Pirates, Scoundrels, and Kings

Nothing could be said good about Mondays, Christopher thought. No one ever indicated a particular fondness for the day, and except for those with birthdays on a Monday, he doubted that anyone would complain about its absence. On the other hand, Tuesday would just become Monday and nothing really accomplished anyway. If pressed, he would have to admit that at least Monday was only one day and not any longer. Besides he concluded, Monday was the first day of the end of the week. 

Stepping off the bus in the rain and slipping to his posterior in the muck to jeering laughs was the first telltale sign. His next memory permanently ruined his fragile psyche forever. What a grinning fool he was, with his debonair glance to the smiling girl with the long blond hair; only later to catch a horrifying glimpse in the mirror of her motivation, the perfect vertical brown crust of mud upon his rump. He may as well have had a wad of toilet paper tucked into his waist celebrating his bathroom forays, he decided in elementary school agony. 

Chris had been a little frightened until now, but suddenly he burst out laughing. Challenging the voice he bravely yelled in his most authoritative tone. "What do you know; you’re nothing but a cloud.” Chris now stood looking into the sky with a smirk on his face. The day’s events poured out of the boy in defiance. He grabbed an acorn and tossed it at the cloud. 
It was humorous, the boy standing and starring at the philosophical cloud. Something about it recalled a scene from one of his favorite movies, Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Here the two heroes stand before various people from the future, each repeating a silly phrase of their personal philosophy. In Chris’s future he would lament his next action, repeating their words to the cloud. "Be excellent to everybody,” Chris said reciting Bill’s phrase of meaning. He paused, and while he could not be sure, he detected an air of approval in the cloud's face. He should have stopped at that point, content with appeasing his adversary. His favorite line remained to be related, however. In his best Ted impersonation he continued: "Party on- DUDE!" 
Before the last word was out of his mouth something told his brain that he was in trouble. He turned to run before he was even aware of the cloud's displeasure. It was one of those times when everything seemed to go so slowly, like a horrible dream where your feet will not move. A roar of thunder like none he had known before was his response. He had taken just a single step when next to his foot the first electrical charge hit the ground. The cloud was not talking in English now, but rather in wrath. The sky became dark, and the wind blew. Lightening was cracking, bolts landing around the boy. He ran as fast as he could but the ground seemed to move with each crack. Chris stumbled several times before he could really get going. Running now down hill he was out of control. There was a sudden drop off ahead covered with rock, something he avoided before. With little choice, he dove headfirst landing on his face. He didn't care that his nose was bleeding as he picked himself up and ran for safety leaving the squall behind. 
“Dude, one bad cloud,” the boy thought as he ran for his life towards his home, now hoping to slip back in undetected. 

Robbie was a kindergartner, with white blond hair, blue eyes, and red-rimmed thick glasses, which always sat slightly crooked on the boy’s little nose. Today he was dressed in a ridiculous yellow hooded raincoat that was much too large for the small boy. With his usual blank stare looking at Chris for an answer, he began to appear as if he might cry. Chris knew that the boy looked up to him, but the boy was a non-stop question waiting to ask the next question. He would rattle along about eating chocolate fairies, or snakes invading the playground, diamond door knobs, or some other crazy thing. Besides, sitting with a kindergartner, especially this poisoned pill kindergartner ruined the reputation that was so important in the fifth grade social structure that Chris traveled in. 
“When I grow up I’m going to make the world’s largest donut.” 
“That’s nice Robbie,” Chris said trying not to laugh. 
“Yes, I am…I definitely am. I’ll take lots and lots of flour, put it in a circle on my driveway and cover it with tons and tons of chocolate. Donuts can float you know, and they are very easy to sell, but I wouldn’t sell this one just leave it forever. My mother loves chocolate, me too. I love Dalmatians, do you?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “I don’t have 101 Dalmatians, but I definitely have more than five,” he said referring to his stuffed animals at home. 
Chris made the mistake of entering this conversation. “How old are you Robbie?” 
“Five years old,” he responded. 
“Kindergarten, huh,” Chris responded, easily calculating his grade? 
“How did you know that,” Robbie questioned staring at Chris in amazement? “How old are your friends?” 
“Ten, maybe eleven,” Christopher said without interest. 
“How did they get so big? Did they grow like that? What’s it like to be old? Can you still have a mom, and eat milk and peanut butter? Do they have their own houses? Why are their feet so big, do you have five toes? I am going to stay in my house forever. I will make lemonade and cookies, with lots of milk on my driveway.” 
Chris just blanked out at this point as the boy rattled on, closing his eyes. He suddenly was very tired. The last thing he heard was: “do dogs know their naked?” 

“Ahoy on deck, we've a need, shan't we come a board?" With hands cupped around his mouth, the young boy shouted frantically, kneeling in the bow of the dingy as it twisted in the churning sea. Behind him, a determined friend rowed frantically, battling the cresting waves that grew increasingly capable of swallowing up and crushing their small craft like a wooden match. The two were exhausted and frightened, for they had now fought the powerful sea for hours, rapidly daunted in their plight and searching beyond hope for a rescuer. 

Towering before them stood the buccaneer known as Balaam; captain of the sailing ship and self proclaimed master of the sea. Seldom mistaken for handsome, the crude man owned a deeply lined face, chiseled and coarsened from years of sun and sea. His left nostril was devoid of its lateral attachment to his cheek or nasal-ala, residual gifts from a prior sword fight, and a black bandanna adorned his balding mangy head. He was toothless; a fact only obvious during the rare event of a smile, and black stubble of beard covered his grubby mug. Foreboding in his black frock uniform, an unsheathed dagger dangled ominously from a thick and greasy stained leather belt. A rag tag, filthy, salty crew, neither looking upon the new passengers with any fatherly love, completed the welcoming party. 

The man’s appearance was frightening for certain, but what distinguished Balaam was a severely diseased respiratory system, his breathing labored and rapid, which the pirate cultivated in almost glee. The coarse man suffered, some would agree enthusiastically, from bronchiectasis, a chronic disease in which there is destruction of parenchyma; leaving large pockets for purulent airway...