CHAPTER 3: The Duck
The shore of the river was entirely parked with sailboats and fishing boats. In all the hustle and bustle, it was no wonder that Queerqueg and I were having trouble locating the Peapod. We tried asking several people for directions, but no one knew anything about the Peapod or Captain Ahole. Half the time, when we mentioned a "Duck," the person would point to a flock of mallards in the water, confused.
"How about dose fellows?" Queerqueg asked me.
He was pointing, with his harpoon, to a pair of sailors loading cargo onto what looked like a large, dark green fishing boat. The two men were in some kind of argument. They grumbled insults like "scallywag" and "scurvy dog" to each other, while they hauled aboard wooden chests with pearls and jeweled chains sticking out from under the lids. They reminded me of the sailors at the "Chowder's Inn," with their bandanas and striped shirts. One of them even had an eye-patch. We waved them down as we ran up to the end of the dock.
"Excuse me," I said, "You gentlemen look like you know your way around the dock better than most,"
The men suddenly exchanged nervous glances.
"What's that s'posed ta mean?" one of them snapped, while the other's hand crept slowly to the cutlass on his belt.
"You're sailors, I mean." I said quickly. "Aren't you?" I straightened my tie nervously. "I mean, you seemed like nice, peaceful sailors, who might know this place better than we would,"
A wave of relief came across their faces.
"Aye, that we be matey," the man with the eye-patch said. "Peaceful sailors."
The other nodded. "Peaceful law-abiding sailors, aye."
"You sailors sure talk funny," Queerqueg commented.
I stomped on his foot. Annoyed, he hit me back with the handle of his harpoon.
"Well yes," the first sailor said, in response to Queerqueg. "Everyone talks that way where we come from. See my friend and I here, we be, ah, Quakers. Quakers, yes. Right?" he turned to his companion.
The other nodded. "Arr—I mean, Aye. Quakers, yup."
I was in a hurry to get this conversation done with and be out of here. Quakers my foot. I may have been scatter-brained, but even I could tell which way the wind was blowing.
"Listen, we're just trying to find the Peapod." I explained. "It's a Duck. You know, not the bird. But like the boat with wheels, that can go on land and water,"
"Like at Wisconsin Dells!" the first "Quaker" said.
"Yeah," said the other. "And then when the tour's over, the tour guide makes that funny joke, 'Now you've looked out the rear end of a duck!'"
We all said the last part together, the "Quakers" laughing, and me sounding annoyed.
"Yeah," I sighed. "That's the one. You know where it is?"
The sailor was silent a moment. "Well ah,"
"Hey," Queerqueg pointed to the side of the boat, with his harpoon. "That say Peapod, right dere."
"Why yes, yes it does!" the sailor with the eye-patch said. "This be yer Peapod, right here. We're just, ah, loading it up for our old friend. Great man, Captain Ahole."
I stifled a snort. "Great man, maybe. Not a great name."
Queerqueg and I giggled.
The sailor frowned. "Now see here. Ahole didn't choose his own name, mate. His navy buddies chose it for him. And he only let it stick cuz it was less embarrassing than his real name. But don't you go judging Captian Ahole. He's had it rough, e'er since that accursed cock nibbled off his leg."
Queerqueg and I stopped laughing, and stared.
"What?" we finally asked, in unison.
"Aaah, so ye haven't heard the tale of Captain Ahole and the Great White?"
We shook our heads.
"Well," the pirate with the eye-patch began dramatically. "Ahole's story begins on a farm, in—"
"Ooo, can I tell this one?" the other sailor begged.
"How about, I tell them about Ahole, and you tell 'em about the cock."
"The what?" I asked.
"Moby Cock," the sailor with two eyes said, in a low voice. He leaned in closely to us. "There's a wild prairie chicken, they say, what roams these grasslands. A monster of a bird, over ten feet tall! Some say he's a radioactive mutant, escaped from a factory farm that sat too close to a polluted river. Others say he's prehistoric, the last living velociraptor on Earth."
Eye-patch nodded. "Those things did have feathers, you know. Didn't look nothin' like in 'Jurassic Park.' If you see the pictures they got in books now, they look like giant monster chickens, no lie!"
