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decreaseSiamese Vignette--1899--August--Chao Praya River--Eastern Shore Opposite Wat Arun.
Down river a Maine built four masted ship lies moored with a cargo of coal burning below decks. The black pitch in the deck seams is starting to bubble and grey wisps of smoke are coming from the sheave holes in the masts. At the first sight of golden chedis and slow moving women, the crew jumped and swam. Cooling their feet and yielding to their hearts. The captain has a broken voyage and a contract that calls for delivery to Ceylon. The captain needs new hands and fire fighting. But first he needs a drink and he needs something else. The toothless boat woman knows where to take him.
Dana towered above the polished surface of the bar. He was wearing a black satin cutaway suit with a wine colored vest that had been tailored in London. The Chao Praya river was wearing morning fog and the beginning of suffocating heat. In spite of the heat, Dana's long vest was buttoned tight over a Chilean lace shirt, and a black cravat was pierced by a scrimshaw pin.
He ordered a pitcher of steamed beer and strolled over to the veranda overlooking the river and the farside Wat. The Siamese bartender in the white Colonial suit didn't bother to ask for his money. The mouse never asks the cat for anything. The cat stood a head taller than the tallest white man and carried 230 pounds of whippet muscle on panther feet; his emerald green eyes and squared mahogany features declared him the alpha male. Men and women were both attracted to him. Men and women both feared him.
The pitcher of bird piss would give him just enough time to plan his next two moves. First he had to take some paperwork over to the Consulate. He'd killed two stevedores in the last 10 days and there were stories to tell and men behind desks with miniature penises to talk to. After that, he would get to the main event. He hadn't had a woman in 192 days! It was 10:30 now. He'd be done with the pasty-faced bureaucrats with the skinny arms by noon. He'd be done with a woman by 1:00. He'd grab the first small dark thing he could find, haul her behind a threshing shed, crush her pelvic bones in his great dark calloused hands, and pump her until her sobs became quiet, desperate gasps for breath.
When he was done he would leave her nothing but a memory. Lying in a heap of rice chaff and sweat; she'd summon enough breath to mouth "I hate you!" Then she'd run home and tell her sister all about him. Later, when he slipped his mooring and started for Ceylon; she would be hiding behind a palm tree--blinking back her tears and waving with her soft little hand.
His beer finished, he snapped out of his reverie, threw some coin at the bartender, and got to his feet. Time was wasting. He had clerks to frighten and a donkey dick looking for almond eyes and black bangs.
He strode from the bar. His testosterone was up and his mistress was waiting down river. She was a young and beautiful four masted sea creature. His name was Captain Dana. Her name was not important.
© Dana. All rights reserved by the author.
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March 5, 2007, 07:55
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