47. Mutiny on the Cotopaxi?

Fog today – a real pea-souper. The decks are damp and eerie.

Went on a long run down to the Presidential Kitchens. Liberated: one block of parmesan (slightly iffy), two dozen onions (squishy), and half a bag of shallots (decidedly off).

Dined like a king.

My breath could now drop X himself, at five hundred yards.

I overheard an argument between Bailey and most of his clique this morning.  There was big ol’ talk from Bailey of ‘taking the ship’, but he soon had a subordinate by the throat, screaming blue-billy-o in his face, when it became clear that most of his men were more afraid of X than they were of him – poor, old Bailey.

What followed involved plenty of cretinous whining, explosively blue language, and descriptive hand gestures that involved a very sharp knife, but at the end of it Bailey was forced to storm off, saying he was ‘piss-tired of all this,’ and that they ‘could forget taking the ship’ – he was off to ‘ask more questions.’ ‘To beat it out of ‘em, one woman at a time, if need be.’ That ‘now all this shit was out in the open, he had a much better chance of finding—‘

Finding what, I don’t know, as the ship’s horn chose that precise moment to bellow out into the fog.

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