The other sailor continued. "He's got talons like a raptor, all right. And a beak that can pierce through concrete. He won't just peck out your eyes; he'll stab right though your sockets and suck out your brains, like a hummingbird does nectar. He can outrun a racecar, and some even swear they've seen him fly. When he makes his rooster call in the morning, it's like a thousand nails on a giant chalkboard. This ain't no fowl from the natural world, understand. Moby Cock hatched from under Satan's rump, down in the deepest pits of Hell. And when he's roamin' the prairie in search o' feed, ye can always spot him by his pearly white plumage."
Queerqueg and I nodded slowly.
"Huh," I said thoughtfully. "So, Captain Ahole lost a leg to a feathery velociraptor. Or a radioactive rooster."
"That's right." The one-eyed pirate said. "It was right after Ahole had returned from serving in the navy. Ma and Pa wanted him home on the farm, so they could celebrate his new promotion to captain. Ahole got together with a bunch of his mates, and they went out to hunt some wild game for dinner that night. They were hoping to find a nice, fat chicken for supper, maybe a turkey if they were lucky. Instead, they found Moby Cock." He signed heavily. "They should've left it alone. Just turned around, and found some nice, normal prairie chickens for dinner. But the fools were excited, and their judgment clouded with eggnog. Thought they'd show what men they were, if they'd bring back that giant cock's head to hang on their wall. They thought they could take the beast down, if they ambushed him from all sides. But turned out that shooting the rooster just made him mad.
"That's when poor Ahole's leg became chicken feed. Twelve men had gone out hunting that night, and four of them came back. Now Ahole wears a wooden timber, carved from a pillar of wood that used to hold up a chicken coop on the family farm."
The second pirate chimed in, "Yeah, don't mention anything about his leg when you see him. He likes to go on these rants…"
"Great," I muttered. "Sounds like this'll be a swell voyage."
"What're you worrying about?" the sailor asked. "You've nothing to fear from Captain Ahole. I mean, sure, he can be a bit of a, you know, A-hole. And his mind may've gone out the window for a short spell, when he was in the hospital with his bleeding stump after the chicken incident. But his senses flew right back home once the painkillers wore off. Ahole's sound as a pound now, trust me."
"Any idea when de captain and rest of de crew will be arriving?" Queerqueg asked, changing the subject.
"Not too long," the eye-patch guy said checking his watch. "Maybe half an hour at the most."
"Enough time to get some lunch then," I stuck my hands in my pockets. "Come on Queerqueg. There's a McDonalds' down there. Let's go."
As we made our way down the dock, we heard a familiar ringing, that sounded very out of place in the middle of September. Standing just at the front of the dock, on the lakeshore, was a Salvation Army Santa with a charity stand, ringing a little bell. He had apparently arrived set up his charity stand while we'd been talking with the sailors. Shrugging, I rummaged through my pockets for some change.
"Getting an early start this year?" I asked the Santa, as I dropped my coins into the charity slot.
The Santa stared down at us, with old, knowing eyes. His red hat cast a dark shadow over his face. Finally, he said slowly, "An early start…yes. And what of you two? Getting started on a long voyage?"
"That's what people come to a boat dock for, isn't it?" I said, now slightly annoyed. It always bugs the hell out of me when people try to sound all mysterious and prophetic by "predicting" stuff that a pre-kindergartener could've figured out.
The Santa nodded. "Yes, a voyage with Captain Ahole. A perilous voyage, it will be for you."
"I didn't know Chris Cringle was in the business of fortune telling," I said.
"My name ain't really Chris Cringle," he whispered, raising the puffball end of his hat out of his face. "This here's just a costume."
"Oh my god. Are you gonna tell me that Mickey Mouse isn't real either? My childhood is shattered! Come on Queerqueg, let's—"
"My name," the stranger said in a voice barely above a whisper, "Is Elijah."
Queerqueg was listening intently. I was less impressed.
"Elijah?" I chuckled. "Isn't it a bit early for you to be making prophecies, Elijah? Hanukkah ain't till December you know. The rabbi in this town told us you guys were just getting ready for your autumn high holidays."
Elijah gave a short laugh. "Very funny. How you know so much about Hanukkah? You Jewish?"
"No," I answered, "But I once dated a Jewish girl, so I learned a bit about it."
