"This somehow feels like it should be a song," George muttered as he rocked back and forth, his loose clothing soaking up the occasional drop of fluid that beaded through the surrounding wood. "Oh, I'm trapped in a barrel, inside the sea... no, that doesn't work at all." He would have shaken his head, were that possible.

His shoulders jutted out uncomfortably, and the movement continuously shifted his legs. The humidity inside the barrel quickly grew, and oxygen began to run thin. Of course, if a hole opened to allow him to breathe, that would let in water--eventually causing his fairly deep barrel to sink and drown him. He sighed and continued to whisper, "Oh, I'm trapped in a barrel under the sea... those crazy fools won't let me be... Oh, I really really want to pee... but I'm trapped in a barrel under the sea..."

As he felt the barrel move a little more, probably deeper, he began to weigh in his mind each piece of clothing he wore. Tunic, cloak--a cloak was worthless in these conditions!--shoes--those were pointless--and dagger, oh, how he resented that dagger now. He couldn't adjust it without risking the loss of his manhood.

"Trapped in a barrel oh woe is me... There is nothing I can see... I'm beginning to lose feeling on my knee... trapped in a barrel oh woe is me..." he continued. His mind slapped itself for trying to sing when there wasn't enough air to breathe, and only then did he realize that he wasn't really singing--he only sang in his mind.

A scraping sound ripped through his ears, and suddenly his whole world shifted sideways. He felt the sound of waves lapping against the sides of the barrel. He shivered as the barrel became colder. His body seemed to congest with each passing moment. "Oh, trapped in a barrel next to the sea... I really think I'm going to pee..."

His eyes slid open as the smell of salt, sand, and rotting seaweed ripped into his nose. The feeling of his skin burning and the glint of blazing light prompted him to lean forward, out of the immediate gaze of the sun. He looked up to see a small stand beside him in the sand of an empty beach. "Hello?" he asked, staggering to his feet.

"Oh, hello there! I thought I'd open the barrel, hope you don't mind," an elderly figure with a long brown beard and scraggly gray robes called from behind the stand. "Would you like to buy an oyster shooter?"

George's stomach growled on cue. "I don't have any money, how can I pay?" he asked tentatively, his muscles quivering.

"What?" the man asked.

"How can I pay you?" George struggled out again.

"Speak up boy!" the man called with a shake his head. "So, you don't have any money? You got an arm and a leg, don'cha?"

George slid back a little through the sand, his eyes fixating on the elder figure. "You want my arm and leg? How about a dagger instead?" he asked, quickly grabbing the dagger at his side.

"What, you think that's a bit expensive, do ya? No, I don't like daggers, they don't do me no good. I'll tell ya sonny, when I was your age, I would've paid an arm and a leg for an oyster shooter and been proud of it! You youth don't have no respect these days."

"...don't have no..." George repeated quietly to himself as he rubbed the double negative off his forehead. "Please," George called louder, "I'll pay anything for something to eat!"

"You don't have to yell!" the vendor yelled with a heavy accent. After a short pause, he began to stroke his bearded chin in a state of deep contemplation. He raised a finger and began, "Listen up, sonny, this is important--it's a powerful statement about modern economics. Now, when I, the producer, am trying to sell to you, the consumer, there is a very complex relationship involved. If I were wealthy, then I could give you a free sample so that in the future you would come to me for your purchases. If you were wealthy, since I am the only one with the supplies, I could really hike up the price. As it is, we're both poor, so I guess I'll have to work out a decent deal." He stroked his chin a bit more. "I know! Advertising! That solves all problems!"

George rubbed some salty crust away from his eyes. "Advertising?"

"I'm a registered tattoo artist, in addition to being a registered food vendor," the vendor explained, and showed George a group of certificates. It seemed the vendor, under the name "Cappy Tilist," was a registered masseuse, food vendor, legal consultant, doctor, private investigator, travel agent, traveling salesman, bail bonds salesman, dentist, barber, passport issuer, security guard, record producer, samurai, union member of the industrial weapons producers of the world, yoga guru, assassin, political consultant, harem producer, and tattoo artist.

