A Cold Night (Pt. 3)

Well, there goes any chance of him being interested in me. Look at the crazy Asian snooping through the photos under the mirror while he hooks up the car, desperate to see if he's a keeper because that's a valid concern before I ask him to fuck me in the backseat. Okay, maybe he doesn’t know all that. Stop it, Rachel.

“Sorry, they all kind of fell out and I was trying to put them all back but they . . .”

Goddamn it, now I just sound more crazy.

“Um . . . Ok. Here, I'll just throw them in the glove box.”

Of course when he takes the pictures from me, while I sit there hoping he doesn't notice how red my face is, I mean really, it's just the cold, I notice he's got big hands. You know what they say about that. Gotta keep it together. Must be the cold getting to me. That and the full moon. It's a full moon right?

“I got the car all hooked up. Dispatch said your address was over in Marietta? 2150 Indiana Ave, right?”

“Yes. I mean, yeah that's it. I can give you directions.”

“Thanks, but I know that side of town pretty well. I had an ex-girlfriend that lived over there. I mean, a long time ago. It might've changed. Yeah, you should give me directions. Yeah.”

Is he stammering? He is. Maybe he thinks I'm cute. I mean, I am pretty cute. And he's a tow truck driver so his standards are probably pretty low.

“So what's the thing with pineapples?”

* * *

“Maam? Can I help you?”

The hell? She may be cute but maybe this girl is a nut job. What the hell is she doing looking through my photos. I mean, they may just be random crap but really. . . Maybe she's a psycho who pretends to break down and then fucks with the tow guy. But I did see that busted radiator house when I popped the hood and damn if there wasn't antifreeze all over the place.

“Sorry, they all kind of fell out and I was trying to put them all back but they . . .”

Oh. Why am I over thinking all this so much? Just a simple mistake. She was probably just curious anyway and that means that she's curious about me. Good sign. Means maybe she's interested after all. And a possible nut job. Oh well, they're usually better in the sack anyway. Not that that's all I'm thinking about. And now I've just been staring at her for like a whole minute.

“Um . . . Ok. Here, I'll just throw them in the glove box.”

But her knees are in the way of the glove box and when she pulls them away I see that she's blushing like crazy. It's really cute on her though and I have to admit I get a little tingle when I reach past her knees in those skinny leg pants and see that underneath all those layers she's actually pretty petite. Man, I hope she's not a nut job. Let's see what she says on the ride.

“I got the car all hooked up. Dispatch said your address was over in Marietta? 2150 Indiana Ave, right?”

“Yes. I mean, yeah that's it. I can give you directions.”

“Thanks, but I know that side of town pretty well. I had an ex-girlfriend that lived over there.” Goddamn it, Ian! Never bring up an ex girlfriend when you're talking to a new girl! I mean, she's just a AAA pick up but fuck now I sound like I'm not interested and fucking A. Fix it. “I mean, a long time ago. It might've changed. Yeah, you should give me directions. Yeah.”

Bad save but at least we both sound like nut jobs now. She's still blushing over there at any rate, and now we're driving off with that yellow Mercedes bouncing around on the flatbed out back. Still curious about that.

“So what's the thing with pineapples?”

“Um, what?”

* * *

“I mean, when all the pictures fell out and I picked them up and I saw a picture of this couple and at the bottom it said, 'Pineapples, am I right?' and I just wondered what that meant. I mean, I was curious.”

Like I don't sound like a retard now with all that pouring out of me. Good going. Guess I won't get to squeeze that cute butt after all.

“Oh,” He's laughing though. It sounds nice, like it comes from deep in his chest and somehow it accents his manliness when it does. Or maybe it's just the mountain man beard. “It's just this thing we had back in college, me and Eric. My friend in the picture I mean.”

He's looking at me and he's smiling and maybe he doesn't think I'm weird after all. “It's kind of juvenile I guess, but we used to joke about calling tits, err breasts, pineapples, and when he met Carol we were at a bar and when she walked by he said 'Nice pineapples on that one, eh?' So when they got married it was just kind of silly, you know? Just college stuff.”

“No, it's cute. She did have nice pineapples, anyway. I'll start calling them that too.”

Of course mine are more the size of tangerines but hey, girls from China can only ask for so much. Maybe he'll like 'em anyway. Brian never did so it'd be nice if someone appreciated them. He always wanted me to buy a bigger pair of pineapples but this guy, I don't think he'd be that way. Especially since I keep catching him checking me out and trying to hide it.

