It Sucks To Be A Redhot Teen Stranded on a Pirate Island Circa 1789

Mark Spitzer

After wrecking the ship, following the mutiny, O'Kralik awoke in the Captain's cabin and kicked the lump lying beside him.  And like every morning she was so rudely awakened, she bolted straight up and went to work.
           

She was a fifteen-year-old excommunicated epileptic en route to the New Welsh Prison Colony, even though she was hardly as out to lunch as the others on board who the King's distinguished doctors had diagnosed as "crazy with dementia."  Luckily for O'Kralik, though, she never had a fit when her mouth was full. 
           

So he spooged and she swallowed, no problem at all.  Because that was her job, and that's what she'd continue to do if she didn't want to be handed over to one of the O'Learys.
           

"Not a bad arse," O'Kralik mused. 
           

He was watching her rising thighs, which were shapely and curvy and good to the eye.  But the way things were going, this hot young teen would soon be filling out.  Yep, those ripening teats would fatten with milk, she'd get a gut on her and a blubber butt too, and the next thing he knew, some spastic little bastard would be screaming bloody murder.
           

O'Kralik shrugged, since his plan had nothing to do with waiting around for that.  As soon as the ship was fixed, he'd wipe out Old Cappy and his blasted crew, then hit the high seas with his band of pirates, pillaging and killing and raping away, and basically, having one hell of a swell time bringing in the booty.
           

Old Cappy and his men, however, had been told a different story—one in which they'd be executed one by one if they didn't fix the ship.  And because O'Kralik's men had the guns, and because the Royal Navy was now confined to the smell-cells below and was only released for work detail, they obeyed O'Kralik—who promised to free them in the end, which was pure shite and everyone knew it. 
           

"Git Me Me Stinking Tea, Tart!" O'Kralik ordered, and kicked her in the butt so hard that it triggered a twitching in her neck. 
           

"Aye," she said, and did as he bid, leaping to the task, grabbing her robe, then running from the room, trying to smother the seizure coming on.
           

"Hoor!" O'Kralik yelled after her. 
           

He slithered his twisted body out of bed, went to the former Captain's wardrobe, took out the best dress uniform, pulled on the breeches, buttoned up the coat, and stepped out into the sun.
           

"Hyuck hyuck hyuck," he laughed. 
           

Below him, the English dogs were chopping away, preparing the new mainmast from the largest pine they could find on the island—while a bunch of O'hooligans stood guard armed with bayonets and cursing at the workers.  
           

The battered boat was beached completely on the sand and leaning against the steel-gray rocks sixty yards from the high-tide line.  It was a lucky place for it to have landed.  Anywhere else and it would've keeled over. 
           

Another lucky thing was the forest on the island.  If they didn't have that timber to build a slip, they wouldn't've had a framework to repair the damaged hull with, nor the logs needed to roll the whole craft back into the sea.
           

That, however, would take months and months.  First they had to finish construction and mend the sails.  Or rather, the British had to mend the sails.  Which was convenient for the Irish, who were more than just agreeable to getting drunk and guarding the guards who used to guard them—half of whom were locked up in the hull sewing like seamstresses, while the other half lugged logs across the sand, toiling like serfs.
           

As for the fools and freaks, they were kept penned in down on the beach with what was left of the livestock.  At low tide, though, they were allowed to go out and wander the island like a pack of drooling zombies, heading off in one direction, then coming back from the other a few hours later, soiled robes dragging in the sand.
           

The island was exactly four miles in circumference.  Four miles of beaches and reefs and cliffs.  Four miles of dead fish roasting in the summer sun—plus crabs, mussels, barnacles, clams, gulls, ravens, shorebirds and seals.  But there wasn't much more wildlife than that, except for some bats in the cave on the far side of the island.  
           

"Hyuck hyuck hyuck," O'Kralik yucked again, standing at the rail, buttoned to the throat in the Captain's finest coat. 
           

Waiting for his tea, he was watching the O'Leary beating a British officer for sport—which is what they did best.  And for their services, they were rewarded with all the tail they could swive. 
           

Except, that is, for O'Kralik's own personal wench, whose slopbox he kept for himself. 
           

"Your tea, me Lord," the lass sang out. 
           

O'Kralik took it, then furrowed his forehead.
           

"Me Lord!" he snarled.  "What the shite is that?  Are ye making fun of me, hoor!?"
           

"No," she answered, glancing at her feet.  "I was just trying to please you, sir..."
           

