Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal (21 page)

It was not the god Sunoco who surfaced off the shore of the
small spit of land in Bill’s Triangle. It was a submarine. Once
the tower cleared the surface, the hatch opened and out popped
the head of Captain James J. Knucz, commander of the United
States Navy Second Fleet’s Operation Bludgeon—the object of
the Bludgeoning being yours truly.
“Relax, Gus,” said Mutherford, “I e-mailed Knucz during
the whale ride. All charges against you have been dropped.”
In my dreams, I would’ve savored the sunset on the
beach of a remote tropical island such as this with Sybil in my
arms, but, as it turned out, I ended up instead embracing H.C.
Mutherford.
Incidentally, Knucz would’ve gotten to us way sooner
except his fleet had shot down Dealer Dan’s F-15—this is why
Dan couldn’t reach the pilot when the Georgette was sinking.
While Knucz was waiting for his superiors in Norfolk to sign
the request he’d faxed up for authorization to arrest the pilot,
the pilot activated his exploding shorts, which Sybil had made,
and escaped. No sooner did Knucz show up on the island, Dan
vanished too. Knucz’s men asked about him. Funny, none of my
crew or me or Sybil had any idea where he might’ve gone to.
The real villain was another story. Thanks to Moses’s
testimony (in exchange for which Moses will have immunity),
Mutherford got an extradition order for one Ricardo Adolph
Vurman. Last night Mutherford, Moses, and Knucz flew up to
Mendocino, California, in a Navy jet with Vurman darbied and
bound from his boots to his soufflé-like head. Moses celebrated
with a glass of club soda.
Nelson, Flarq, Thesaurus, Duq, George, Sybil and me
boarded the USS James Polk, bound for Conch. The ship’s
physician said Bob would not be permitted to board due to
Navy health restrictions. At that, Flarq lowered his brow an
unprecedented half an inch. The doc suddenly remembered a
loophole in the Navy health restrictions.
Once at sea, we meant to celebrate with wine or beer
but instead celebrated with instant noodles. This was my fault.
When I sent him to the canteen with our remaining funds, I’d
told George to get wine or beer.
During this trip to Conch, sharing a cabin with Sybil,
I’ve been given even more reasons to love her. Among others, I
learned she doesn’t snore. When we get to Conch, we may get
married and I may become King—we’ll have to see.
My first order of business is to ensure that Dickhead is
restored to health. Flarq made a salve out of seaweed that’ll
protect the whale’s wounds from infection. Before he left, Moses
also made medicine from some plants he found. After taking
it, Dickhead seemed in much better spirits. He’s in a specially
rigged-up harness now, being towed by our ship. As it happens,
the whale hospital on Conch is the best in the world. My luck
finally seems to have turned.

Although we’re still in the Caribbean, there appears to be an iceberg ahead…

This book wouldn’t have left the dock without Gus Openshaw’s
digital shipmates, the bloggers who took part in the hunt via
the internet, offering support, advice, navigational aid, and
in one case, access to NASA satellite feed to help locate the
blubbery bastard. They are: Annie, Bard Sinister, Bastardess,
Blueberry, Mrs. Blubridge, JCanuck, Trish Cavendish, Edna,
Hester, Horny Ken, Oracle Ken, Smart Ken, KJ4ever, Labsnabys,
Leibniz, Myrtle Mertie, Tallulah Plankhead, Walken T. Planque,
PrincessR9, Puzzled, Ed R, Rabid_Roach, Rancette, Red
Raspberry, Rubber Duckie, Sea-Rover, Snuggs, Strawberry,
Syphillitic Sailor, Trillian, Waxwing, and WendyfromChicago.
Anywhere in the World Wide Web you folks drop anchor, Gus
has got your rum tab.
Also, a boatload of thanks goes to the following for their analog
contributions: Richard Abate, Scott Allen, Anne Barten, Julie
Burton, Sean Desmond, Michael Dyer, Kate Lee, Melanie
Mitchell, Kathy O’Reilly, David Poindexter, Nick Reed, Jamie
Riehle, the usual Shepards and Thomsons, Dorothy Carico
Smith, and our bold navigator Jason Wood.