“So, you like knitting?”

“Not that I was spying on your or anything. I just noticed the stuff in the back seat when I was hooking the truck up to that pretty ass of yours.”

Did he really just say that? Yes he did.

“I mean, your car. Hooking the truck up to your car. Your Mercedes I mean, I like your car. It's really cool. I mean I like old Mercedes, and it's a cool color and--” And I'm laughing my ass off.

“It's okay. I'll take that as a compliment. Yours is pretty nice too, you know.”

And of course we're there before we know it. I guess I didn't realize how close I was to home when I broke down. I almost could have walked here.

* * *

“Um, is this the address?”

“Yeah, that's my house. I didn't realize we were so close though. And conversation was just getting interesting too.”

Interesting? Yeah, embarrassing too. This girl is getting me all mixed up, but I kind of like it.

“Yeah, yeah it was.” I smile at her but that's about all I can do. This is the part where I usually fail miserably anyway. “Let me just go unload the car.”

And there went my chance. And now I have to go back out into the freezing ass cold and undo her car so she can go do whatever it is she does and I can go home alone. Good one, Ian. Good one.

“All done. I managed to get the car in the driveway pretty well for you, hope it's alright.”

“Yeah, it looks good.” I guess she took off another layer while I was getting the car undone. I swear I couldn't see cleavage before. “Ian, I know this must be a long terrible night for you. Would you like to come up and I'll make you some hot tea? We can talk about pineapples some more. . .”

Wait, what? Is this really happening . . . Maybe being a tow truck driver isn't so bad after all.

“That would be amazing! God knows I love Chinese teas too. I mean, I'm just coming off shift too.”

Woah, curb your enthusiasm there boy. And of course I'm scheduled another four hours but damn, I'll make something up tomorrow. Fuck Bubba anyway, I swear she just winked when she got down out of the truck.

* * *

I promise I don't do this all the time. Inviting tow truck drivers up to my apartment, I mean, but really he seems like such a nice guy. And that thing they say about big hands . . . Well, let's just say that in Ian Boyd's case, they're right.

A Cold Night (Pt. 2)

We’re gonna do it. Goddammit. Why is that that first thing I think of? Alright, I’m being too hard on myself; it’s not the first thing I think of but it’s one of them. But man I have a thing for well taken care of beards. And beautiful blue eyes…

And I mean really. Why? Why did an image of him plowing into me real hard in my back seat seem the least bit sexy? Because it does. Girls who go at it in the back seat of their cars are pretty skanky. Unless they’ve been with the guy… or girl, I don’t judge… for a while. If you’ve stuck it out long enough, go forth and christen every surface of your home or motor vehicle.

He raises an eyebrow. I must have been spacing out. I roll down the window. “Um, yeah, I’m Rachel. You the AAA guy?”

He smiles and nods. Damn. Nice teeth. That’s a plus. “Yes. My name is Ian Boyd…”

Hm, Rachel Boyd has a nice ring to it…

“… err, you’ve had some engine trouble tonight, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” The layers of clothing might make me appear fatter than I am. My sister said eating too much salt makes the skin under your chin hang longer making it look like you’ve got a double chin. Do I look like that right now? I am not obese. I may not like the way I look in a bikini but I rock a halter one-piece like it’s no one’s business.

“Alright I’m going to pull up the truck and hook you up- err hook up your car that is and get us out of here.”

Wait, did he say hook me up?

“If you’ll step out, ‘maam, you can sit in the truck with me to get you all settled tonight.”
I smile. “Oh, okay.”

I’m sitting in the front seat of his tow truck, heat blasting because stepping outside for one second felt like being a member of the Polar Bear club. Still, it’s a nice view because I’m not-so-shamelessly checking out his butt.

I look around the dash of his truck. There’s a photo sticking out of the pull down mirror. He’s not looking and I pull it down. A bunch of other photos come spilling out too of course. I gather them up and check again. Good, he’s not looking.