"Git Out Of Me Face!" he barked.  "If I want ye ta please me, I'll shove me pistol up yer shitehole!"
           

This comment really ticked her off.  She had been sincere and look what it got her!  He had taken her virginity and now he didn't give two pence!  Which was a pile of shite!  She was a person, she had a name!  It was Erin Connelly, that's who she was!  A cobbler's daughter who was taken to the asylum due to "demons in her soul"—which is why she'd grown up swallowing iodine and pleading for forgiveness from nuns and nurses who hit her with sticks to drive the evil out.  The demons, though, they never left, they stayed inside her—to the point that if someone ever brushed against her, they'd go running off screaming for soap.
           

Most men figured she had a pox, so they left her the hell alone.  Others, though, didn't mind a little possession.  In fact, they felt it even spiced things up. 
           

Like O'Kralik, who would touch her, and touch her all over—in places no rapist had ever dared.  Yep, he had slid it in her and he had released his seed. 
           

And if she had a fit, he didn't care one bit.  In fact, it made him more eager to ravage her.
           

So that's how O'Kralik became her protector and the father of her child, which was growing inside her.  She could feel it.  And when it was born, it would cling to her.  And suckle her.  And touch her without fear.  Therefore proving that she was no monster—just someone who shudders because God hates her. 
           

"I Said Git Out Of Me Face!" O'Kralik howled, and slapped her hard.  "Ye Yellow-Bellied Blowfish!"
            

Erin's neck began to twitch and the attack came on like a pack of jackals.  She hit the floor and her mouth began to foam.  Her eyes rolled back and her body convulsed.
           

"Yo ho ho," O'Kralik gaped at the flopping lass.  "Like a freshly caught sea bass!" 
           

He pounced and rolled her over.  Then lifting her robe, he revealed her quivering shimmering buns, then yanked his skivvies down.  He got on his knees, spat on his cock, and stuck it where the sun don't shine.
           

"BLAST YE!" Erin screamed volcanically.  "STOP STOP STOP — "
           

But O'Kralik wouldn't.  For this was his privilege, his luck of the Irish—to squiggle in the jiggle of wiggling meat!  Wherever he wants, whenever he wants, and by God, in whomever he damn well pleases!  Like King George himself!  Pounding away, pounding away, pounding away incessantly!
           

But to the peasant girl getting buggered, this was the closest thing to love she had ever known in her life.

*

Pukey was just buttoning up when the disheveled girl came stumbling into the galley with a couple buckets, having just barfed from morning sickness.
           

"That stew ain't fer you!" Pukey snapped, referring to the vat Erin hadn't even looked at yet.  "That's fer O'Kralik and his men!  Hoors get slop!"
           

She ignored this comment and Pukey filled her buckets up.  Then they waited for Old Cappy, who came in stiffly with two pails, glaring at her.   
           

Erin, however, refused to meet his icy gaze, since she could see what he was trying to do.  He was letting her know that he knew where she'd been and what she'd done and that God would never forgive her for this.
           

"A black spot upon you," Old Cappy quipped, adding "strumpet!" 
           

"You ain't got the privilege to judge me no more!" the girl retaliated as Pukey filled his buckets up.  "You ain't the Captain no more, so you ain't no better than no one no more!  We're all equal on this rock!"
           

Klinefelter grimaced and turned away as she strained to restrain a twitching attack.  Then grabbing his pails, he stepped out of the galley, refusing to even acknowledge her comment—but she grabbed her buckets and followed him.
           

Erin knew she didn't have to help Old Cappy out.  Her duty was to suck and fuck, not help him feed the 112 English slaves waiting for breakfast in the hold.  Nevertheless, she was dead set on lending a hand for the sake of the "poor creatures" trapped below, living in their own shite.  Just like her.
           

Her shite, however, was merely metaphorical, whereas theirs was actually stinking up the ship.  Especially down in Murderer's Row where it topped 100 degrees each day.
           

"Hurry up!" Old Cappy barked, heading down the stairs.            
           

"Hurry up yerself!" she returned, right behind him.
           

Oooomph!  The stench hit her like a punch in the gut.  It was hotter and fouler than the day before and it went straight to her gag reflex, causing vertigo to swim through her.  A spasm came on like gangbusters, she lost her grip, dropped a pail, and slopped slop all over the steps.
           

"You Cretin!" Old Cappy snapped.
           

But Erin wasn't about to get harangued.  Nope, she steadied herself, then turned and fled, running away with the other bucket.
           

