Chapter 11 – Tunnel Vision
A normal day for a Marine usually included being trapped in hostile waters, fighting tooth and nail against outrageous odds without the hope of help or rescue. The possibility of waking up to that every morning drove most enlisted men and women to the edge of their sanity and had, in many instances, driven them right over it. But there were Headquarters-patented and World Government-approved methods of dealing with mental distress that would delay the paranoia, schizophrenia, and general madness for years at a time.
These included:
1) a strict regimen of physical training
2) liberally dousing everyday speech with ear-scorching profanities
3) healthy meals whenever possible
4) engaging in the enthusiastic destruction of public and private property
5) a daily ration of rum,
6) and if not outright killing pirates then at least a horrible maiming or, barring that, getting a few good kicks in before throwing them in a cell.
For justice, of course.
The fact that Smoker could not do any of those things, while wearing formal dress, had worn on him for the entire evening.
As the Headquarters appointed psychologist would have told him (had someone not tied him up and left him in the broom closet of the Loguetown barracks when he'd tried reasoning with Smoker about the lunacy of following one measly five-man pirate crew into the Grandline), in stressful situations, a person will focus on only one aspect of an object or environment while ignoring everything else around them. This is called tunnel vision and it's the curse of misdirected adrenaline.
Lord Fop was mindful of the condition, which is why he had the doors of the humidor kept wide open. He motioned for Jeffrey to bring out another selection of cigars and made his final play to keep the Marine, his future cash bull as it were, on Runess.
"Captain, if you do plan on staying for the hunting party, perhaps we should send word to your driver and have him return to the ship?" Lord Fop's tone made it clear that only his slavish devotion to good manners was behind this suggestion. It was not difficult to fake when he saw that the Marine was swilling his brandy. Swilling, for the love of -
"Yeah. He's probably bored."
Lord Fop acted quickly, before the Marine could change his mind. He motioned to Jeffrey and told him to send the man in the stables back to the ship as soon as possible.
"Certainly, m'lord." Jeffrey leaned down and murmured. "But I've just been informed that there's a situation with one of the ladies of the staff. Involving your son, m'lord."
"Clar – "
"The other son, m'lord. And his, ahem, agricultural studies." Jeffrey continued before Lord Fop could interrupt again. "His activities with oats, m'lord."
Lord Fop glanced over at the Marine. The quarry appeared to be enjoying himself and really, who could tell with animals anyway? He stood up to with deal agrarian difficulty. "If you will excuse me…"
They did and began speculating about their host's sudden exit as soon as he'd left the room. Smoker could have told them because, contrary to what the officers at Headquarters thought, he had excellent hearing.
Eventually the speculation ended and the aristocrats drifted to another interesting subject; one which Lord Fop would have not wanted them broaching.
The subject was: "What happened to your companion for this evening, Captain?"
Before Smoker could explain that she'd abandoned her commanding officer to dancing, another aristocrat spoke up. "I do believe she was being escorted by Merrick."
The other lords in the room smiled knowingly.
"What's so funny?"
The smiles disappeared. Lord Torrance searched for the right words – ones that wouldn't bring about a repeat performance of what the Marine had done to the servant at dinner. "Merrick is often found in flagrante delicto with young women left in his company for too long."
They watched warily as the captain mulled this over.
"Is that all?" he asked. The aristocrats were pleasantly surprised by the Marine's response, not realizing that Smoker thought Torrance was talking about a type of dancing.
Baron Brightwith, made bold by a few too many brandies, continued. "Your young lady, well, we all know why women join the Marines. A bunch of men in close quarters; that's the allure for them. Isn't that true, Captain?"
Smoker took a swig of his brandy. After a week, a bunch of men in close quarters held as much allure as a pig farm.
"It's scandalous. I can't believe that Headquarters allows women to serve along side at all," Lord Torrance said. "The only thing they serve is as a distraction."