Aw, there’s a few with a dog. Looks like a mutt- maybe a rescue. Good, animal lover. One with an older gentlemen. They look alike. Guessing that’s his dad or his uncle. Full head of hair that’s nice. Bald wouldn’t be a deal breaker, but nothing to shake a stick at either. Then there’s a wedding thank you card. Ian’s all dressed up with rolled up sleeves and a grey tweed vest next to a black couple, the bride and groom. ‘Best. Best-Man. Ever. Thanks so much from Carol and me. Love ya Ian … PS Pineapples, am I right?!‘ Aw that’s so cute! Wait! That is one sick Tibetan tiger tattoo he’s got branded on his arm!

I’m beginning to rethink my stance on back-seat hook-ups. Heh. Hey, but you never know. He’s looking like a keeper…

“‘Maam? Can I help you?” Fuck, he’s in the car and his photos are in my hand.

***

Man, she’s pretty. But, ha, she kind of looks like Nana’s cat all bundled up in layers like that. Yup, that just happened. I just compared this girl to my Nana’s cat. Smooth. Does she bring all those clothes with her just in case or what? I mean being prepared is a good thing. It would have been terrifying to come here and find a woman in hypothermia.

I’m not sure which would have made me more upset. Finding an old bat frozen in her car or Rachel here. That’s a terrible thought. I’m going to stop right there.

“Um, yeah, I’m Rachel. You the AAA guy?” Man, I have a thing for Asian girls. It’s not like I’m not attracted to other women but Asian women. It’s not a fetish, guys that fantasize about geishas and shit are pretty gross. But I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s their eyes. They are kind of beautiful.

“Yes. My name is Ian Boyd… ” I smile, awkwardly I think because I pause almost waiting for a reaction but I don’t get any. “…err, you’ve had some engine trouble tonight, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Rachel’s eyes are kind of beautiful. Jerome says it’s not racist to like one kind of woman over another. It’s like saying you’re racist because you like women with big tits. It’s just a preference. And he’s black so that means… no. That’s not right…

“Alright I’m going to pull up the truck and hook you up- err hook up your car that is and get us out of here.” Fuck. Fucking mouth. With your stupid fuck ups. Now she’s going to think all I want to do is hook up with her.

I think I see her smirk. Not sure if that’s a sympathy smirk…

The cold is getting to me. Alright, stop day dreaming and get to work. “If you’ll step out, ‘maam, you can sit in the truck with me to get you all settled tonight.”

“Oh, okay.”

Oh, okay? That’s not a good sign. She doesn’t seem interested. I don’t think. I help her into the truck and turn up the heat and get back to work. Turning around again and getting another look at her ride, yeah. It’s a nice car. She has nice taste. I could have figured out just looking at her. She left all her extra layers in her back seat, only taking her blanket into the truck.

In the back seat of her car is a bouquet of flowers. Fuck, she has a man. Oh, wait a minute. There’s a photo of Rachel with a baby and another woman in a hospital gown. ‘Thanks Auntie Rachel! Xoxo Your Favorite Nephew, William‘ These flowers are fresh. Her sister must have had a kid. Well congrats!

There’s also a tote bag tucked away in the back seat with a bunch of yarn and some knitting needles. There’s a long scarf folded and stuck into the bag. It’s got this nifty braided thing going on with neon yarn. Huh, she’s crafty. That’s nice. I’ve always found women who create something are of a better caliber than those that just buy everything. Maybe I’m making that shit up but my ex didn’t make anything. Not even toast. Just ate cold Pop Tarts every morning for breakfast. Kind of like how she ate our my heart in cold blood.

I’m feeling like a cold Pop Tart myself so I finish up my work and head over to the car. Maybe start up a conversation or something. Rachel seems like a nice person… a nice, cute person…

I open the driver’s seat door and Rachel’s looking at my photos. “‘Maam? Can I help you?”

A Cold Night (Pt. 1)

Of course my car broke down tonight, when the temperature sets a new record low. It's five degrees and snowing and of course that's when the thing decides to overheat. What kind of logic is that? Stupid Mercedes.

Of course it was my choice to buy a thirty year old car, but it's so trendy, it has so much soul. Not that it does me any good right now on the side of the road with the snow falling and hot water dripping out of the radiator and hissing on the pavement. After only a couple of weeks and this happens. At least I have AAA and an iPhone to keep me busy in the meantime.

And scarves. Crazy me who has to always be prepared for everything, I have a blanket, an extra jacket, and don't think I'm crazy but three extra scarves in the backseat along with a cute beanie cap. That's me, always prepared. The hat and one of the scarves even match the color of the car. Always fashionable so I don't embarrass myself in front of the tow truck guy. That's me.

