Fiction: Boat Crew

By Jai Knight

Call me Acorn.
The ship’s clown band trio: Podium.
Acorn Bradberry (strings/vox) says “Chill.”
After many years with the Clown Troupe, it had become crystal clear to me that the one member of Podium who’d never shown much interest in women, Darren, was a creepoid re: females. 
A recently received inheritance wrangled from dead Grandmamar was the confidence catalyst for his brazen exposure of previously hidden, depraved views about underage girls.
Leering at and pointing out friend’s young daughters, “She must be sprouting by now.” All jokes and mega lolz just for him.
Following ‘the incident,’ an ultra seriously taken gripe woz his smear campaign re: me. With inflammatory texts about Mr Bradberry even being sent out a day after the birth of Darren’s second daughter.
I was always so on hiss mind.
A reminder of Tontaav’s casually constructed veneer of false alternative respectability.
Darren Tontaav (penny whistle/tambourine) says “Fever Dream.”
(I’m kinda hesitant about putting this next bit of putrid drivel down here, coz as we all know, a lotta times shit irl is more pathetic & beige than any gritty fiction.)
But: soon after returning from an African cruise tour, Darren started referring to black women as “monkey pussy,” chattering about the contrast between the pink insides of their vaginas and their dark skins.
How about this too? You tell me..
Remember that Pakistani family who lived next door to Darren, with a daughter aged about four? 
Once upon a time she was digging in their back garden as we were talking over the fence with her and her siblings.
The digging child said “Lookit Mr Worm! Allah made ‘im an’ dat..”
When we went indoors, Darren joked about how he’d like to take her upstairs to his bedroom, say “Here smoke some of this,” and strip her naked on the bed.
He looks up mostest to Jewish Gordon.
“Butt Acorn, Gordon wears such wick clothes.”
“What, all that bright stuff?”
Well, I don’t fuck with cultural clich├ęs and was brought up not to, but Gordon lives a stereotype stylistically and a whole heap of boho hipster moots veiling as “shanty” got mad respect for his scrimping ways.
He sits tightly tight on that inheritance, acting like he’s seen it all before, his caper; cynical.
Jokey blokey.
Being the son of a feminist single mum reed instrument player, he was brought up to respect the equality.
Gordon naturally rebels.
Poses: Eating all the meat, footie and naughty stuff like beers and smoking, laughs at anything “arty.”
Poses: Anal sex BIG TIME “Every man’s fantasy,” and is hip to the lyrics of the Stephen Still's song ‘Love The One You’re With.’
Scoffs uproariously at marriage and any form of relationship commitment.
T    h   e  r e’s an ever present nervousness tho, seen re: his ganja-dusty brain language. Unconfident but load veneered.
Holding forth court with a hand in front of his mouth, censoring for all he wants to impress.
And then th e  r   e    ’s that ol’ uptightness. Dressed in colourful clothes and gypsy garbs and always rocking tops with horizontal stripes/geometric patterns, subconsciously signifying: Gordon’s togetherness.
(Gape any online photo of him and clock those hand hovers & stripes.)
Before joining Podium, years were spent alto sax wailing on Italian street corners.
Emulating sleazy jazzers from black and white posters of New York and cultivating a landing strip-like solid soul patch.
Yaymep’s ass play repertoire consisted of opening lines such as, “Ever blown up a tuchus?” A staggering quantum vacuum.
Gordon Yaymep (sax/percussion/vox) says “I’m here.”
Darren laid the following scene on me re: a split between Gordon and his girl-in-a-port girlfriend. Darren recalled Gordon opening a drawer and showing off a big black strap on dildo "Bitch didn't get to keep Baby!”
And I might as well share with you, coz ol’ chatty Darren felt a need to share with me. 
Flick to Amsterdam 2018: 
Gush him and Gordon floating through the red light district on magic mushrooms, becoming sweatily horny. 
Back at their hotel: 
They’d sat shirtless playing flutes to each other throughout the night, with erections straining then slowly softening, bringing on four blue balls.
: Latent tensions.
Heh, yeah..this one time right, after a shore leave night on the tiles, we were all heading back to the docks when a miniskirted Persian chick walked past. 
Those two were immediately triggered, automatically slagging her off.
“What’s the problem mateys?’ I didn’t get it. "Don’t you like looking at fit girls?" Seemingly I had to break it down to the basics, "She’s enjoying herself and we’re enjoying it too.”
“I’ve never thought of it like that before,” replied Gordon. He was in his late thirties at that point.
Absurd. I chucked a meditative piss.
Having no map of this mutual new world, giving up on these lifeforms was the only available course.
I couldn’t stick them harshing my vibe anymore (man).
At the first opportunity I resigned and joined an established troupe named 'Rational,’on a ship setting sail for Vancouver.
Rumours are abound that my ex-band members started a new group, ‘The Peg Legs.’
Crossing different genres.
Me, myself, still feel seasick when I think about the events of our last set.
Being oh so knowledgable of their ways, how then did I get sucked into conjuring up ‘The Butt Plug Saga of 2019’ as it’s now known as?
I already sensed the synergy before we hit the stage. Fresh condescending waves noticeably swelled.
Arriving on a cheap bike seemed to irk.
Darren- “One can imagine you with the nickname ‘Wheels’ and everyone was like “Hey Wheels."
Gordon- “Look, look at Acorn’s hands.” (Trying to separate/objectify me?)
Darren- “Imagine you had a dog, ha! Acorn and his dog.”
it was whilst performing our famed ‘The Tears of a Clown’ routine in front of the ship's captain, chaplain and  VIP passengers that a butt plug squirmed out.
A rabbit out of a hat.
Didja know? There had been a discount 3 for 2 offer on BP’s. Gordon and Darren had approached me about chipping in and..
The plug rolled under the stage lights and stopped in front of our audience's reality.
Bored of basking in a war of attrition and things of a similar nature and so forth, straight after, I rode away. 
Started rooting, writing stories and that during quarantine.
I am that I am.
One’s never been a clown at sea.
I’ve never been called Acorn Bradberry.

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