Swashbuckling. Look up the word and my name is next to it. If there is a pirate gene, I have it. Just look at me. Tight royal blue stretch pants, puffy white shirt, stylish, imported leather boots, a suede scabbard, the longest, sharpest sword imaginable. Medallions hanging from my neck across my masculine, hairy chest. Doubloons in my pantaloons.
Yes, I clatter as I walk, but that is part of my intimidation.
Women? Hah! I've lost count of all the Brigettes and Danielles I have captured and ravished and set free. Let me say, few of them wanted to leave.
I have a loyal, cutthroat crew, ready to follow me to the far corners of the earth. Except I made some ill advised tech company stock purchases, fell behind on my ship payments and the bank repossessed it. Unholy devils. I know I must find treasure soon or I will lose my career.
That was why I found myself entering a Wall Street building housing hedge fund managers, the cruelest theives imaginable. I was hoping for free lance work.
Once in the elevator, I pressed the 20th floor and waited. Only one other person, a roly poly, bald, middle aged man was present. Within seconds the accursed cubicle stopped dead. We were stuck. After an awkward silence, the other stuck out his hand, introduced himself as Gus, a frustrated stage performer moonlighting as a mutual funds consultant.
He politely asked if he could sing to pass the time. I foolishly accented and for two hours he warbled the entire score of Oklahoma, Carousel and Phantom. It was all I could do to keep from lopping off his head right there.
By the time we were freed my puffy shirt was soaked with sweat and Gus left with a broad smile. Outside of being a bit pitch challenged, he wasn't bad.
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