Not like it would matter anyway since I'm sure he'll be some fat, ugly redneck bumpkin. Sometimes I forget I'm in Georgia living in Atlanta but trust me, when you need a mechanic or a tow truck driver, you remember you're in Georgia. That or a Huddle House. That reminds you where you are too.

I guess tonight everyone's broken down though, because the tow truck guy is running an hour late. Not that I'm cold or anything. Five degrees isn't exactly super comfy inside a drafty old Mercedes and those trendy ass yellow hubcaps aren't doing me any good either. The idiot probably got lost and can't find the right road. I'm sure AAA only hires the best of the best. Goddammit, why does Angry Birds have to get so hard after a while?

“Excuse me, 'maam? Are you Rachel?”

“Ah!”

Of course he sneaks up on me! Of course now I see the headlights back there but Jesus, just sneaking up on me out of the dark and tapping on the window with his voice all muffled through the glass. And me a young girl stranded on the side of the road late at night! Like it wouldn't scare the shit out of me.

Can't see him out the window anyway with the frost and of course I have to start the car up to do that. Stupid jerk, taking so long. Probably some dumb fucking yokel with a beer gut and buck teeth. God why do I live in Georgia?

“Yes, I'm Rachel.”

Oh . . . He's cute. And a ginger. Kind of looks like a hipster too. . .

* * *

I admit being a tow truck driver isn't exactly my dream job but you know, having a degree in Liberal Arts doesn't always turn out so well. Still, it's not exactly what I had planned when I went to Tulane. I kind of hoped I'd be doing something a little more rewarding than finding idiot old women with blown engines for AAA.

But I had to find something. It was either this or go back to live with my parents and fuck that. Decatur can kiss my ass and there's no way I'm going back there as long as I have a pulse. Still the job isn't always so bad at that. It pays enough for me to not worry too much about the rent and it keeps me in PBRs with a little left over to work on my bike.

Nights like this though, it's hard to figure out why I'm doing it. Of course my shift pops up on the coldest night in Atlanta in twenty years and of course it's the late shift. It always is. Will be for a while too, me being the new guy. Heaven forbid we take Bubba's prized 8-4 shifts. No, give the shitty ones to the new fish. Nobody likes that “red head smart ass” anyway. Let him work the night when the weather is so cold everyone's breaking down and there's a two hour wait. Let him deal with the fussy old women yelling at him for being behind schedule.

Oh, who am I kidding? This life sucks. I'm single and I live alone and I drive a tow truck. Just guess how easy it is to find dates when your answer to that old “And what do you do?” question is this. The only women who'll talk to you after that work at gas stations or late night diners. Not that there's anything wrong with those people, mind you, but I don't quite jive with the “I have two kids from two other guys” thing. Guess I'm just closed minded.

Maybe one night I'll be towing some woman and get run over on the side of the road. That's the best case scenario these days.

And then tonight, after all these fussy old bitties and grumpy old men with squinty little glasses and holier than thou bullshit, I realize I forgot one of the pick ups. And of course she's called the dispatch like four times and I'm two hours late from what they told her. Guess who gets docked for that? Answer: It ain't Bubba.

Probably some shriveled up old shrew who hasn't checked the oil on her 10 year old Hyundai since Bush was president and can't understand why the engine suddenly shits the bed. Either that or an asshole in a business suit who left his over head light on and the battery's dead so he's going to yell at me about how these “new cars” are such pieces of shit. Yep, you can see how excited I am about the next pick up. Goddamn cold weather. . .

Huh. Dispatch says it's an '83 Mercedes 300 though. That's kind of interesting. Probably some geezer who bought it new.

There it is. Cool shade of yellow too. And a diesel. Always thought those were pretty cool since I had a friend convert one to veggie oil. Oh, and those hub cabs are pretty bitching too. That's a pretty cool car. Of course it'll have some stuck up old bitch in it, so who cares.

Can't see anything through the window though. Maybe the person already got tired and left. Oh, I guess there is someone in there. . . Hope they're warm.

“Excuse me, 'maam” Are you Rachel?”

“Ah!”

Ha, must've startled the old bitch. Let's see if she can figure out how to get the window open.

“Yes, I'm Rachel.”

