I was working on the Virgin Training School’s books just before the corporate tax deadline last Thursday. The accountant needed some details clarified. The enormous amounts won and lost by Spy and Silly on their trip to Monte Carlo last December included odd expenditures, and to avoid questions during an audit, the accountant wanted me to be sure.
I was burning the midnight oil when the phone rang. Absently I picked it up. “Hello?”
“Wench? Hey. It’s Tyme. How’s business?”
“Tyme! You’ve been out a long while!”
“Yeah, and I’ve had a good run this trip. Listen, my ship has 300 island girls on board, minus the 35 Ze Baron traded for that are consigned for delivery to him. All the rest are headed to your virgin school.”
“Trainees! Yay!” Looking at my bottom line for last year and paying the inevitable taxes made me eager for new Virgins to train and distribute among our Eastern brethren. I mentally tabulated the value of 265 virgins times 6 camels apiece. I liked that bottom line!
The Tyme Traveler’s voice crackled over the line again, interrupting my calculations. “So where do you want them?” he asked me.
“Park them in the empty FEMA trailers.” Somehow the Virgin Training School ended up with all the temporary homes that never got delivered New Orleans after Katrina. They made excellent dorm rooms for our trainees. “How far out are you?”
“Just a couple of hours.” Tyme sounded a little strained. He was tired, maybe.
“Should I fire up the hot tub for you and your crew?” I asked. A good supplier like Tyme needs to be treated right.
“Wish we could stay, but after we unload the cargo we have to skidaddle.”
“What’s the rush?”
There was a pause. Then Tyme apparently decided to come clean. “Well, their fathers are following in dugout canoes, and they are good paddlers.”
“What are you talking about? Why are their fathers coming?” Then it dawned on me. “Tyme, you didn’t exactly take these island girls over their families’ objections, did you?” My mind was racing. How many SEALs were on campus right now? What kind of defenses did the school have from angry fathers of reluctant Virgins?
“They’re in canoes? It’ll take them weeks to get here by birch bark. Their daughters will be freshly revirginated and sold to the highest Arab bidder before then. We can look innocent among our herds of dromedaries.” My confidence was returning after the initial shock.
“They aren’t traveling by birch bark canoe,” Tyme replied hesitantly. “Palm tree, outriggers…. big Samoan dudes…”
“Oh, hell. Well, if they have to cross the Pacific we have even more time,” I said confidently.
“Truth is, they’re about a day out and are closing on me, and I’m under full canvas.”
I yelped. “You’re leading them straight here?”
The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening. Obviously Tyme expected me to come up with some sort of plan. Fortunately I had one.
“It’ll be ok. I’ll have some of the Western Virgins intercept them and try out the moves from the Pop-Up Kama Sutra. Those big Samoans will forget all about their daughters. I’ll warn the Virgins not to mention your name.”
Tyme sighed in relief. “I knew I could count on you, Wenchie. By the way, my crew needs some diversion. They looking at each other kinda weird.”
I laughed. The crew of the Wandering Wench looks kind of weird regardless of their length of time at sea. “Not a problem. Now, the Samoans won’t recognize the crew, will they? If we clean them up, I mean. We can put them in the hot tubs first then assign Virgins to each one.”
“I don’t know,” Tyme mused.
“We’ll give them all shaves and dye their hair as needed.”
“Hmmm. Blond Africans. It might work.”
“Yeah. The Samoans will mistake them for Maoris.”
“Maoris? You mean Morris? The cat?”
“No, not the cat. Maoris. Like Australian aborigines. From New Zealand. They sometimes have blond hair.”
“I don’t really want to dye my hair.”
“OK, so we can put your crew in African tribal dress and remind them to speak with Cameroon accents.”
“Oh, I like Cameroons. Especially the ones with coconut and caramel.”
“Tyme, those are MACaroons, not CAMeroons.”
“Hey, you got rum?” It was an abrupt change of subject, but knowing Tyme he was trying to cover his mistake. Or he was thirsty. You never can tell about these pirates.
“Of course we have rum! I’m a wench, aren’t I?”
“So back to the problem of the angry Samoans. We can have your guys put on civil war uniforms and say they are reenactors. Or, we can put your crew in NFL jerseys and tell them to act like fraternity boys. The Samoans will think they’re football players.”
“No, lots of Samoans play in San Diego. They’ll figure it out. And I hope you’ve got a LOT of rum if you want to make it look convincing.”
“Other than that I’m all out of ideas, unless your crew want to don harem dress and go through Virgin training themselves. If they do then the Navy SEALs are duty bound and sworn to protect them.”
“Navy SEALs look at each other weird too, have you not noticed? That’s why I left the teams.”
“Well, yes, but they are Special Forces. Of course they’re weird.”
