Damn It All!
Chapter 1: Jessie

Copyright© 2017 by Omachuck

Jessie! My name is Jessica, but I hate it. Jessie, spelled ‘ssie’ not ‘sse’, because I’m a girl – woman! Maybe Jess. Bernie called me both – most of the time.

I don’t know how or why I got to this point. Well, probably at least some of the ‘how’ but dammitall, little-to-nothing of the ‘why.’

Linda, you are my best friend. You’re strange, but I love you. If you were male I’d think you were an incarnation of the Hindu God, Shiva. You’ve trusted me and told me your story, and now, with a little more of this Booker’s, I think I can finally tell you mine. Maybe that will give me clues as to ‘why.’ Dammitall, dammitall, dammit all!

You’re wondering about the dammitalls? Getting here cost me my brother, and it still hurts. That comes a little later in my tale, but I still need to damn it ALL!

I’m glad it’s rainy. We haven’t had a good girl’s night in too long ... Ya know, Booker’s is the best damned bourbon Jim Beam makes. It was Bernie’s favorite. Another shot, please. Just a dribble of water.


We were two days out of the Cayman Islands after refueling at the Barcadere Marina in Georgetown. I was on spring break of my senior year, ad hoc crewing aboard the Hoppin’ John, a fishing charter boat captained by Bernie – you remember – my brother. We’d just picked up our second charter of my run, so I was back to bunking in the crew compartment with his best friend and first mate, Matt Helm (yeah, really!), and their current sweeties, who served as cooks, hostesses - whatever.

It was cozy, sexy, and fun. I never slept with the customers, and certainly not with Bernie. Well, I slept with Bernie – had to sometimes – but no hanky-panky. But his crew, they had no restrictions and were polyamorous among themselves. Is that a real word? I think so; if not it should be. Anyway, I didn’t go wanting.

Another splash? Sure!

The new passengers? There were four, two husbands and their wives. The men were along for the fishing as well as dipping their hooks in strange. I had the impression that they had recently met on the island and decided that a little secluded nookie gathering would be fun. The sounds from the two guest suites certainly stoked the fires in the crew quarters.

They smelled of money – BIG money – but they were respectful of the crew and didn’t pester us girls. The wives were beautiful, smart, and happy in their pursuit of sex – not the typical bimbos Bernie often described in his sea stories. God I miss him! Dammitall. Any way, I wish all charters were as pleasant to be around.

Halfway through that afternoon, the passengers were noisily ‘sleeping’ in one or both suites. Bernie was on watch, and the rest of us took advantage to grab some actual rest.

I was snoozing on the foredeck when Bernie came forward and nudged me awake. “Up, Sis! I smell trouble coming.” He pointed to the horizon and two dots that appeared to be growing larger. “They’ve been on the radar for about half an hour and haven’t wavered any during that time. With two of them, it may be pirates.”

“Get into a lifejacket, then wake Matt and the girls. They know what to do about the passengers and where our guns are. I want you to use a long rope to tie the inflatable to the bow. Get a sheath knife so you can cut it loose if you need to. Matt will tell you more. I love you, Jess.” Those were the last words he ever spoke to me, and he disappeared aft to the big engine compartment.

Another shot, please. Good stuff! Dammitall!

When I woke Matt and the sweeties, they were surprisingly calm and professional. Matt shoved aside a panel and started pulling out guns. He handed a rifle and two pistols to Bernie’s girl and told her, “Rifle and pistol to Bernie and pistol for you. Then wake the passengers and take them forward. You know where.” She grabbed a lifejacket and ran out.

He kissed his own lady, then handed her a pistol, saying, “Get the emergency kits and extra jugs of water and tie them to the inflatables. Jessie will be up to help. Then, for God’s sake, keep the passengers down, calm, and under control! Love you! Go! Go! Go!”

Matt turned to me, “Here’s the short of it. You know there is an inflatable dingy on the bow. There’s also a canister with a ten-man life raft, and tied with it is an aviation life raft. Break them loose and tie them to the dingy – long rope. If you have to go into the water, don’t inflate the life rafts until the pirates are gone. Hopefully, the empty dingy will make the pirates think there is no one in the water.”

