Pirates, and Arcades, and Skee-ball--Oh Wow

When I finally flopped to the dank sand of the beach, I was completely drained. There was a huge part of me that just wanted to lay there and fall asleep.

I thought, 'If I lay here long enough... The tide will come in and just carry me away.'

It wasn't such a bad thought.

And that was scary as hell.

I mean... It's me! Think of all those lonely little geeks who would miss having me around to spaz out with! And what about the fellow saltminers who share my deeply rooted psychoses? They would be totally bereft! (Then again, they might just forget me completely... I'm so strange that most people pretty much don't even think I'm a real person, just a delusion).

"Suck it up you friggin' sally, get up and put your damn skirt on."

I actually muttered this out loud as a way of psyching myself up... And, as usual, it seemed to work fairly well.

Unfortunately the first time I tried to stand... I got nothin'. I tumbled back down to the sand like a slinky down a staircase, almost landing on a small brown dog that was walking along the beach with his family. His shrill bark, along with the extremely apprehensive stares of the couple trailing along behind him actually succeeded in making me laugh.

'Oh god, those people think I'm drunk!'

At this I laughed even louder. Thus forever and completely driving these particular bystanders away from Hampton Beach. (I've been told that I have "an evil cackle," which makes me a little sad sometimes, since I love to laugh... But then I figure, fuck it!) Of course, come to think of it... All I had eaten in the past day was a few stale biscuits and some rum, so being drunk was not entirely beyond belief.

I did feel a little woozy.

When I had recovered from my hysterical fit of laughter I struggled to my feet. One boot was gone, looking fabulous on the sea floor no doubt. Damn, I really liked that boot. Oh well, as a Buddhist I'm always looking for ways to learn how to let go of things, so I guess a boot was a good enough place to start.

I took off the other one, and my multi-tool fell out. I was ridiculously grateful. I clasped that stupid thing like a five year old with a security blanket for a moment, and then shoved it unto my waistband at the small of my back. (Note to self: Find out what happened to my blankie; and then possibly stop talking to myself... at least out loud... and in public).

Anyway, reaching deeply down into my small, dark soul, I called upon reserves that I wasn't even truly aware that I had; I jogged up the beach and toward bright lights.

I appeared to have landed just below the boardwalk of Hampton Beach. Even thought my sense of time was off, I knew it couldn't be that late.

There were lots of cars driving by, and still quite a few people on the beach. However, I didn't see any help from that direction. Most of those reclining on the sand were teenagers of the Lovebird variety, and they were far more interested in their mating rituals than in helping a bedraggled and waterlogged Pirate Queen.

So I simply staggered up the beach, and aimed myself in the direction of the loudest venue I could find.

I found a doozy.

Oh yeah, the happiest place on earth... Funspot.

God I love arcades. *sigh*

Anyway,

While still working my way up the beach, I had removed my shirt just for a minute in order to squeeze some of the excess sea water out. (Quit leering and/or retching, you perv). I figured, since my current undergarment was a corset, it probably contained more material than the average bikini, so I was safe from allegations of indecent exposure. Still, I continued to drip profusely. No one in the arcade seemed to mind overmuch.

And soon, any possible onlookers had something much more exciting to think about than plain old me, because at just that moment my charming friend and three of his crew came running into the arcade, waving cutlasses, and shouting, "There she is! Don't let her escape!"

Seriously? Seriously?

W. T. F.

Finally, I was able to summon an emotion other than exhaustion or angst.

Standing there... sopping wet... 5'2.5" tall...barefoot... hair hanging crazily around my head...

I was furious. In fact, I'm pretty sure that if I had actually gone through with the operation to replace my tear ducts with lasers, I would have shot blue fire from my eyes.

And then I heard it, one of the most beautiful sounds ever invented in this universe or any other by a benevolent force. It was a low rumble, followed by a wooden clacking.

It was the sound of skee-balls rolling into place.

I didn't even have to think about it twice.

I swooped down on the teenage boy who was about to start tossing those balls, and I shoved him out of the way. I knelt, scooped, turned, and tossed them with all my might, one at a time, directly at my pursuers.

One of the first scummy swabs that came through the door took my first throw right in the chin and went over backwards like a bowling pin.

It was as if my aim that night was blessed by the gods. (And by "the gods" I of course refer to Matsuzaka, Beckett, et. al.)

One after another, the hefty wooden balls left my hand and flew straight to their targets.

It was beautiful, and I felt the righteous fury explode out of hand with every single throw.

I got every one of those knaves... None were left standing. Or so I thought.

I hate it when I get my hopes up, only to have them dashed to the rocks, like a clam dropped by a seagull.

It was that evil, laughing, "normal-looking" bastard.

I had the last ball in my hand when he emerged from behind a Super Mario Kart game, with a sword in one hand and a flint-lock pistol in the other.

And he was smiling. There was a gleam in his eye, and even a hint of a dimple.

Dammit. Why wouldn't he just die already?

(Plus, on a side note, how fair was it that he still looked charming and decently groomed, whilst I was a complete wreck? There is absolutely no god-damned justice in this world).

I cocked my arm back, prayed to Carlos Santana, and let the last projectile fly...