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     In regards to the merchant seaman that had been torpedoed three times – a rather strange phenomenon ensued – he developed a following.  Roughly forty men, women and children wouldn’t allow this sailor out of their sight.  They felt that if the SS Brazil went down, they’d survive if they stayed close to this man.

     Cynically the other passengers referred to the merchant seaman as the “Torpedoed Messiah,” and his followers as the “Torpedoed Disciples” – or “TM” and “TDs” for short.

     The “TM” seldom went below decks.  Alternatively, he’d always be found amidships on the port side of the promenade deck – his location when the three previous ships sank - with his deck chair encircled by a fortress of other deck chairs occupied by his “TDs.”  This was also where they slept, and the “TM” wanted for nothing – his “TDs” waiting on him hand and foot – all they asked in return was that he never leave their sight.

     Late one night, my father got overheated pumping the harmonium during one of my mom’s concerts – “Pappy” Boyington took over - Dad went topside to cool off and catch a smoke.  Reaching the promenade deck on the port side, Pop concealed the glowing cigarette with his free hand as he strolled.  The black out was strictly enforced - anyone showing a light could be shot by patrolling armed guards.

     The ship was doing its usual 19 knots, and the breeze rapidly cooled Dad’s overheated body.  A quarter-moon lit the open deck, shifting position every six minutes as the ship zigzagged.  While he strolled, my father noted the occasional dark shapes of people asleep in the deck chairs.

     In time he reached amidships, and stumbled onto a scene that riveted him to the deck.  The deck chairs had been rearranged into a circular, protective group, and each held a slumbering dark lump under a blanket.  It took my pop a moment to realize where he was on the ship, and recognize the lair of the “TM” and his “TDs.”  Then he identified the “TM” himself standing in the middle of this human fort, totally nude, with his hands on his hips.  Upon closer examination in the weak moonlight, Dad then discovered an equally nude female kneeling in front of the “TM,” with her hands grasping the “TM’s” thrusting rump; his pubic area bumping against her face.

     Yes, dear reader, she was giving the “Torpedoed Messiah” a blow job.   

     Now the “TM” flexed his body and began to moan; he was about to climax.  The ship changed course – the moon shifted – a shadow fell over these two figures and that’s when Pop spied the impossible.  The merchant seaman’s body emitted a soft purple glow!

     My father told me that it had reminded him of Saint Elmo’s fire.

     So tell me, dear reader, even though this sailor’s elevator obviously didn’t go to the top floor, still, how does one argue with a person who emits a purple light?

     

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