Oh. . . She’s Asian. And cute. Really cute. . .

The Saga of the Gants (Pt. 3)

The Semper Fidele, named in some heathen language or so I imagine, is no match for my ancestor's ship of course, but it is a remarkable craft I am sure. The wood panels of its deck are worn but I have no doubt this is a result of many successful missions and adventures on the part of its worthy crew. That crew though, canines, mermen, and ugh, humans could not possibly live up to the standards of their grand captain Contessa Gatti.

That woman, that beautiful jaguar Venus, surely must be the greatest captain to ever sail the Grand Line. The mere sight of her commanding her crew with such aplomb and obvious competency sets my mind alight with the prospects for our adventure. It is the very nature of her stance, her body language, her . . . Well, the first sight of her on that ship lets one know from the start that she is in charge of her crew and her enterprise. She is in charge it seems of whatever she so wishes, even I am beginning to fear, my heart. That is not to be thought of today though.

* * *

We have been sailing for a fortnight now and I fear we are lost. No matter my long training on the sailboats of my father, it has been unfortunate to find myself seasick more nights than most. The captain has politely ignored this fact but the crew are often found to be snickering behind my back. I have mentioned this to Contessa but she says there is little she can do. I begin to think less and less of this ruffian crew.

The Grand Line is more foreboding and exacting than I had at first thought and I must admit that I am a bit afraid, not just of the being lost but of surviving our strange endeavor. Luckily, I must only look to the Captain for reassurance that our quest is worthy, though expensive. Twice Contessa has requested an increase in the ship's funds, though we are still at sea. I find it puzzling but I have the utmost faith in her ability.

* * *

Last evening I was awoken by a terrible dream. This twenty third day of our voyage, still outside of land, was stressful enough without the dream but the night was broken by it all the same. In the dream I was nude and alone on a barren landscape and being chased by a foul and demonic creature. Running, ever running from it I thought my escape assured but at the last I was swept under its claws and run down. The beast, strangely, had a face like that of Contessa—that of a jaguar.

In awaking I found my subconscious prickled with the idea that in ancient times, before our intellects were developed to the point that they are today, our species were enemies and the wild jaguar the chief predator of those Giant African Ant Eaters from which I hail. This idea troubles me greatly but I cannot help but keep my faith in Contessa. She is like a light in this sorrowful storm that is our voyage so far and I will let it guide me as a lighthouse guides a ship past the rocks of a breaker.

* * *

Success! Today we saw land at last and everyone on board, even the lowly humans occupied with god knows what mindless tasks one might give them breathed a sigh of relief. Of course, no one actually doubted the Captain's skills or the accuracy of her log-posts but still, the wait on the open water was long.

Embarking on the land I was once again embarrassed to find myself seasick, though I suppose it would be more accurate to call it “land sick.” At any rate, after the longshoremen had their laughs, I was put in touch with a strange little man to arrange for provisions. This trip becomes more and more expensive day by day. So far, the great saved treasures of my line lay barely tapped but I wonder that a day might come when I must begin to monitor them. That will be a strange day indeed.

After meeting with the little man, a certain Frenchmen named Sebastian Cargot, I returned to the trip to oversee the loading of our provisions. The most puzzling sight met my eyes though as the ship was loaded and that was the fact that while great crates of supplies were lowered into the hold other crates were removed. Large and with strange lettering on them, they were removed and put into the possession of a dubious character who I am not quite trusting of but the most marvelous part of the ordeal was that the crates were loaded, one after the other, by a great bear easily nine feet tall. Wearing a small and strange had which wore a red star he tossed the crates about and threatened our ship's crew.

His accent was strange and his behavior stranger. It appears that the crates removed from the Semper Fedele contained some sort of grain alcohol and it was quite the sight to see that great and monstrous bear pull what must have been a twenty gallon drum from a crate and pour it down his throat at a gulp with a belch of what I swear was fire.

At any rate, I confronted Contessa, ever lovely in her navy blue captain's suit, and asked of the cargo. She swears to me that the cargo was merely a formality that was already aboard when she was commissioned by the du Bois, and that it would be folly to come by here and not deliver them. Of course I apologized for questioning her judgment.

* * *

Finally, the ship loaded and provisioned, it was good to get under way today and away from this foul port, even if it means going back onto the rough waters which have such negative effects on my temperament. The docks of that island, passing silently away from us, were ugly and strange but no less ugly and strange than the sights which we will see soon.

