Thread: Pirates of Mexico

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Pirates of Mexico

Chapter 1


He still had some fight left in him. Old sea dog that he was, the taste of blood in his mouth excited his heart. Pulling his self from the water-rotted floor, the other sailors cheered as he spat out a tooth and shuffled his feet, so as not to be caught off guard again.

His opponent stood calm, like a captain at the helm of a Japanese warship. Amongst chaos, his arms were relaxed. The short helmsman watched and waited for another opportunity to strike the dancing sailor, all while bets changed hands in the dim-lit establishment, cries of "hora le!" rose from the mouths of off-duty soldiers, and Mexican police-men stood off to the side, flirting with the many young waitresses.

Old grey beard saw an opening. He ducked his head and charged the little one, tossing the Japanese over his shoulder and onto a bar-table. A happy little ditty played on the piano in the corner, while Toroshiro, for that was his name, rolled off seamlessly and ran out the back doors. He clutched his shoulder as he went, drops of blood and glass trailing behind him, and cries of merriment and festivity echoed throughout.

When Toroshiro could be sure that no one had decided to follow him, he slowed to a steady walk. The many stalls of the shantytown Orrega stretched out before him, where homeless bums clutching bottles of tequila spread their legs underneath flimsy wooden covers. The stalls spread wide, and stacked themselves up high across the beach like Lego bricks. Made of aluminum, wood, plastic, fiberglass, and whatever other trash was thrown out from the military ports on the southeastern side of the city, they looked ready to tumble over at any minute.

Toroshiro took off his bloodstained jacket and smothered a sleeping beggar. Once the man's movements subsided, the Japanese took what the man had: A shiv, a bottle of tequila, and a tiny medal of the Virgin Mary the beggar had worn around his neck. The man had had a few American dollars, as well. Good for something, Toroshiro supposed, and added the money to the considerable amount inside his wallet.

That night, the old sea dog had a dream. He had been tied to the masthead of a ship, aloft on a stormy sea. Piloting the ship was the Japanese, the very same one from the bar the other day. Old grey beard shouted at him for his release. "Let me go." He had shouted. "I demand release." But the Japanese was both deaf and blind, piloting the ship into oblivion, off into the gaping jaws of a terrifying sea monster.

When the old man woke up, the Japanese was there, sitting beside the little table the old man's granddaughter had bought him as a housewarming gift, bless her heart. Toroshiro sat calmly at old grey beard's table, sorting through his mail, occasionally glancing at the rather large map on the wall with quite a bit of interest. It seemed the Japanese didn't realize the old man was awake.

"If you're here, do something useful, Jap." Grey beard motioned his head towards the coffee pot. "I take mine black."

Toroshiro only seemed that much more amused. The apartment was small, decorated with cracked and faded yellow wallpaper, with enough room for a tiny metal bed, a toilet, faucet, and a bookshelf filled with all sorts of technical manuals and nautical files inside. The Japanese took quite an interest in those.

“You have many books. You are very intelligent.” Toroshiro spoke the words as a man who was interviewing some prospective employee, and who had found some qualities that he liked. The old man, sensing that the Japanese had not come for midnight revenge, shook his head and swung his legs over the old rusty rollaway bed, making a large metal creak.

He went to a gigantic metal basin near the sink that was filled with water, and splashed some into his face, flapping his hands to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. Then, looking into a small cracked mirror on the wall, he examined where Toroshiro had deprived him of his tooth.

“Come to check out the real estate, eh? Well, ‘fraid I can’t help you, Tokie. Only thing I’m good for is…” Old gray beard turned to Toroshiro, a wild look on his face. “Eh, maybe you want a woman, eh? There’s a bunch of cats up on the roof. Go on, take your pick.”

“How are your payments coming along, Mr. Herdez?” Toroshiro asked. The Japanese had, on the tiny glass table where he stood, a small receipt with the old man’s name on it. On the ledger, written in red ink it showed how much the old man owed. Toroshiro lightly rested his index finger under the amount.

Mr. Herdez scowled, and lurched forward to punch the chop-socky in his gut. But Toroshiro flipped the coffee table on its side and upwards, causing a smattering of glass on impact. Herdez stumbled back and grunted, gripping his wrist and hand to staunch the blood.

“Glass hurts very much, Herdez-san. But I like you very much,” And Toroshiro bent in close, so that his face was an inch away from the sailor’s, “Herdez-san. So I will offer you a job.”