Sometimes the journey you set out on is not the one you return from.
I lay on my stomach on the Belgian cream-colored sheets, the 220 foot yacht rocking in the waters somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. I had finished a pitcher of screwdrivers before the sun came up and was feeling woozy. As I dozed in my bikini, something jumped on my back. I tried to fight it off, rolled over and found myself looking at a giant tongue and two beady eyes. It was like being married again.
All six foot of Charlie’s bony body retreated when I brought my knee up catching him in his man-berries. He turned rolling off the bed and abruptly slamming his johnson into the teak nightstand. His penis was huge, dark, and engorged. I was right about the pills in his master suite. They were Viagra.
"I knew you were taking that junk. Don't waste your time," I said to the naked old man with the flabby butt as he held himself with a panicked look on his face. "And get out of my suite. That door was locked for a reason! How'd you get in here?"
“It’s been more than four hours, Wendy,” he whimpered. “I’m still hard and it hurts like hell. Help me!” His once chiseled Cherokee features hung like melted wax from his cheek bones.
“My promise to Marci to care for you did not include sex… in no way… under no circumstances. That’s what you get for messing with that stuff. Call your doctor. Send the helicopter for him. Just get out of my way!”
I snatched the ten pound white hairball called Tinkerbelle from the foot of the bed and made my way to the sun deck. Charlie Treadaway’s Predator was a yacht on steroids. It took ten minutes to get from my suite to the upper floor. Charlie had spent over $200 million of Ponzied money on this floating erection.
The tricked-out ship was designed to stay at sea for months. It had huge walk-in refrigerators, fuel capacity of 60,000 gallons, reverse osmosis for turning salt water into fresh, was bombproof, had a state-of-the-art cloaking device, and with its high-speed twin 24,000 horsepower diesel engines it was able to outrun anything on the high seas. Charlie recited the Predator’s talents daily, like a mantra that he hoped would keep away the feds, investors, and victims who wanted nothing more than to see him keel-hauled.
Once on the sun deck, I reclined on a cushioned lounge chair. Tink licked my face, her Maltese dog fur tickling my nose. I wrapped her leash around my left hand and whispered into her ear. “You poor little puppy. Your mama’s dead.” The tears came and I knew there was no holding them back.
Three weeks earlier I had arrived on the Predator too late to save my friend. Marci’s body was withered, her beautiful raven hair had fallen out, and her eyes were dark, dead orbs. Charlie Treadaway stood by her bedside looking like the helpless lump of shit he was. I screamed at him, “Take her to a hospital!” He left the room.