Looking over the map today with Contessa I was instilled with a great font of enthusiasm for our endeavor which was greatly appreciated. I must admit I had become a little forlorn after the dockside episodes and the already long journey, but to see the sights and markings laid out on the map made me much assuaged.

There was a strangeness though when I looked at the map and realized that some of the ink there appeared to still be damp. Putting my fore claw down on the large X which marked our next stop I was surprised to see it come away from the map with a dab of red ink there on the tip.

I attempted to question the Captain but when she noticed my puzzled gaze she did something which certainly left me in a strange state. I must admit I have never felt quite the flutter of butterflies in my stomach that she caused when she touched my chin, the soft fur of her paws sublime against the coarseness of my own hair. She whispered to me not worry and I admit there was a stirring in me that I have never felt at any but my own species.

Being a bachelor I cannot feel guilt at these facts but I am still adrift in my personal emotions. The look of her eyes as she batted those beautiful lashes at me took my breath away and as she wrapped her other arm around me and led me to the window, the soft and warm embrace pushing her bosom against me for an excruciatingly short moment was enough to sweep me away.

Pulling me to the window she pointed out into the sunset and the glittering water beneath it and asked me to imagine the greatness of the discoveries which lay before us. That of the Gants.

I cannot wait.

The Saga of the Gants (Pt. 2)

Undoubtedly, in order to set off and take hold of my destiny, that being the obvious birthright of the Giant Ant Eater clans of Africa, I was in need of a ship and a crew. My father, Lord rest his soul, had been out at the time of his death with the fastest and largest ship at the du Bois’ disposal and with him laid to rest in the family vaults I lost any chance of using a du Bois ship to find the Gants. Being the case, I sought a captain, and one worthy of my noble quest.

Her name is Contessa Gatti, and she is the captain of the ship that will one day be as famous as the du Bois name itself. As famous as any, for I, Alexander Augustino de Bois III, have set out to begin a journey that would make the likes of Homer blush. Captain Gatti has assured me of our success and it would be hard for any man to not believe her candor and forthrightness.

Captain Gatti had been recommended to me, of course, by the head butler of the de Bois estate, a man named Afred von Duesche. I had been hesitant at first obviously, as he referred to Captain Gatti as his niece and in my shortsightedness I would normally have refused his suggestion had it not been the portrait of my dear departed mother and father. That portrait, painted in oil a scant month before their sudden deaths, hangs in our prolifically ornate study with the books and scrolls that have been collected throughout the ages of this line and it is as if at times they are there to guide me on my most noble endeavors. I knew at once, looking up into their faces there above the mantle, full of glory and candor, that I must at least meet this feline woman before I passed judgment on her abilities.

Upon meeting the Captain I was still uneasy, it must be said. She was rather young after all, much too young to be an experienced seaman, or so I had presumed at first. Captain Contessa Gatti told me that she had retired extraordinarily early from the navy when she had been offered the most honorable title of Rear Admiral before leaving the service. Assuring me that she escaped that role as if it were a prison sentence, it was hard to disbelieve her. To the Captain it seems, there are too many regulations to be followed in the service and she seeks the freedom of the sea above all else and the loyalty of her crew a close second.

I must admit that I felt a kindred spirit with Captain Gitta as she confided all of this to me. There has never been a day that I was not proud to be a du Bois but there had perhaps always been a small, lingering part of my boyhood that screamed to me to cast away the expectations of my family name and seek my fortune on the open sea. My true home I always knew must lie there, just as it did for my great, many times great, grandfather. The Captain had done in her remarkably short and illustrious life what I never thought I myself could, until now. She was indeed an exemplary of her kind and a shining example to such an ideologist as myself.

I was honestly struck the moment I saw her magnificent ship as well, the Sempre Fedele, docked idly in the harbor at my first sight of it. Captain Gatti clearly took great pride and consideration in the care of her ship as she surely did in every other facet of her life.

The crew of that ship though . . . That most eclectic crew of the Sempre Fedele was perhaps the greatest shock of my day. I understand that it is a different day and age than the times of my great, great, many times over great grandfather Alexander but really, to employ such unsavory folk would have started just the sort of scandal then as it does now. Never in my life have I been in the presence of such classless people as those she employs on this ship.