“No, Wench, you don’t understand. They have names like Melvin, Bruce and Chewey. THAT kind of weird is what I mean.”
“Oh. I see.” I didn’t, but it was dawning on me that Tyme and his crew weren’t going to stick around for 300 angry Samoan fathers to attempt to reclaim their Virgin daughters. Tyme confirmed my suspicions with his next words.
“I think I’m gonna get new load.”
“Yep. Need to get load of sheep and sail for Wyoming.”
“Yeah, I hear there’s quite the market for sheep there. We have no sheep. But soon we will have plenty of camels. I guess those boys in Wyoming aren’t tall enough for camels, though, are they?”
“Hmmm. I don’t know. Can camels be stump trained? I don’t think them dudettes will know the difference…. what is that smell? Damn! Wheew!”
“That smell? Oh. Camel dung. It isn’t as bad as swine, but it is a bit stronger than your average sheep. You must be close.”
“Pulling around the bend now.”
“Camels can be stump trained.”
“Are you sure?”
“Actually, most of them come to us already stump trained. Their Arab owners have no women, either.”
“Oh. Right. I forgot.”
“And I’ve done my research, too. I mean, I am a business woman. I’m going to know my products.”
“Yeah? I want to see your dissertation on stump training dromedaries.”
“I didn’t get my Ph.D. in Stump Training! I have a camel-master for that job.”
“Hold on. I got my tongue stuck in a shot glass.”
“Yeah, I thought your voice sounded a little strange. I hate when that happens.
“Most distressful. The thing won’t come loose.”
“You didn’t have to lick it dry, you know. You could have poured yourself another shot and gotten the additional booze that way.”
“Well, I figured it was safer this way. I got it stuck in the keg earlier.”
“Are you running short on alcohol? Do I need to make a run to the distillery before you and your crew get here? I can call the guys in the hills who have their own stills for the signature labels if you prefer.”
“Hell, yes! At midnight I’m another year older.”
“We’ll have to get a cake, then! I assume rum cake is your favorite? I’m not sure which of the girls will be selected to jump out of your cake for you. There is always such competition for that honor. They like it when they get icing on themselves. Someone has to lick it off, of course.”
“Pick me, dammit, ’cause I can lick my own eyebrows.”
“Woo-hoo! The Virgins will be squealing for a chance to get at you!”
“Um, can’t you get in the cake, Wenchie?”
“Awww. Well, I have to supervise the celebrations, as well as make sure the SEALs are on the alert for wandering and invading Samoans.”
“I think the SEALs will be looking for whoever dropped the soap. They’ve been on your island too long, and no recreation.”
These particular SEALSs have been retrained without such activities necessary. We have Virgins everywhere.”
“See? I am right.”
“No, no. They guard the Virgins, and the Virgins use them in training, so their activities are all heterosexual. Well, except for the orgies, of course, when anything goes.”
“Ogres are such ugly creatures. Where do you keep them? I suppose you have those gnomes, too.”
“No, no, not ogres. Orgies. It’s a different thing entirely. And we use midgets, not gnomes. Unless they choose to dress up like gnomes, of course.”
“Midgets? Those really fast li’l race cars? I rode in one of them once. Got sick.”
“Um, well, not exactly. Think Munchikins without the big lollipops.”
Tyme? You ok?”
“No, the shot glass is dangling off my tongue, and I just bonked myself on the forehead with it!” He wasn’t that articulate, but those are the words I deciphered from his odd manner of speaking with a shot glass stuck to his tongue.
“You really must have that tongue bronzed when you die. It will be an inspiration to Virgins everywhere.”
“So are midgets Munchikins by proxy? Kinda like Dillinger, coroner whacked his 12 inches clean off.”
“That must’ve hurt. Munchikins by proxy are those sick little fuckers that are just short.”
“It’s in a jar at the Smithsonian.”
“I thought that was Rasputin’s that was whacked off and put into a jar.”
“No, no. His is in the Kremlin. It hit Gorbachev in the noggin, hence the big bruise on his head. … uh-oh.”
“Do you hear that…? That be the drummer for the 7 1/2 boatloads of Samoans. Their lead canoe.”
“They’ve caught up with you! What shall we do?”
“Hide me under your skirt. I’m telling the crew it’s every man for himself.”
“I will latch on to you, like a leech. I swear.”
“We could whip out Dillinger’s or Rasputin’s former parts and tell them that the Samoans we cut it off some guy, and that he works here and he’s really pissed off…”
“Yeah. We can tell them we have some really bitchy eunuchs. Like, they get PMS and everything.”
Tyme didn’t answer. He had left his ship and was headed for my ample skirts. The Samoans are rounding the bend now, and the Navy SEALs are all on other duties.
Who will save us now?