38.

The following days were uneventful. Besides lounging around my old apartment with Larry and his various women, I managed to mail a money order to my brother, and visit my grandpa's real grave. The lack of excitement, and usual dullness of my life over those days just made me hope Grod would be back soon.

After the first week, on Wednesday, I ran into the pirate at the bar again. He must have been waiting for awhile, because he was already pretty drunk when I sat down next to him.

"About fucking time," he sputtered as soon as I had ordered my drink. His bleary eyes, which had never seemed to point in quite the same direction, focused on me with unusual accuracy as he set down his stein and sighed. "Just like I thought, Grod has got himself in a bunch of trouble again. Hope you feel like a long trip, Paul Crawford."

"A long trip to where?"

"Ever heard of Tonga?" asked the pirate. "It's in the South Pacific, and it's our first stop."

"When are we leaving?" I asked.

"After I finish this rum." He tipped his stein to his mouth for several seconds. "...All right, let's go."

I looked at the full glass of whisky in front of me. "But..."

"Finish it, or take it with you," the pirate said, pushing his stool back and taking out his pipe. "Ship leaves in five minutes." I looked pleadingly at the bartender, who pulled a stack of styrofoam cups out from under the bar and poured my whisky into one, topping it with a travel lid. I put down a nice big tip, and the pirate and I stepped out into the heavy August air. He led me to the parking lot across the street to a brand new pickup truck whose cabin rode so far off the ground I had to practically climb into it.

Once on the road the pirate asked me, "Did Grod tell you why he got kicked out of Heaven?"

"He said it was because he was playing with the Earth's weather or something," I said.

"No," replied the pirate. "You see, Grod had a nephew."

"Jesus?"

"Yeah," said the pirate.

"You believe that stuff?"

"You don't?" The pirate laughed.

"You show me your Jesus, and I'll believe," I said. The pirate laughed louder.

"You know, Paul, there's a saying we have, we pirates. It goes, 'be careful what ye wish for.'"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," the pirate said, "that ye should be careful what ye wish for."

We accelerated onto the highway, and as the pirate slipped over into the fast lane, drops of rain began to wet the windshield. Within seconds it was a downpour.

"Fuck," the pirate said, "I hate drivin' in rain. I don't mind sailin' in it, but not drivin'." And then, as if on cue, headlights emerged from the veil of rain, horns blazed, and the pirate narrowly dodged an eighteen-wheeler. "Now where was I?" he asked as if nothing had happened. "Oh yes, Grod had a nephew. Well, as you know, he was born on Earth and lived the first thirty-or-so years of his life spreading his father's word. Then he goes to Heaven."

"So?" I asked.

"Grod's in Heaven. Looking for Jesus."

"What? I thought Grod got thrown out of Heaven."

"He did. I guess he didn't feel like waiting out the rest of the thousand years down here, so he broke in."

"He broke in... to Heaven?"

"A couple of his angel friends on the inside let him in through the Iron Gate while St. Peter was feeding the horses."

"Horses? What... okay, but what does this have to do with where we're going? Why are we going to some island in the South Pacific?"

"You'll see," said the pirate. "You'll see."

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