Even with the word of Captain Gitta behind them and the entire crew's obvious competence, I have to force myself to accept them. I wonder what my father would say if he could know even now that his son will have three humans and an aardvark in his employ. His willing employ, and believing them skilled. I shudder at the thought. Perhaps the rest her crew, made up of fine, upstanding merpeople, felines and canines alike will be a good influence on the less desirable members of that party, but I am not so sure.
Captain Gitta has returned to me after a short time of commiseration and with her plotted course to get to the island of the Gants. She claims she is knowledgable of them and I was eager to see the chart, making some adjustments to them of course. I was very impressed with it though, especially when she told me a human had mapped this out!

I laughed when Captain Gitta presented me with the humble budget for our voyage, though. Surely she thinks me a pauper and has provided the barest of estimates. I insisted of course, and at the earliest chance, that we should at least double it in order to facilitate the ease of our journey.

At that occasion though it was that the brilliant Captain suggested more that perhaps a greater investment of funds could help to even better finance the expedition! I have the fullest of confidence in Captain Gitta and thus I have poured all of the du Bois liquid funds into the Sempre Fedele and her crew, humans and all. I await with bated breath the outcome of our glorious expedition.

There is no doubt, of course, that I should be the leader of such a remarkable endeavor.

The Saga of the Gants (Pt. 1)

My name is Alexander Augustino du Bois III, but you may call me Alex just as my parents did, may they rest in peace and enlightenment. I come from a long and illustrious line of du Bois and today I am the last of them, sent on what many call a fool's errand by the long forgotten transcripts of the progenitor of my family, the originally famous du Bois for which I was named, Alexander Francisco du Bois, II, may he also rest in peace and enlightenment beneath the stars of our world.

The du Bois family, as you know, is the most illustrious and magnificent of the Giant Ant Eater clans of Africa, that land far away from these places I have traveled these many years. I miss my Africa dearly but lately I fear I am destined to see it no more. Though I long to be as great as them, I fear that the line of du Bois And Eaters will die with me, alone and unloved in a land where none have heard the tales of my clan's victories and defeats, tragedies and triumphs.

But those tales are of long ago, when we were many, and today we are the one, so I will move on to the tales which I may tell myself. Though of less magnificent adventures as yet, they are surely worth the telling, and sure to grow.

I am searching for Gants.

In the journals of my great, great, many times over great, grandfather Alexander, he tells of many adventures and quests but none are so great as that of the Gants. Told and retold through the years it was by the time of my birth a story long thought to be but a legend. The servants of our manse even rumored that once the great head of a Gant stood proudly on the mantle above our magnificent fire place, but no more. According to their tales (which should be taken with a grain of salt as they come from the lesser classes, choking on their air of kitchen soot and disappointment), the head was taken down by Alexander Francisco IV in a fit of rage as he shouted that he would look at the monster no more. That is was not in fact real and but a sign of the lies of our mutual ancestor Alexander.

The true story is that he took the beast down so as to not face his own failure to live up to his storied name. A name I hope to live up to.

But so the Gants were thought to be legend for many generations and as the family dwindled and our influence waned, as our lands steadily shrank and our business interests atrophied, as we were whittled down over the centuries to a small family in a house much too large for us but still kept in servants and supplies, we barely thought of it until on the day that I, the latest Alexander du Bois of the most famous family to ever come of the Giant East African Ant Eaters, heard of the death of my parents while on vacation.

My father, an avid sailor and sportsman, had taken my mother on one of their many vacations out into the ocean to spend several nights in his impressive trimaran, resplendent in the yellow and black colors of our nations flag, and had been caught unawares by one of our famous typhoons. There was nothing to be found by the local fishermen but scraps of torn yellow wood and matted clumps of gray and black fur washed upon the beach.

Naturally upset and lost of the hope that my parents might yet give way to siblings which would take the burden of my clan off of my lone, solitary shoulders, I raged and screamed and struck out at our servants and the messenger, nearly shooting him dead with my great, great grandfather's favorite shotgun of which I barely knew the operation.

Raging, screaming, I ran through our ancient home, my clawed feet rapping on the well worn mahogany of the floors, the well greased wood normally so pleasant under me suddenly rough and callous. Running and screaming, I soon found myself in the only part of the house in which I felt safe and alone, up high above our manor's fourth floor and into the attic where no one had been for decades. Walking there, in the dust and the grime, I poured my tears upon the ancient furniture and chests which there I found, pounding my fists on a particularly imposing piece of strong wood and iron which, with the wet of my tears wiping its nameplate clear, bore the initials A. F. dB. II.