“I’ll be aft with Bernie. There’s an aviation life raft back there, too, and he has some surprises rigged,”

“Now – the pistol,” he told me as he attached a lanyard, inserted a magazine, and chambered a round. He handed it to me with another magazine. “Use this for any of three purposes. First, kill a pirate if you need to and can, but try not to need to, as it will draw attention. Second, don’t let a passenger threaten or control you. Third, don’t let the pirates capture you or anyone else. In the head, would be best.”

He donned a life jacket, kissed me hard, patted my butt, and told me, “Keep this glorious tushie safe for the celebration.” Then, Matt grabbed a rifle, a pistol, and a canister of ammunition and left me alone and terrified.

I looked around for anything useful, and in desperation, I grabbed a blanket. Feeling helpless, I followed instructions and headed for the bow.

I arrived just behind Jennifer and slightly ahead of Patricia herding the passengers. Amazing! There was no whining, no complaining. We tied the rafts together, secured the water jugs and emergency supplies, and lay down to wait. The cabin blocked most of the view of the John’s afterdeck, but I was lying to one side and saw almost everything.

Bernie was right, the two powerboats each held three pirates. They were armed with rifles and began firing at about one hundred yards. Lying prone, Bernie and Matt returned fire while Hoppin’ John plowed on under autopilot. I saw one pirate drop his weapon and slump into his boat, but the two boats continued to catch up to us. Finally, one was on each side and grappling hooks flew over and caught.

No water this time! Dammitall!

Bernie knelt up to fire down at a boarder, and I saw his head explode when a pirate rose and fired from the other side. Matt looked over, fired at Bernie’s murderer. When he ducked, Matt fired five times into the open engine compartment. He lit a flare and dropped it into the compartment.

When pirates appeared on both sides, Matt fired once again, threw something overboard, and then sprinted towards the bow. The Hoppin’ John lurched and began to rapidly slow. Matt yelled, “Cut loose and jump! Cut loose and jump.” He ran until the John was almost dead in the water and jumped, feet first.

I managed to follow instructions and cut the rope holding the dingy and the rest, but I was also puking my guts out. My Bernie was gone!

Then the rear quarter of the Hoppin’ John erupted, spewing flaming liquid and thick smoke from the open engine compartment and into the sky. I saw the two pirates on the deck covered in flames, and I rolled off the deck and dropped several feet into the water. It was blood warm – kinda appropriate under those circumstances, don’t ya think?

I think the sweeties managed to kick the dingy and rafts overboard. Maybe the passengers helped. I couldn’t see the deck anymore.

Oh, Hell, yes! I’ll have another – maybe just a little sip this time.

In a moment, I felt the shock of another explosion and kicked away from the John. I could see one speedboat burning and one pirate’s head bobbing in the water - just ahead of burning fuel. The John blocked my view of the other boat, but that didn’t last long. Hoppin’ John sank, aft down, with a huge whoosh of air and flames, and I saw two burning speedboats and that one pirate’s head coming towards the dingy and us.

My pistol was still on the lanyard around my neck – wet – but there.

I reached for it and waited by the dingy, looking the swimmer in the eyes. He grinned at me – a self-assured grin. Gringo cunt would be easy prey. I could read him. I knew. I waited.

When he was six feet away I raised a hand like I wanted to ward him away. He grinned again, distracted while I lifted my gun hand and shook out the water. I knew the danger - frankly didn’t care if I lived if it exploded when I fired. Not if I took him with me.

He finally saw the gun; saw the hate in my eyes. Then he visibly realized he was going to die. He opened his mouth to beg, even as he reached for the gun. I smiled at him, pulled the trigger, and blew the evil son of a bitch to Hell.

Behind me, I heard clapping.

I still have that .45. If the Feds ever want it, they’ll have to take it from my cold, dead, and rigid fingers.

Sometimes when I have that nightmare, I think I’m a strong bitch – but mostly I know I’m not. Not really.

Dammitall, dammitall, dammit all! Do we have another bottle?

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