George cleared his throat and swallowed at the list of certificates. "I got them through mail-order," Cappy explained. "Now, here's the deal, laddy. I'm going to tattoo a business sign onto your arm, in return you shall receive one of my one-of-a-kind oyster shooters."

George swallowed and looked at the sea. "Say, where are we?" he asked idly.

"Tell ya what, I'll throw in that piece of information with the rest of the deal, and that's biting me own eye out," Cappy said.

George sighed painfully, his head becoming a bit light-headed. "And some water," he said.

"Alright, it's a deal."

George looked at him suspiciously. "Non-salt water."

"Oh, get all demanding on me why don't'cha. Next you'll be wanting a cup to go with it!"

George sighed. "All right. So, can I have my food now. I'll let you tattoo me afterward."

The man's beard swung left and right as his head shook. "No. You can try to run away. There's no chance that I'd be leaving my stand. So, you let me tattoo you first, then you get a genuine oyster shooter."

George's mind quickly looked through his options, the logic of Cappy's words, and then an image that appeared in his mind of old hostage plays where the protagonist would try to exchange his money for his captured love, and they had to figure out a way to give the money and get the hostage at the exact same time. He shrugged. Faith, trust--these were things he didn't give easily in his profession. He felt the dagger at his side--protection, from the wild, his boss, and from cheaters who didn't fulfill proposals. He nodded for the tattoo to begin.

Cappy grinned toothily, his big greens and yellows shining through, as he brought out a rusty needle and crouched down next to George. "Be careful," George whispered.

"Cappy's Oyster Shooters--buy 'em today!" in green letters seemed to glow against the sinking sun across an aquatic horizon on George's tattoo while in real life, florescent orange and yellow pulsed against the dome of a blazing sky. The view reminded George of the pain he felt as the needle pressed against his skin, to leave the image that he now seemed to see everywhere.

But, at long last, a half-pint shotglass sat in front of him, with a swirling mass of orange and gray. He looked down at it and breathed deeply. He picked up the glass tentatively and examined it before leaning back and pouring it into his mouth.

A volcano of spices erupted in his mouth, burning through his gums and cheeks and up into his nose--he breathed in the spices. He just let the oozy, swirling mass of oyster he couldn't even bring himself to chew, flow seamlessly along his tongue and down his throat. An aftertaste of curry and mango lingered along his tongue as he began to cough violently and then sneeze.

"Like it?" Cappy asked.

"It's the best thing I've ever had in my life," George gasped, clutching his throat. "Water..."

Cappy cackled viperously and raised a leather flask above George's head and began to pour the sulfuric water down into the man's throat. George spluttered and coughed some water down onto the sand. "And that..." George continued, "Was the worst water I've ever had in my life."

"Yeah," Cappy muttered, "It's been like that for a while. I think something exploded underwater."

George wracked his head and sat down. "I never thought that I'd be dehydrated to the point of death and actually dislike water, but after that shooter I'm not sure if I'll ever like another thing to eat again."

Cappy cackled again and walked over to the man. "As per our agreement: we are on the Stone Lake beach, about 20 miles south of the nearest city and three miles southwest of an estate owned by a man named Cinna."

"Stone Lake?" George asked, glancing at the waves lapping at his feet. "That's salt water, and those are waves."

"Yessir. It's actually a bay."

"So why do they call it a lake?"

"I don't think 'they' really care much, one way er another."

George nodded as the sun set over the horizon, the pain of his tattoo fading away. All in all, he felt rather satisfied, if a bit queasy. He looked to his side and saw Cappy seated next to him, fixated on the water.

"What do you do out here?" George asked.

"I sell oyster shooters to passing caravans," Cappy replied without looking up.

"Wouldn't you make more money in the cities?"

"Pra'ly. Well, not really."

"What?" George exclaimed, "You're a legal consultant! How can you not make more money in the cities?"