My emotions having been spent and myself still in a state of unsightly shock I grabbed at the trunk anxiously, knowing the import of the letters on its frontispiece. The lid to the monstrous thing, nearly too heavy to lift, fell open and inside I found the motives for this life I now lead, having chosen it that day for good or ill.

The trunk contained the journals of my clan's progenitor and they were indeed as illustrious as I had imagined. There were many journals there and in the on going weeks and months, as I became ever more reclusive after my parents solemn passing, I became obsessed with them. Obsessed with them and with the idea of living them again, through the spirit of my ancestor. Obsessed with making my family great once more, even if it should die with me on the world's vast sea.

Of all the stories though, of all the tales of daring and discovery, I was obsessed most with a single story. That of what the first famous du Bois called the Gants.

Hideous and awful giant ant like creatures, they were said to be the size of houses and with heads as large as grand sea turtles. Sentient, they occupied a single island in a far flung corner of the world where they built incredible underground cathedrals of glass and beauty. My ancestor had encountered them by accident while landing the ship he captained on a remote island to resupply his boats food and fresh water.

The Gants, catching his shipmates off guard, had eaten ten of them and my ancestor, the great Alexander, had fought them off, single handedly slaying their leader and serving his head on a platter for the ships dinner that night. The same head he would bring the remains of back here, to mount above the fire place in all its hideous glory.

But that is where the true strangeness of the beasts became evident. The ship's crew, eating the delicious brains of the giant insect, found that they absorbed its sentient thoughts and memories. That they absorbed its very intelligence!

On discovering this they led an expedition into the wilds of that remote island and slayed many of the ants, eating them eagerly and basking in the glow of enlightenment and abundance. My ancestor, by the time of the ship's departure, was easily the smartest of creatures in this world, and by far the smartest of Ant Eaters, with his ship's crew a veritable plethora of intellect.

By the time the ship finally returned home to our beloved Africa, it had been built into one of the most magnificent, efficient, and impressive ships to ever sail the seas and covered in the most marvelous of gadgets and wonder. The Great Alexander du Bois, debarking from it, resplendent in the finest clothes ever seen in our land, led his former sailors into the worlds of business, finance, industry, and farming, soon becoming the masters of all.

So began the clan of du Bois. The clan who's name I know carry alone and which I wish to make great again. I will find the Gants and finding them, I will become the even greater than my ancestor. Once more, the world will cower at gnarled feet of a proud African Ant Eater named Alexander du Bois, and it will be me.

The Horse Hair Worm

I remember when I was a kid, maybe 8 or 10 years old, back when I still spent all my time outside wandering in the woods, I found this really crazy thing in a stream. It was about two feet long and about as thick as a hair. In fact it looked just like a long brown hair that had been plucked from a person and dropped in the stream but it seemed to be alive! I put it in a big pickle jar and watched it to make sure it really was alive and not just moving in the currents. Sure enough, it was.

My dad had no idea what it was so I took it to school and the teacher had no idea either. They passed it around to different classes and every science teacher came to look at it and everyone was puzzled but every one wanted to see that pickle jar. We looked in all the encyclopedias and biology books in the library and other teachers from other schools in town, the high school, etc. came to look at it and had no idea either. It was a marvel.

Eventually I found another one and a teacher discovered it in an obscure biology book. It turned out it was a nematomorpha, most often called a "horse hair worm."

I felt so special to have discovered that thing. Like I had confronted everyone in my childhood world with a marvel no one could explain.

If I found it now I'd know inside of five seconds what it was after I said, "OK Google, what is a long hair like worm?" into my smart phone.

Is this a good thing? I haven't decided. I've spent a lot of time the last few days, since I randomly remembered the whole thing, wondering. I can't get it out of my head. During that whole experience I spent a lot of time pouring over biology books and learned a lot of interesting stuff about the streams where I was playing. Now, finding it on wikipedia, I most likely would have thought, "Oh, it's a horse hair worm." and moved on.

If I'd even found it in the first place. In 1995 my parents bought a PC and the year after connected it to the internet. I spent a lot less time outside after that.