whistlersmum (whistlersmum) wrote in low_tide, @ 2009-11-18 01:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | whistler |
Tour of Duty
Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a fateful trip
That started from this tropic port
Aboard this tiny ship.
The mate was a mighty sailing man,
The skipper brave and sure.
Five passengers set sail that day
For a three hour tour, a three hour tour.
Ping
That wasn't right.
Well it was, insofar as the hatted man was beachcombing along the Keys with a metal detector.
Conventional wisdom suggested the best time to scavenge was at high tide, when varied flotsam and jetsam washed ashore, but this man wasn't what you'd call conventional.
Ping
It was 'opposite day' for Augustus Whittaker, every single day. He enjoyed going against the grain. It kept people at arm's length. The house boat, moored at the marina just visible on the horizon, his home, his sanctuary, didn't see many visitors. The patch of grizzled chin hairs suggested that, had you attempted to strike up a communication, the responses were either "harrumph" and "Idon'treallygiveafuckmaybeyoushouldasks
PingPing
It wasn't right. The song was supposed to continue with a clap of thunder.
PingPingPingPingPiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
He shut off the device and bent over, surprisingly limber for a man who, if you looked at him sideways, passed for early 40s. No one really knew how old he was. The man was a fixture of the Keys for as long as anyone remembered.
There were rumors. He was a reclusive millionaire was one. But he was stingy with his money, never offering more than a three per cent tip on his meals, and had turned haggeling into an art form. So if he was rich, it wasn't by much.
Some said he was a fisherman, a sole survivor of a particularly nasty hurricane from years ago.
A few whispered that perhaps he was a fugitive.
And the hatted man did nothing to dispel any of the conjecture. It was more fun that way.
Should anyone lift his wallet, rummage through the papers and faded dollar bills, they would find an expired private investigator's license.
The weather started getting rough,
The tiny ship was tossed,
If not for the courage of the fearless crew
The minnow would be lost, the minnow would be lost.
When he next looked up, the sun was five degrees west of its last location.
And he was back on the house boat.
Well, not his. It was, but more importantly, it wasn't.
Whistler blinked a few times. He scratched his chin, his hand recoiling as he felt the gristle.
Wait.
The sun was up. The last thing he remembered was the white flash. And it was nighttime, in a colder climate. Now it was warm and sunny and -- oh crap.
He shouldn't have reached for the newspaper. Granted it clued him into where the Agent was, but he wasn't as prepared for when.
A flood of memories settling into the back of his brain. There's a feeling of relief, as if the prior resident is happy to hand over the remote. Have at it, I kinda made a mess.
"Yeah, you did," Whistler replied. "Only I get to live with it. So much for my vacation."
Which wasn't true. He knew ithat whatever *coughFUCKINGPOWERScough* drew him to this place, this time, this dimension, Whistler's other life soldiered on. He would sail the Atlantic. His friendship with Rhiannon would continue...
"Aw shit."
He'd never felt so alone.
So this is the tale of our castway,
He's here for a long, long time,
He'll have to make the best of things,
It's an uphill climb.