The Pug had become quite adept at using his superior intellect and charms to survive in a world where nothing was given, just begrudgingly earned. And it was no different once he set his gaze on the lofty goal of a new life across the sea in America, where God willing he could perhaps form a crime family and get free produce whenever he wanted from street vendors. That way he could hopefully forget the
woman who broke his heart and dumped him for Morissey.
And so The Pug soon made his way to the shore, until he was standing on the dock at Southhampton. It was there that he had the good fortune of bumping into a hippy stoner and his Asian girlfriend, who were trying to get to Holland or France. He quickly ingratiated himself to the unusual couple by complimenting the lady on her highly distinctive singing style, and how it curdled milk.
Possessing their confidence, The Pug was able to get the couple drunk and convince them that he knew the
Dali Llama (who was in town for a Zen Blogging Convention), and could arrange for them to be wed by the holy man. Uncertain of how much the ceremonial fee would be, he talked the couple into handing over all of their cash to ensure coverage. He told them to retire to bed and stay there until he returned. Which they did.
The Pug of course used the cash to purchase a one-way steerage-class fare on that morning's White Star Line departure. Soon the couple discovered the cruel ruse, and severely distraught, remained in bed for quite some time. The hippy stoner wryly vowed from that day forward to catch any future supposed admiring loners before they could inflict damage, unless they appeared nerdy and harmless.
But it was too late to stop The Pug. He was on his way to the verdant valleys and smooth peaks in the land of milk and honeys.
The only damper was that steerage left a lot to be desired. It seemed the ship designers neglected to fully extend the bulkheads that separated first and second-class passenger solid waste containment from third-class sleeping compartments. The majority of the Irish didn't seem to mind, but The Pug had acquired a more defined sense of taste, no doubt from his dalliances with London gals. Repulsed by both the stench and the steady menu of potato-based entrees in steerage, he set about moving on up, a la The Jeffersons.
Seeing her for the first time, gazing out onto the water from her promontory high above, both ethereal and stunning as she emptied trash onto the squalid third-class deck and the ocean itself, only increased the urgency of the task at hand. Was it that the sun illuminated her heaving bossum as she proceeded to text persons unknown that so struck his fancy? Or perhaps the impish and delicate manner in which she flipped him the bird as their gazes briefly intertwined? Hell if I know.
It was shortly thereafter that
Lady Luck again pitied him in the form of a rare, drunken
attorney whose first-class ticket he was able to pick-pocket in the stairwell. Mission accomplished. (Wish there was a huge banner over the bridge to proclaim it, thought The Pug.)
And as it turned out, not only was this good fortune for our intrepid hero, but also for the attorney. Banished to steerage, the now nearly sober defender of justice quickly lined up a number of cases from the all-too-court-familiar Irish. The public intoxication and domestic violence charges alone would keep him busy for the next five years. And of course the first-class passengers were grateful to have one less lawyer at their dinner tables, taking unacceptable percentages of buffet-style meal items and trying to talk their women into accepting depositions beyond the filing window.
The Pug wasted no time exploring the many wonders of first-class. He marveled how they even had a deck just for pooping! Maybe the rich didn't just THINK they were happy. They WERE happy! Good for them. He had just finished his contribution to the aptly named Poop Deck, when he spotted her again. Disheveled, she was standing on top of the rail in her "Lose Yourself in Aruba" t-shirt. Half-consumed jello-shot in one hand, ever-present cellphone in the other, she appeared distraught and suicidal.
The Pug raced to the rail and firmly grasped her around the upper torso. Dislodged, both the jello shot and cellphone embarked on their long journey to Davy Jones's locker, where at least one of the items belonged in the first place. But the ocean would have to look elsewhere tonight in order to quench its insatiable appetite for tourists.
As it turned out, the femme fatale had no intention of jumping. However, as she was cute, he had to error on the side of chivalry and save her regardless.
After the lady was able to recompose and extricate herself from The Pug's firm grip, she realized - even though he was scum - he did have his heart in the right place. And he also appeared to have everything else in the right place, and in the right quantities.
The Pug told her he was an artist, which was all she needed to shed her clothing and demand that he sketch her then and there. To the dismay of some and the amusement of others, they were standing in the middle of a shuffle-puck game at the time. It was soon revealed that the only consistently identifiable image he could draw was that of Snoopy, only in this case Snoopy had tits and a pearl necklace. But she took it well.
Surrendering to their passion, they were soon making love like spider monkeys in heat. There wasn't a vehicle in the cargo hold that they didn't introduce to the soon-to-be "Mile Below Club", nor was there a station in the fitness center left that - in clear violation of the posted placard - didn't still need toweling off after use.
As dusk approached, The Pug took his lady to the stern deck, revealing the lone pair of binoculars that he secretly purloined from the lookout's station. He showed her how to look through them out into the vast expanse of ocean. Then in one smooth motion he embraced her as he casually tossed the binoculars over the side.
Shame, as that very same optical aid was, at that very same moment, being frantically searched for by the lookout.
The loving couple then made their way to the radio room. The Pug was keen on new technology, and wanted to share that passion with his lady. Fortunately the radio operator was at dinner and had not secured the door, so our intrepid hero sat down and familiarized himself with the Marconi apparatus. It worked just like a telegraph, where one pecks out a series of dots and dashes to transmit. Conversely, he could hear received transmissions from other ships through his headphones. One was clearly a greeting from a neighboring ship, the Californian. Mischeviously, Pug tapped out the response: F-*-C-K-O-F-F. Offended, the other operator replied: S-C-R-E-W-Y-O-U-I-D-O-N-T-N-E-E-D-T-H-I-S-C-R-A-P, and logged off for the night.
Bursting into laughter, The Pug and his lady emerged from the room, and sought out more places to defile. It wasn't long before even more ominous grinding joined in unison with their own, as the ship scraped an iceberg that - for some reason - could not be spotted in enough time to take corrective action.
The ship was doomed. To compound the panic, for some reason no one from the Californian would respond to the radio operator's frantic pleas for assistance.
As the ship settled deeper into the water, The Pug and his lady completed their lustful fornication, and sought rescue on the decks above. Knowing that Molly Brown - enormous as she was - could still only occupy one side of the ship, he donned some of Molly's spare clothing in order to board a lifeboat on the opposite side. Perhaps for levity more than any practical reason, he admonished his lady to dress as Charlie Brown, complete with damaged kite trailing behind to complete the look and increase the pity factor.
Unfortunately here is where The Pug's luck finally ran out. He was immediately recognized as too gorgeous to be the actual Molly Brown, and was denied access. Ditto for Charlie Brown, as it wouldn't be fitting for that character to catch a break.
And so the couple calmly awaited their fate on the stern, jumping into the water just moments before the ship slipped into the abyss. The Pug found a piece of wreckage onto which he could hoist himself. Realizing that two people could not fit, he had no choice but to keep his lady at arms length away. It was then that he realized his lifelong penchant for maintaining distance from his women was actually a form of preparation for this fateful night.
Incalculable time passed as The Pug faded in and out of consciousness. He slowly and painfully glanced over to realize that, though now deceased, his lady still had managed to sneak ahold of the makeshift raft. Tenderly caressing her hand and releasing her grip, he gazed into her lifeless eyes one last time as she lightly descended into oblivion. Only then did he realize that his wallet was in her other hand. He could only hope and dream that someday technology would afford him the opportunity to retrieve it.
Just then he heard subtle splashing and turned to see Wilson. No longer was he alone.
.
