Ask Bob

BY BRIAN PETRE

Ive been having trouble writing lately. You see, when you dont know who your fucking audience is anymore, how can words from a stranger be entertaining? So, I decided you should know more about me. Ill start with a recent bowel movement I just had, which lasted for two days. I had to suffer with it for four days because the toilet was clogged, but only had to shit for two. No, maybe thats too disgusting. How about the time I kept drinking this nasty liquor I found beside the sink that tasted like soap. Well, thats just a stupid story too, because it was soap. Or maybe youd like to hear about the good old days when I used to loose my car on a regular basis because I could never remember what bar I was at the night before. Then theres the time I went to answer the door, and just before opening I did the power snot blow where you hold one nostril shut to shoot the boogers out. Id answered the door to one of the most beautiful women I ever met, had a nice conversation, and told her my roommate wasnt home to see her. I later looked in the bathroom mirror only to find a line of snot going straight up my face leading to a big ass booger at the end, just above my eyebrow. Yup, got the old wrap around.

No, you didnt come here for any of that stupid shit did you? In fact, youre now wondering why youre reading this at all. Let me remind you. This heres the continuing story of a drunken sailor on a stolen tug called the � Pelican Magic �. Welcome to Tales of the � Pelican Tragic � V. My names Brian, and its not my fault youre here.

Whores. Id last left off with the whores of Panama. This was on the West Coast side in a city called Balboa. This was a real piece of shit town, dangerous and filled with armed retards. This included me and the First Mate (except I want armed), who was the one who suggested this great idea of a night out.

We had to flee the boat in the middle of the night to avoid conflicts with the redneck engineers, a couple of dumb, yet funny bumbling idiots from the Carolinas. This was because we were supposed to be watching the generators and other such important equipment, which we didnt really give a shit about at this point. We had survived the crossing from hell to get here (see � Pelican Tragic � I through IIII), and it was time for some fun.

As I mentioned in the last story, guys like us get stopped by the cops as soon as we pass through customs in places like this. This isnt to arrest us though, its to make us pay for services, passages and such. I wont go into much detail about situations like this, but theyre more dangerous than protective. So the cops give us our special cab, which belongs to us for the night for only 30 bucks, and we head off to a titty bar at the First Mates request.

This place we were taken to was like something out of a western novel on heroin. It was an old Panamanian saloon on the docks that had no windows, no signs, and only one door. We had to walk through these beads hanging down to get inside, and thats the only moment you have to see where youre actually at without showing fear. One flinch in this place and youre never going to have the chance to steal another tug boat again. Or take another breath for that matter. There were four nasty ass whores, and six drunk drugged up armed nutcases in there, and all they want is your money. This didnt worry me at all. All that made me think twice was the watered down liquor.

Let me explain something to you about me at that time of my life. I didnt give a fuck about anything. I should have been dead at least twice a day for a year prior to this point. I was young, violent, and had nothing going for me, and if I did I didnt know it. I was a two year unshaven pool hustler who had just stolen a tug boat with the crew from hell, and I looked like a crack addict on steroids. I stared into anyones eyes with one thing in mind. Get the fuck out of my way or Ill kill you. And that was that.

Now dont let any of that last paragraph scare you, I just need you to realize who had actually walked into this bar. They were by far more scared of us. Not to mention my partner in crime, the First Mate, was bigger than a WWF wrestler. Except he really was on steroids. And crack. But fuck it, this is who, where, and what we were.

Now Im an upstanding citizen with a traveling circus, so as you can see I finally turned myself around and made something of myself. Back to my story.

Sorry to say, but there wasnt not much else to this place, except that the whores scared the fuck out of us. I mean these had to have been the most disgusting women I�ve ever seen, so we just up and left. It�s the next place that actually made me tremble a bit, until I calmed the shakes with a bit of whiskey. The cabbie called it � the apartments �.

We pulled up to this new place, and there were motorcycle cops all around it flanking this gate. The cabbie went up and talked to them for a minute, and they backed their bikes up to let us walk in. This place would make Manson run away screaming like a little girl. The cabbie actually escorted us in. It was 5 story square building with a cement courtyard in the middle. Correction, this was a fucking prison. All of the doors had large gates in front of them, almost all padlocked from the outside. Sitting on every level, at about every fifth door, was a guy armed with a small machine gun. These guys just sat in their chairs clocking us, but were also very careful not to make eye contact. Again, to be honest with you, this didn�t really bother me. Everyone I knew at the time carried guns, but Ive never actually seen any single one of them pull the trigger. I guess one would say its better to have a gun and not need it, then to not have a gun and need it. I saw this type of man as a pussy. I never had a gun, and Ive stared down a few barrels in my day, and not once did I ever wish I had a gun in those situations. If I did, someone would have been dead. It probably would have been me, Im a shitty shot.

So the cabbie takes us up some steps to this door, knocks, and of course, a whore answers. She wasn�t as bad as the dog dick ugly whores at that last upscale place I told you about, so the First Mate settles. We sit down, the cabbie leaves, and there we are, two guys and one girl. Now, I don�t know exactly what anyone else had in mind, but it seemed to me the hormonal balance in the room just wasnt quite right. Using the best Panamanian lingo I could I ask, � where the fucks the other girl? � . Right on cue, theres a knock at the gate. But, it�s a little old man. Now Im really sure somebodys misread the situation and Im ready to fight my way out. Once again my fear of being caught in some strange sexual encounter was just a misunderstanding. The little old man was just an escort down to another room. So, I followed.

I end up a few doors down, and was pretty sure it wasnt just a setup to separate my friend and me, so I enter another caged room by myself. Inside was a beautiful chick, from Columbia I believe. I mean she was drop dead gorgeous. This was a problem. Its not that I don�t like beautiful women, but it makes me nervous when theyre out of place, and with a guy like me. So, I go over to the gated door of the apartment, which only had a bed, chair, and little table, only to find the door had been locked from the outside. Now its time to start shitting my pants.

The little old man was outside, between the two apartments of me and the First Mate, so I call him over. The gunmen didn�t really seem to mind, hell, maybe I was a kinky perverted scumfuck or something. I sent him out for a bottle of whiskey and some smokes. What would you do with your last few minutes alive, huh? This was my cheers to a pissed off life. He came back with everything I asked for, I gave him 20 bucks, and I proceeded to get drunk with a Columbian whore locked in a cell in Panama while waiting for my death.

Obviously death never found me. What did find me was a freaked out panicked cabbie trying to quickly unlock my cell. I�d been in there for about 30 minutes laughing and drinking with this chick, who, as I was getting rushed out the gate, demanded her 40 bucks. So I threw the money in the air and stumbled out to the gunmen. There was a problem.

It turns out my friend, the First Mate, who had been wanting a whore all night long, could not perform and didnt want to pay for no services rendered. There I am, about to die, but now because my friend couldnt get it up. Thats where I draw the line.

Im willing to die for many things in any situation, but this was not one of them. Given my recent understanding that I could walk away throwing 40 bucks in the air and make it 10 feet away from a locked gate I figured Id try it again. This time we successfully made it all the way back to the cop guarded gate, escorted by several 9mm to the head.

We made it out alive, the whores got 40 bucks each, and nobody got laid. Id call that an interesting evening. We made it back to the tug, and when we awoke the next morning we both just looked the captain in the eye and said, � no generator troubles last night, sir � .