One January Morning, Part 22
That wasn’t the way it happened the first time around, of course. The first time around, she came aboard after a scouting mission gone wrong, decided that I wasn’t putting enough elbow grease into my work, and, as punishment, took my arms off with a lop of her sword. Then, before I could bleed out, she changed her mind about the manner of my demise. A woman’s prerogative, I suppose. She sat astride my chest and wrapped her cold, wet hands around my neck, and the last thing I saw as I passed from the world was her heaving bosom. I allowed myself the ogle. I thought I’d earned it.
When I died—well, as I had been as good and god-fearing a man as had ever walked the Earth, a deal was struck with me. I was elevated, so to speak, and given this quadrant of creation to look after so the boss could take a well-earned vacation. And so, while He played Skee-Ball down the shore, I decided to take out my vengeance on poor Lady Morgan.
But now, of course, there’s this: SWAT Morgan and Lady Captain Morgan conferencing with Deckhand Morgan (the older, softer me), attempting to smooth things over. Any moment now, they’re going to call up to me through the clouds and beg for forgiveness, beg for me to call off the aliens, the apocalypse, everything.
And what will I say? That’s the question. What should I say?
To be continued…