Screwed, Blu’d

and Tattooed

by

Reef Perkins

***Present***

On this early spring morning Ferling Bagwidth sat in his office on the second floor of the rundown Conch structure. Ferling Bagwidth was short and rotund and, although gravity cursed him, had no fear of it or respect for it. Gravity met another non-believer and smiled gently.

Bagwidth looked around the old Conch house, his home for many years. On quiet mornings he sometimes wished the crew had not cooked so much chicken during the voyage. He missed having a back wall, not to mention doors. On this particular morning however, Ferling Bagwidth finished his café con leche and walked boldly out and onto his front porch.

Ferling’s fingers, gnarled from years of dicking around, curled tightly on the grips of his self-activating, percussion powered Pogo stick. The Self-Activating Pogo Stick (SAPS) had been Bagwidth’s dream project for many years. He tried to market it to the US Army during various skirmishes. No dice, something about “sand, rice paddies, snow…” stopped the deal, as he recalled. But now, war was much more civilized and fought on paved city streets with gas guzzling weapons and nice outfits. He imagined a platoon of warriors charging an enemy camp on Pogo sticks. Employing this mental picture he remained dedicated to his dream, his pathway to riches.

Bagwidth’s prototype Pogo stick, named Looner-Too, was a stroke of genius. Powered by fifty .22 caliber blank rifle shells, a stainless steel disc near the bottom rotated as the rider went up and a new shell came into place. The firing pin was made out of an old clock pendulum bob. Down and Bang! The explosion theoretically sent the stick and pilot some twenty feet in the air and, theoretically, twenty to fifty feet forward. Of course, the fatter the pilot the greater the compression and Bagwidth was a fat Ace who longed to escape the surly blonds of earth. A successful flight depended on the skill and daring of the pilot.

Ferling gripped the shaft firmly and circled his thumb and forefinger in the spirit of Yoga-Zen-Buddha books. He took a series of deep breaths through his hair-laden nostrils. Bagwidth liked the whistling sound they made, like small jet engines spooling up. He was almost ready for takeoff when he ingested a fruit fly. Bagwidth coughed violently and shot his false teeth into the herb planter near the railing. The fly was vented to safety, but the airborne denture took out two basils and an immature mint plant on the way down. Still, nothing would stop Bagwidth this day.

Ferling didn’t need to chew anything anyway. “All I want to eat is AIR!” he gummed. He was feeling good. It was early morning, just past dawn. “It’s a good day, a good day to die!” He flapped his gums and yelled at the neighbors, who quickly gathered on their porches to observe Mr. Ferling Bagwidth’s biannual attempt to “Get’er done!” To perfect his Pogo stick or, die trying. Looner-Too was stenciled in black on the non-magnetic shaft.

“Think I’ll give her a go!” he always screamed, and screamed again as he prepared to vault down Dung Beetle Lane and into someone’s life.

Over the years, Bagwidth had been removed from garbage cans, kitty litter trays, old tires, swimming pools and the lower fronds of a Dwarf Malayan palm tree where he had remained for eight hours, ass out, being consistently mistaken for a clump of coconuts and needlessly prodded by curious tourists.

After eighteen years of “insincere attempts,” as the cops referred to the incidents, the police stopped showing up and some people cut the top off their pickets wanting to avoid liability. But the Conch kids kept selling tickets to unwary tourists.

Bagwidth was getting old and feared today’s test run. His knees were bad from Bocce ball. But, yet, and still, there was always the chance that today was the day. The neighbors were out in force and ready for his run, mimosas and legal sized scorecards in hand. Bagwidth had never scored more than 3 out of 10 during previous attempts.

He strapped his helmet and groin cup on. (The neighbors thought it funny when he got them mixed up.) Bagwidth looked at the eager faces awaiting takeoff and he began the launch sequence. He locked his knees and thought back to his own family and how he would miss them if he didn’t make it. Would they miss him? Probably not, they’re all dead, Bagwidth recalled and watched the time around him expand, every second a minute, every minute an hour. He’d have to watch out for slow moving neutrinos. “Think I’ll give her a go!” And give her a go he did.

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About the Author

Captain Mark T. “Reef” Perkins is a marine surveyor with a colorful past. From commanding a 150-foot 300 DWT US Army diving ship off Vietnam to smuggling in the Caribbean, Reef Perkins has become a living legend. A graduate of both the US Army Engineer Officer Candidate School and the US Navy Salvage Officers School, he’s a man comfortable in or out of the water. Raised in rural Michigan, Reef now lives in Key West where he can get his feet wet. He is the author of the bestselling memoir, Sex, Salvage & Secrets.

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Screwed, Blu’d and Tattooed copyright © 2013 by Reef Perkins. Electronic compilation/ print edition copyright © 2013 by Whiz Bang LLC.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. While the author has made every effort to provide accurate information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.

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