Burning Desires
Part IV
by Kerry Joyce
illustration by James Corwin
It seemed apparent to Dr. Reekey and myself that Crittendon’s inquisitors had in store for him one of the milder versions of the traditional tavern-back-alley-thumping. The kind that is long on humiliation but short on actual physical injury.
We both knew that Crittendon was nothing if not a winsome ass kisser. And while we expected it might take him a few minutes to establish just the right tone, we fully expected that he would escape after a heart-felt apology for desecrating the venerable island nation of Sangre Diablo with the good natured acceptance of a few minor facial contusions.
As an internationally renowned anthropologist and a cantankerous drunk, Crittendon had talked himself in and out of similar situations throughout the four corners of the world. And, to date, with the exception of a voodoo hex or two, and a not unbearable case of hemorrhoids, the professor had managed to escape pretty much unscathed.
But things seemed to turn potentially dangerous when a certain local personality happened by.
“Hey, Dante,” one of Crittendon’s adversaries called out. Dante was the manager of Circles Gym, a weight lifter, and the island demi-god of malevolent good health. Dante was apprised of Crittendon’s drunken declarations against the honor of Sangre Diablo and quickly took charge without uttering a single word that would have revealed just how utterly stupid he was. With every sincere cringe of Crittendon’s wheezing frame, the lines of Dante’s grimace deepened. His whole body seemed to expand exponentially. Any second now it seemed Crittendon would die, if not from a heavy blow to his randy cranium, then at least from sheer fright.
Then, like a governor’s stay of execution, the voice of two street urchins could be heard: “The whales are here, the whales are here!” they exclaimed. Dante turned with keen interest after first scoring a direct hit on Crittendon’s eyeball with a jet stream of tobacco juice.
No one had actually seen the whales. It was still dark out. But the harbor master reported the arrival of the S.S. Indefensible. Proof enough. For five years this Greenpeace vessel had accompanied a slew of sperm whales as their annual migration proceeded into the squiddy waters of Sangre Diablo.
The indigenous culture of the island was a celebration of the hunt and of martial valor. But civilization makes cowards of us all, and the descendants of those proud warriors now hunted only tips and trade as bell hops and souvenir vendors in and around the big hotels. Consequently, according to Dr. Reekey, a wellspring of pent up cultural tradition erupted in the hearts and minds of the populace with the arrival of these whales each year. An armada of boats, rafts and inner tubes carried nearly every reasonably healthy male from the larger towns out to sea in hopes of doing battle with the ivory tooth giants.
The head Greenpeace keeper, Captain Morgan, did not take kindly to this annual event, but Monroe Carter, governor general of the island, assured him that the residents of Sangre Diablo were simply dramatizing the barbarity of the thousand-year-old whaling industry and had no intention of harming the creatures.
Since no Sangre Diablan had ever succeeded in harming one of the creatures, Morgan took Carter at his word. The fact that a few individuals of the not-endangered human race perished at sea each year left the Greenpeace crewmembers hopeful that the traditional mock hunt would eventually go the way of the dodo bird.
In order to curry favor, Crittendon offered to accompany Dante on his small craft that very morning, having the misconception that he would be going on a whale watch and not a whale hunt. “The garlic eaters would just have to wait,” he said.
“Most men lead lives of comfortable desperation,” Dr. Reekey observed with a sigh.
“Crittendon should be so lucky,” I replied, not knowing how right my observation would soon prove to be.
Next month; Part V of Burning Desires, “Running Against The Wind”
