their way to fight the first scavengers. A very light breeze moved the smoke of the gun fight away as it rose above them.

Worried about their new friends floating near by being missed and others coming had the chief working fast, sweating and hot 'TO DAMMED HOT' he thought.

'Hot Dam HOT 'was just the way she looked to him on the sun baked deck. "U OK?"

#35 Kapteeni Kalma

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Posted 27 December 2012 - 11:51 AM

Bobby´s yacht was waiting for them in the dock. Bobby said barely nothing while they went aboard, and he had a new helmsman, crouching man, who put the yacht moving instantly, and headed towards Villefrance.
"I thought that we would go eating in that nice place at Promenade des Anglais", Ashford uttered and started to tremble. When Bobby didn´t answer, his trembling got worse.
"Bobby, what it is?" he asked and then, foolishly,
"What have I done?"
The yacht left the shore and in the dusk Bobby turned around and hit Ashford with a fist to the mouth again and again. Yacht speeded and it´s helmsman, Pucelli, smirked. Bobby might be a queer, but at least he could hit.


-modified after James Munro novel




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