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Subject: Celeste Story Contest: The Harpooner/MrSpraycan
From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>


	Standard Disclaimer: Adults only. This item is of fictional nature.
All persons and places in it are imaginary; no resemblance to real or
historic characters is intended. No illicit behavior is endorsed or
condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the idea.
	Copyright (c) is claimed, 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its
author MrSpraycan, who chooses to be 'anon'. No commercial use is
warranted. For personal or entertainment purposes only. Do not retransmit
or store in public archives.

Yo: 4th Annual Short Story Contest entry. Just under 500 words, not
including title, author line and copyright junk.
	/aka MrSpraycan

THE HARPOONER
by MrSpraycan

New Bedford. The smell of the sea, the promise of women. That moves me.
	It's a whaling town, and the season for sailings. Along the quays,
squat vessels are moored. I stroll by, warming myself in the sun. There's a
sense of adventure. This is the Yankee whaling fleet that sails halfway
round the world in search of right whales, sperm whales. To bring back the
oil that lights the long New England nights, and the whalebone that
stiffens the corsets of those already-so-stiff women.
	The hope of finding ladies not of Puritan inclination leads me to
the 'Saucy Pelican.' Loud with fiddle music and drunken laughter. Coarse,
male laughter, but I hear girlish giggles too. It's gloomy, the air thick
with pipe smoke. At a makeshift counter a scowling innkeeper tries to keep
pace with his rowdy clientele and its raging thirst.
	Where are the women I heard? There, at a table in the back. Two
friendly looking tarts in dresses that are a little too small, showing more
of the female bosom than I am used to. So white, so round. So ... I feel my
harpoon stiffen in my thick canvas trousers. Two ruffians are there, passed
out, dead drunk. The tarts don't seem steady in their seats.
	"Hey, young fellow! Sailor boy or farmer's boy. Whatever ye may be
... won't ye buy two lovely damsels a drink?" one calls out, with a huge
belch. The other gazes at me, eyes like a dead cod. The innkeeper pushes a
jug of ale and three glasses across the counter,  and I pay up.
	"Bound for the South Seas? Or Greenland?" The first one says,
pouring a glass. "I'm Molly McIver. And who might ye be?"
	"A traveller, ma'am."
	"Ha! A sailor boy in his dreams,  I seen it all before," she mocks.
"Well, a calm voyage,  buckets of sperm, and thank ye for the grog. Nan,"
she nudges her companion. "Gentleman wants you to have a drink with him . .
."
	The other tart is quieter, cleaner, with more teeth. She's also
pale and somewhat queasy.
	"Excuse her, we've been here since yester eve, " Molly confides.
"No place better for entertainment, so (burp) here we stay."
	"I like the look of this fellow," Nan says, her eyes swiveling
alarmingly as she drinks.
	"Then, away upstairs with him before ye change yer mind," Molly
scolds. And impelled by some urge I have not felt before, I follow the
lurching tart up steep, narrow stairs.
	To an attic, where she is already half out of her clothes. I watch
in awe as she pulls her drawers down, and shows herself naked, like the day
she was born. White breasts, pink nipples, the mysterious hairy triangle!
And beneath it? Paradise! My harpoon is throbbing, in bowsprit position.
	"They calls me Nan Tucket, farmer boy," she laughs. "Rhymes with
fuck it. And what do they call ye, harpooner?"
	"Call me Ishmael."

Copyright (c) MrSpraycan, 1997.



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