Plague was the word Smoker would have used. Hina had worn out two dendenmushi already by sending him faxes asking him to comment on important memos from Headquarters but they both knew it was just an extension of her favorite amusement, "Pissing Smoker Off."
Hina pretended to like this kind of party. Maybe Torrance and her had met -
"But they're so feeble when compared to men."
Right. Torrance didn't know Hina.
"You know they have to make allowances for them – be given the easy work, shuffling paper and things." Brightwith told the other gentlemen. "They aren't proper Marines at all. We should leave the fighting to the real men. Don't you agree, Captain?"
The baron's question wasn't answered the way he expected. A short affirmative grunt would have been sufficient, but instead the captain blew out a stream of smoke and then asked, "You saying you think you could be a Marine?"
Brightwith laughed. "Well, of course. My family has a long and illustrious military career. Why, my grandfather bought himself a very excellent commission as a rear admiral. "
The Marine removed both his cigars from his mouth and examined them carefully. "Bought his commission?"
"Certainly. It's the only respectable means for men of our station."
If any of Smoker's Marines had been in the room, they would have started looking for exits. "Versus working your way up."
"Working is fine for the dregs from other parts of the ocean but we needn't prove how good we are." The baron motioned for one of the serving men to fill up his glass and continued. "It's not as if we're members of a no-name family from some pirate port!"
The captain smiled, or at least showed his teeth. "Like Loguetown."
"By god, man, exactly!"
Lord Torrance, who knew more of the background of their special guest than the baron, cleared his throat desperately.
But the baron was not up to noticing subtle hints. "And I think that if gentlemen of means were to take control of the Marines, the Grandline – nay, the Grandline and the Four Blues – would be free of piracy forever!"
The other gentlemen nodded, since clapping discretely would have meant putting down their brandy and cigars.
Except Captain Smoker. He neither nodded nor clapped, but instead gave his emphatic opinion on the lords of Runess and their probable effect on the Marines.
He assured them that if gentlemen of means were in charge, there would be an immediate increase of anarchy on the high seas. An honorable profession would go into decline; even though the ranks of Marines were filled with dregs, none of them had been caught raiding their elderly aunts' closets. He added that the seas would turn red with blood before he ever worked with a man like the baron. Red with gentlemen's blood if he had to be specific.
The baron had turned a brilliant shade of purple. "I never!"
Smoker ground the stubs of his cigars in a silver ashtray and stood up. "I bet you haven't."
Baron Brightwith threw his brandy aside and strode forward, glove in hand. "You insolent man! I demand satisfaction!"
No one would disagree that the baron had guts. This was fortunate; they often had to work overtime due to his complete lack of brains. That's why the hand halted in mid-arc and the glove flapped against the baron's wrist instead of connecting with Smoker's face. But the guts, busy stopping the hand, couldn't prevent the mouth from sputtering, "You, sir, are no gentleman!"
Smoker stared at the man for a moment. His gaze slid to the other aristocrats and finally to the open doors of the humidor.
He focused on the baron one more time and said, "No shit."
Then the doors of the study exploded inward, showering the room in splinters and ash.
"Alright, hands in the air, no heroics, and everyone will go home with all the right appendages." The thief was pissed when he walked right into the door, which he thought he'd blown open pretty nicely. Now he'd ruined his threatening speech, which he'd been practicing all week.
He took a wary step back when he realized it wasn't the door he'd run into.
But he was a professional. He gave the guy what he thought was a threatening grimace. "Hey, Lord High and Mighty, get in the corner with the rest of the gentlemen or get a few extra holes instead."
The man said, "Didn't you hear? I'm no gentleman."
And the bandit received a hands-on lesson in tunnel vision.
Thanks to Mess – whose Marine fangirl email conversations have led to the inevitable conclusion that any action can be warranted if the driving force behind it is justice.
The next chapter – Tashigi demonstrates the finer points of sergeant majoring, the debutantes learn a valuable lesson and Smoker hits bandits repeatedly in the face.
