“I win,” Fisheye says. “So how do we get these Bruce Lee guys to come over here and talk to us?”
“Why should they want to?” Eliot says. “We got nothing they want except for poontang.”
“Are you saying these guys are homos?” Fisheye says, his face shriveling up.
“Shit, man,” Eliot says, “you didn’t even blink when I told you about the scalps.”
“I knew I didn’t like any of this boat shit,” Fisheye says.
“If this makes any difference to you, they’re not gay in the sense that we usually think of it,” Eliot explains. “They’re het, but they’re pirates. They’ll go after anything that’s warm and concave.”
Fisheye makes a snap decision. “Okay, you two guys, Hiro and Eliot, you’re Chinese. Take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“Do it. I’m the president, remember? You want Vic to do it for you?”
Eliot and Hiro can’t help looking over at Vic, who is just sitting there like a lump. There is something about his extremely blasé attitude that inspires fear.
“Do it or I’ll fucking kill you,” Fisheye says, finally driving the point home.
Eliot and Hiro, bobbing awkwardly on the unsteady floor of the raft, peel off their survival suits and step out of them. Then they pull off the rest of their clothes, exposing smooth bare skin to the air for the first time in a few days.
The trawler comes right alongside of them, no more than twenty feet away, and cuts its engines. They are nicely equipped: half a dozen Zodiacs with new outboards, an Exocet-type missile, two radars, and a fifty-caliber machine gun at each end of the boat, currently unmanned. A couple of speedboats are being towed behind the trawler like dinghys and each of these also has a heavy machine gun. And there is also a thirty-six-foot motor yacht, following them under its own power.
There are a couple of dozen guys in Bruce Lee’s pirate band, and they are now lined up along the trawler’s railing, grinning, whistling, howling like wolves, and waving unrolled trojans in the air.
“Don’t worry, man, I’m not going to let ’em fuck you,” Fisheye says, grinning.
“What you gonna do,” Eliot says, “hand them a papal encyclical?”
“I’m sure they’ll listen to reason,” Fisheye says.
“These guys aren’t scared of the Mafia, if that’s what you have in mind,” Eliot says.
“That’s just because they don’t know us very well.”
Finally, the leader comes out, Bruce Lee himself, a fortyish guy in a Kevlar vest, an ammo vest stretched over that, a diagonal bandolier, samurai sword—Hiro would love to take him on—nunchuks, and his colors, the patchwork of human scalps.
He flashes them a nice grin, has a look at Hiro and Eliot, gives them a highly suggestive, thrusting thumbs-up gesture, and then struts up and down the length of the boat one time, swapping high fives with his merry men. Every so often, he picks out one of the pirates at random and gestures at the man’s trojan. The pirate puts his condom to his lips and inflates it into a slippery ribbed balloon. Then Bruce Lee inspects it, making sure there are no leaks. Obviously, the man runs a tight ship.
Hiro can’t help staring at the scalps on Bruce Lee’s back. The pirates note his interest and mug for him, pointing to the scalps, nodding, looking back at him with wide, mocking eyes. The colors look much too uniform—no change in the red from one to the next. Hiro concludes that Bruce Lee, contrary to his reputation, must have just gone out and gotten scalps of any old color, bleached them, and dyed them. What a wimp.
Finally, Bruce Lee works his way back to midship and flashes them another big grin. He has a great, dazzling grin and he knows it; maybe it’s those one-karat diamonds Krazy Glued to his front teeth.
“Jammin’ boat,” he says. “Maybe you, me swap, huh? Hahaha.”
Everyone on the life raft, except for Vic, just smiles a brittle smile.
“Where you goin’? Key West? Hahaha.”
Bruce Lee examines Hiro and Eliot for a while, rotates his index finger to indicate that they should spin around and display their business ends. They do.
“Quanto?” Bruce Lee says, and all the pirates get uproarious, most of all Bruce Lee. Hiro can feel his anal sphincter contracting to the size of a pore.
“He’s asking how much we cost,” Eliot says. “It’s a joke, see, because they know they can come over and have our asses for free.”
“Oh, hilarious!” Fisheye says. While Hiro and Eliot literally freeze their asses, he’s still snuggled up under the canopy, that bastard.
“Poonmissile, like?” Bruce Lee says, pointing to one of the antiship missiles on the deck. “Bugs? Motorolas?”
“Poonmissile is a Harpoon antiship missile, real expensive,” Eliot says. “A bug is a microchip. Motorola would be one brand, like Ford or Chevy. Bruce Lee deals in a lot of electronics—you know, typical Asian pirate dude.”
“He’d give us a Harpoon missile for you guys?” Fisheye says.
“No! He’s being sarcastic, shithead!” Eliot says.
“Tell him we want a boat with an outboard motor,” Fisheye says.
“Want one zode, one kicker, fillerup,” Eliot says.
Suddenly Bruce Lee gets real serious and actually considers it. “Scope clause, chomsayen? Gauge and gag.”
“He’ll consider it if they can come and check out the merchandise first,” Eliot says. “They want to check out how tight we are, and whether we are capable of suppressing our gag reflex. These are all terms from the Raft brothel industry.”
“Ombwas scope like twelves to me, hahaha.”
“Us homeboys look like we have twelve-gauge assholes,” Eliot says, “i.e., that we are all stretched out and worthless.”
Fisheye speaks up on his own. “No, no, four-tens, totally!”
The entire deck of the pirate ship titters with excitement.
“No way,” Bruce Lee says.