self-declared first mate still stayed drunk. He swallowed
the words on his tongue and tried a second time.
“Who… who are you?”
“I’m Charlie MacReady,” said the boat’s driver cheeri-
ly, through a cannabis-induced fog of his own. He smiled
broadly, leaned down to speak to his girlfriend. “Dig that
getup that guy’s got on. Must’ve been a helluva party!”
Jon-Tom briefly considered his iridescent lizard-skin
cape, his indigo shut, and the rest of his attire. Subdued
clothing… for Clothahump’s world.
The girl in the front was having a tough time with her
sunshades. Maybe she didn’t realize that the glasses were
clean and that it was her eyes that needed washing out.
She leaned over again and nearly tumbled into the water.
Her boyfriend grabbed the strap of her bikini top and
pulled hard enough to hold her in the boat. Unfortunately,
it was also hard enough to compress certain sensitive parts
of her anatomy. She whirled to swing at him, missed badly
thanks to the effects of what the foursome had been
smoking all morning. For some unknown reason this
started her giggling uncontrollably.
Jon-Tom wasn’t laughing anymore. He was battling his
own sozzled thoughts and magically contaminated blood-
stream.
“Who are you people?”
“I told you.” The boat’s driver spoke with pot-induced
ponderousness. “MacReady’s the name. Charles MacReady.
I am a stockbroker from Manhattan. Merrill Lynching.
You know, the bull?” He rested one hand on the shoulder
of the suddenly contemplative woman seated next to him.
She appeared fascinated by the sheen of her nail polish.