Fuck It!  There were other things to do on the island.  Like wander around with the mutards who kicked along the shoreline daily.  
           

"Fie Fie!" Erin cursed—at nobody and everyone.
           

She was weaving down the gangplank, making for the pen where the droolers and fools had been corralled.  When she reached it, she opened it up, allowing the madmen to shuffle out, followed by some flipper-limbs, a potato-headed lesbian, and a midget with gout—all of them mumbling nonsense things, talking to invisible friends, and pointing at things that didn't exist.
           

"If this don't give you a case a the shites," Erin said, glopping slop into their trough, "then nothing will." 
           

And as the mongoloids came forth, groveling for grub, she took the empty bucket with her and followed the halfwits skipping toward shore.
           

The fresh air was doing her good.  Her stomach was starting to settle down and the embryo was relaxing as well.
           

"Maybe today I'll kill us both," she told it, rubbing her tummy. 
           

And as she brought up the rear, watching the rejects frolic like fairies, she noted that their robes were totally tattered.             
           

But at least they're clothed in ignorance, Erin thunk, just bumbling along from day to day...           
           

Which, she figured, made them holy in a way—or at least closer to salvation than the English sailors who knew they were toast, so were icing themselves at the rate of two per day, rather than slaving away for O'Kralik.             
           

Mostly, they hanged themselves.  Or jumped from the scaffolding.  Sometimes, though, they'd attack the Irish Guard, only to get their guts blown out.  Methods she had frequently considered, but just couldn't bring herself to follow through on.  There had to be a painless way.
           

Two miles later, she came upon the oyster bed, which was fed by a freshwater stream flowing from a giant crack beneath the cliff.  The crack, known as the Crag, was about ten feet tall and three feet wide, and it was the only source of water on the island—no doubt coming from some spring burbling up from under the crust. 
           

"Hmmmmm," she wondered as the misfits wandered on.             
           

Erin stepped into the stream, which was ankle-deep and warm as always.  So warm, in fact, that it made her want to pee.  But she held it in, and kneeling down, rinsed out the bucket and stared into the Crag. 
           

There was something about the darkness in there.  Something calling to her, telling her to enter.
           

But according to rumor, it was full of deadly bats.  A couple weeks back, Nester O'Leary had gone in with a torch, only to come running out a few minutes later with a black mass of flying rodii screeching at his back.
           

Since Erin had nothing to lose, though, the blackness didn't scare her.  So what if she died and took her godless bastard with her?  With a mother like her and a father like O'Kralik, that kid was bound to be a nightmare!  So if she didn't end up killing it, O'Kralik's goon squad would no doubt do it for her.   
           

Slowly, she entered the Crag, taking her bucket with her.  Then feeling her way along the wet wall, she blindly waded through the pitch black. 
           

The warmness deepened and widened around her.  She could feel a cooling breeze.  Then she heard a plipping sound, because bats were taking craps above her, as the water got deeper and deeper and deeper, and warmer and warmer and warmer and warmer, rising up her robe, clinging to her hips, tickling her clitoris.  Then up to her navel and the bottom of her breasts, where she felt the current licking her nips. 
           

She could die in this blackness.  It was peaceful in this blackness.  Something had a will for her to not be in this blackness... where she would never tremble again... 
           

So Erin decided to ice herself.
           

"See you in hell," she told her forming fetal wad, and soundlessly, effortlessly, she opened her arms, her mouth, her lungs, and sank into the nothingness.

***

Mark Spitzer says, "So far, I have nine books out and two on the way:  Chum, a novel by Zoland Books; Bottom Feeder, a novel by Creative Arts; Riding the Unit, a collection of creative nonfiction by Six Gallery Press; Age of the Demon Tools, poetry by Ahadada Books; The Pigs Drink from Infinity, poetry by Spuyten Duyvil; From Absinthe to Abyssinia, Rimbaud translations by Creative Arts; The Collected Poems of Georges Bataille by  Dufour Editions; Divine Filth, Bataille translations by Creation Books; The Church, a Céline translation by Green Integer; CHODE!, a novel forthcoming from Six Gallery Press; and Films without Images, a Cendrars translations forthcoming from Green Integer.  Other publications include work in The Oxford American, Ecotone, Minnesota Monthly, Black Warrior Review, and hundreds of other literary journals and magazines.  Recently featured as an alligator gar expert on the Animal Planet series River Monsters, I'm currently a professor of creative writing at the University of Central Arkansas, where I'm the Managing Editor of Andrei Codrescu's Exquisite Corpse Annual."