Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal by Keith Thomson Read Free Book Online Page B

through the bay window
with enough force that the house was sheared off its stilts, and
inhaled Augie and Lucy.

“I scrambled to the window—an uphill climb as the house
was canting. I tried to hold the beast’s jaws apart with the fire
poker so as to try and reach in and get my family. In short, that’s
how I lost the right arm. I still had my left though and was good
to go a round with the blubbery bastard using one of the new
roof beams that’d been knocked loose. But he just flashed me a
silly grin, turned his fat tail, and sank into the dark water. That
was the last I saw of him till I came down here.”
The jury sat there in silence. Salts all, they didn’t need
telling that sperm whales don’t attack at all, let alone like
homicidal maniacs. I wasn’t sure if they were stunned or
unmoved or simply didn’t give a seahorse’s ass.
“Also, the homeowner’s insurance didn’t kick in until
January 1st,” I threw in.
On that note, I heard a sniffle or two from the jury box.

P.S. Here’s a scrimshaw my harpooner Flarq did of jury foreman
Raymond Kelp, known, cause of his personality, as “Sting Ray.”

Monday, 12 July 2004 10:14 AM
The Verdict
    After three minutes of deliberation, the jury reached a verdict
and the twelve men returned to the courtroom. It seemed
everyone on Guava was stuffed into the little courthouse or
throwing elbows for position outside the windows. Folks had
come from neighboring islands too, including the Governor of
the Lower Windwards, the Admiral of the Tortolan navy and five
of his men, and regional pop idol Johnny Manta and his backup
singers, the lovely Tunettes. Money was changing hands so quick
it sounded like folks were applauding—the latest odds were 8 to 7
against me.

Judge Archipelago asked jury foreman Raymond Kelp to
read the verdict. All eyes then shot to the index card in Kelp’s
hand. He stared down at it and reddened, which I didn’t take as
too good a sign. He said nothing. For a while.
“Please, sir, what does it say?” Archipelago asked.
“What, do I look like some kind of literature perfessor?”
Kelp snapped. [Note: The literacy rate on these islands isn’t
much higher than the rate of snow plow owners.]
Per Archipelago’s nod, the bailiff took the card from Kelp
and brought it over to the bench. The judge glanced at it, then
addressed the court.

“Justice,” he declared, “has been served!” Everyone looked
at him blank, save the bookies making new odds on what the
hell he’d meant. “Court is adjourned,” Archipelago added.
“There’s a whale that needs killing!”
As you’d expect, I was a mix of jubilation and relief.
Everyone in the courthouse was more curious how Mutherford
and his phalanx of Bluepeace lawyers’d react. Even money had
it that the veins that had been popping out of Mutherford’s
forehead and neck when he made his vile pronouncements
against me would now burst altogether. But he couldn’t’ve
looked more relaxed if he’d spent all morning swinging in a
hammock with the Tunettes.

“We will not appeal,” Mutherford said, costing a lot
of Guavans a lot of money. But then Mutherford produced
a document and added, “Because we have an order for the
extradition of Mr. Gus Openshaw for trial on the island of
Tortola for violation of Chapter XXII, Article VIII of the Penal
Code there.”

Taking that as a cue, the Tortolan navy guys marched
towards me jangling with darbies (a local, painful version of
handcuffs) and leg irons.

“We got to run, Gus,” said my defense attorney, Nelson,
tugging me towards the back door.

Nelson’s got his own reasons for running. Me: I don’t
have time to sit around in another court, let alone another jail.
At least not until the blubbery bastard is dead. So I’ve got to run
now as well.
P.S. For some reason, Flarq
didn’t scrimshaw any of the
trial proceedings, choosing
instead to render one of the
Tunettes.

Monday, 12 July 2004