Sunday, August 27, 2006
New Beginning 91
A leather-clad, frying pan-sized hand slithers over Abraham Lincoln’s mouth. His eyes snap open. Abe can’t remember having ever gone from such a deep sleep to complete awareness so quickly, but a creepy, huge hand will have that effect. When his eyes finally focus, and adjust to the moonlit room, Abe sees a mustachioed face, and presumed owner of the leather-clad hand, creeping down toward him.
“Don’t struggle or scream or we’ll kill you,” the man whispers, his mouth inches from Abe’s face. He is pressing his hand firmly, but not harshly, over Abe’s mouth. The man has a creamy coffee smooth voice, and the hot breath seeping into Abe’s nostrils smells strongly of tuna fish. He does not know why, but the odor is calming. “Do you understand?”
Abe nods and lets his eyes drift over the mustachioed man’s shoulder. Standing behind the man, barely distinguishable in the shadows, is a woman with shoulder length hair and a black patch covering her right eye socket. Her left eye is probing Abe with such intrusiveness that he feels like he’s at a proctology exam. Her skin is so pale that her face looks like the floating glow-in-the-dark skull of a pirate. This too, is oddly calming.
The woman produces a strip of fine, glistening cloth. One moment she's pressing it firmly under Abe’s nose, and in the next she's ripping it away with a swift, powerful yank.
Through the pain, Abe sees her press the other side of the cloth onto her own lip, mounting her magnificent prize there, and now he realizes who these people are. The Mustache Pirates. Inexplicably, this realization is somehow calming.