Blue Rondo a la Turk

Earlier this summer, I was on McDougal's cheap ass Glastron cabin cruiser with McDougal, his mistress, the Dutch ambassador, and the Turks.

McDougal's blitzed out of his mind on flapjacks, creatine, and some cocktail he prepared from Redbull, motor oil, and liquid nitrogen. Also, he's completely nude.

The Dutch ambassador is obviously uncomfortable, but we're 40 miles offshore, and there's really nowhere for him to go. He's stopped talking to McDougal or really anyone since earlier in the morning when McDougal bit off the man's right ear. At the time, he acted like it was no big deal, but as the hours passed and the bleeding continued, I could tell he was at least a little angry.

The Turks are somewhere below deck with a porpoise and a bunch of halibut they brought with them from the old country. Common decency prohibits me from elaborating further on their activities down there. Let's just say the Turks have a different and unique culture that should be glorified and honored.

No one's seen McDougal's mistress since the night before, which is slightly distressing, as she was the only member of the crew with any knowledge as to how to pilot the vessel, or even which way the shore was.

I have to admit that though I'd known McDougal my entire life, I was likewise uncomfortable -- filled with a deep sense of dread and hopelessness, the likes of which I'd never known.

I sat down next to the Dutch Ambassador and offered him a shot of railroad gin and a Band-Aid. He graciously accepted both.

"You're gonna need to get that looked at," I said.

"What?" he replied.

"Your ear," I said.

"What?" he said.

"Oh. Sorry. Nevermind."

The ambassador gestured toward McDougal. "The man's a lunatic."

"Indeed," I agreed.

"I think he might have eaten her."

The ambassador was likely right, but I didn't want to give him anymore cause for concern or alarm.

"Nah," I said. "He probably just threw her overboard in a drunken rage."

"Can you drive this thing?" he wanted to know.

I just laughed and laughed and laughed. I wasn't touching McDougal's boat. I've got a family, after all.

There were a few moments of awkward silence as the ambassador and I stared off at the rolling sea. I kept my head at a 30 degree angle so McDougal wouldn't realize I was looking at him, but beneath my Blue Blocker shades, I studied the giant man.

He was holding a three-inch rose quartz elephant the Turks had given him and chewing on what appeared to be a meat-covered human femur.

"It's the elephant," I whispered to the Dutchman.

"What?" he said.

"The elephant," I said.

"What?" he repeated.

"Nevermind, Dutchman."

Of course it made perfect sense, but I couldn't explain it to him. The manganese in the quartz had somehow entered the big man's blood stream and driven him insane.

We had to get that elephant away from him, and find a way to neutralize the manganese that had already entered his bloodstream. He was likely already suffering from diphtheria, dangerously low blood pressure, and hallucinations, which would explain the uncharacteristic behaviors (i.e. inviting the Dutch Ambassador on one of these fishing trips with the Turks).

I was going to need the assistance of the Turks.

I did some quick chemical calculations: Manganese (atomic number - 25) is a brittle element, prone to oxidation. The most common oxidation states of manganese are +2, +3, +4, +6 and +7, though oxidation states from +1 to +7 are observed. Mn2+ often competes with Mg2+ in biological systems, and manganese compounds where manganese is in oxidation state +7 are powerful oxidizing agents.

I was going to need six pounds of Erythromycin, which I'm sure the Turks had to treat their raging chlamydia.

Ignoring great risk to my personal health and welfare, I went belowdeck to solicit aid from the Turks, who had fortunately already finished their breakfast when I arrived.

I explained the situation in a mix of broken Turkish and Pig Latin, and the then-satiated Turks were actually amenable to my plan.

Moments later we were on deck with several syringes full of Erythromycin loaded onto blowguns used for spear fishing.

"Wij moeten hem in de maag ontspruiten," I told the ambassador. "The fastest reaction will come from interaction with his gastric acids."

McDougal, realizing we were up to something, then stood and threatened us with the femur.

His threats, however, were in vain. At that moment, each of us fired our weapons. I struck him square in the gullet, as did the Turks. The ambassador's shot went wide left, circled back and ended up taking out his own eye.

McDougal went down, fell overboard and sank to the bottom of the sea.

For a moment, we pondered leaving him out there. He'd eventually turn into a natural reef, providing habitat for thousands of fish and other sea life. But this was, after all, the great McDougal. And the world would be worse without him.

So we sent the Dutch ambassador down in the submersible to fetch the big man.

Two hours later, the ambassador returned with McDougal and his mistress, who had apparently spent the night at a topless manta ray bar with Evil Knievel and Joe Theisman.

McDougal was laughing when we brought him on board -- seemingly completely healed, save for a spot of mild diarrhea brought on by the Erythromycin.

We spent the rest of the day fishing, and did pretty well. McDougal caught a bunch of flapjacks and a pot bellied pig. I caught John Ashcroft.

Before we got back to shore, McDougal replaced the ambassador's ear with a 30-pound drum, and seems like that was going to work out pretty good.

In the end, we all agreed: no harm, no foul.