I found myself thinking of fonder times. Ah, Rachel Cohen, my first and last shot at getting laid during my entire high school career. She said she found my weird tangents and inattentiveness "cute." Unfortunately, we were just getting cozy on the couch when Grandpa Willis came in and chased her out, ranting about the "Jewish conspiracy" or something. By the time I'd tracked her down a week or so later to apologize, she'd already been swept off her feet by a chemistry geek named Kyle. And when your girlfriend has dumped you for a higher class of nerd, you know you're pathetic.
"Anything down there about your souls?"
I shook my head. "What?!"
Elijah gestured towards us with his little bell. "Or maybe you haven't got any. Maybe none of us has any," he lightly waved his bell around the whole dock. "A soul's a sort of fifth wheel to a wagon, after all. You know, like a wagon needs a fifth wheel. Like a fish needs roller skates."
I turned to see if Queerqueg was following any of this. He was scratching his head with his harpoon, staring at Elijah with a look of pure confusion.
"You haven't seen Old Thunder yet, have you?" Elijah eyed us carefully.
"Old who?" Queerqueg asked.
My god, I thought, this guy is worse with non-sequitors than I am. I wondered if this was how Queerqueg felt, whenever I turned a conversation about the weather or work into a rant about parallel universes, or jelly.
"Old Thunder," Elijah repeated. "Captain Ahole. He's a man of many nicknames. What'd they tell you about him, those—those 'Quakers'?" he did the little quotation-marks gesture with his hands (which looked odd, since he was wearing mittens; it looked like he was Carmel Dancing).
Queerqueg and I looked and each other, and shrugged.
"Not much," I admitted. "They seemed more interested in telling big fish stories about the chicken that bit him, to be honest."
"The chicken, yes. Moby Cock. The Great White." Elijah pointed his bell at us once more, this time more sternly. "Mark this, friends. The White Rooster is a danger to beware of, that's true. But evil wears many different faces, and you never know until it's too late. Captain Ahole ain't called Ahole for nothing."
I'd had enough. "Look, you weirdo. If you've got something to tell us, just spit it out. Otherwise, we'll be on our way."
Elijah slowly straitened up, looking as if he was getting ready to finally tell us what he'd really wanted to talk about. Then, he glanced over our shoulders.
"Afternoon, Captain!" he said, dipping his Santa hat.
Queerqueg and I turned around, and jumped. There he was, towering over us with a snarl. Captain Ahole was old and gnarled, dressed in a blue naval uniform, and a sea captain's hat. He reminded me a bit of Steamboat Willy, but somehow I figured it'd be best not to mention that. Our eyes traveled from the many shimmering metals on his uniform, to the bucked of KFC he held in one hand, and down to his wooden leg.
"Afternoon," he growled to Elijah.
Queerqueg and I smiled politely.
"Pleasure to meet you Captain," I said, trying and failing to keep my voice from cracking nervously.
"Yes, pleasure," Ahole said, not sounding pleased.
"So…" I tried to sound enthusiastic. "Who's ready to catch some pheasants?"
Queerqueg and I waited for Ahole's response. He slowly drew a breaded drumstick from his bucket, and took a vicious bite, like a lion ripping the flesh from a downed howler monkey.
"Not pheasants," he said after swallowing. "Chickens."
After an awkward second of silence, the captain turned to Queerqueg. His eyes traveled up and down his tattooed body, and over to Aqua-Buda Man tucked under his arm. Ahole rolled his eyes and shook his head, then made his way up the dock to the Peapod. As he climbed up the ramp to board the Duck, he frowned at the two sailors.
"Who the hell're you?" Ahole demanded.
"Uh," the two sailors looked around nervously.
"Get the hell outta' here!" Ahole waved his half-eaten drumstick at them. "Go commandeer someone else's boat, ye lowlifes!"
Without a word, the two "Quakers" leapt off the Duck and dashed down the dock, not even bothering to grab the treasure chests they'd hauled onboard earlier.
"Well," Queerqueg said, "I don't know about you Ichy, but I'm really ready for lunch now. McDonald's okay?" he gestured towards the restaurant with his harpoon.
"Yeah," I said. "And don't call me Itchy."
"Okay, Mr. Crane," he laughed.
I groaned, and followed him down the dock.