Cappy sighed, his eyes never coming up from the ocean. "Well, for one, you'd be surprised how much money you can make for virtually no work, selling to those caravans. I collect me oysters, work me sauce, and wait for them to come in the shade all by meself."

"But still..."

Cappy began to wag his hand in front of him to emphasize his points, his eyes still not rising from the ocean. "All the business in the cities--it's all run by the big agencies. Don't'cha see, out here I'm me own man! Besides, in da city, all the people--they're treated like pigs in a pen, like rats in a cage. Humans don't care for humans in the city. Everyone's gots to be going somewheres faster, somewheres quicker." He shrugged. "So, out in these parts, I gots to have a bit less food, and boil me own water, and I don't see many people, and I have to watch out for scorpions, and there ain't no doctors round 'cept for those nice people over at Cinna's estate, but they aren'ts around much anymore anyway. But, it's rewarding. And, I do go down to the city now an then, to buy more foods." For the briefest moment, Cappy's eyes turned a light shade of blue, as though a great bit of wisdom were coming from his lips. "What're you doin, though, trapped in a barrel an all?"

George chuckled nervously. "That's... hard to explain."

Cappy grinned toothily once more, patting George on the shoulder. "I aren'ts going to be telling no one."

George stroked his sweating forehead and leaned back in the sand just as the last vestiges of the sun dipped down below the horizon, and the first signs of the moon and stars glimmered down from below. "I was a spy that got caught," George said, simply enough. "A ripe, juicy conspiracy just under my nose, and just in the last minutes before I could leave and get a fat juicy pig to eat every day for a year, they find me out and shove me in a barrel."

Cappy chuckled. "I wonders which one of us isn't worse off."

George shrugged. "You have oyster shooters whenever you want them."

"Nah, I eat bread mostly. I'm allergic to the spices I put in da shooter."

George snorted, then laughed lightly. "Of course." With that, he rolled his head back and looked up into the stars. "I should be heading to report in."

"You aren't going to stay?" Cappy asked, as though it were implied all along George would be. "You knows, it wouldn't be half so bad out here with a friend to keep company."

George stood up and rubbed his temple. "No, I think it'd be just about the same, only a little different. And besides, my boss would hunt me down and kill me before he let me leave."

"We could run away from him!" Cappy cried. "We're self-sufficient out here!"

"Nah," George said, "One day I'm going to turn in that one report that'll let me get a pig dinner every day for a year."

"Will ya be happy then?"

George nodded. "Yeah. That's happiness for me."

A long pause seemed to come across Cappy. "I'll..." he mumbled, trailing off.

"I'm sure you will," George said, assuming he knew what Cappy would say next. "Goodbye," he responded.

And with that, George began hiking back into the darkness, the sea lapping up at his side, and his clothes stiff and uncomfortable against him. He shouldered his cloak and rubbed his dagger. The dagger glittered between his fingers for a moment, and he chuckled lightly for no apparent reason. Fingering the tattoo on his arm, he muttered, "Ruthless old cook," before heading off intent on forgetting the meeting entirely.

"Master, I have returned..." George murmured, looking around the growing mess that was his boss's office. The mere idea of being within a mile of his superior made his stomach churn, and the palatable smell and heat only made the place eat away at him more. Crates filled with wine, salted meat, and cheese littered the floor as the motherly woman stepped forward, her plump cheeks swelling into a look of glee as George entered the musty building.

He imagined she'd just been eating one of the treats that people occasionally gave to her family--of course, whenever gifts went to the family, especially edible ones, that meant she ate them all.

"My baby boy!" she cried, tilting her head to the side and pouting, "You've been gone too long. Do tell what's been eating away at you. I insist."

"You mean my mission, Sira?" George asked, and paused, thinking back. Before his discovery and being thrown in a barrel, he had learned a few good things. "Well," he began, "They are planning a rebellion, sir."

The candles in the darkened room seemed to make her sway back and forth as Sira's purple dress made her body grow menacingly closer to him. Finally, she tilted her head back and laughed cockishly. Clapping her hands she set off merrily, "Why, of course they are! They have every right? What is it--the economy? The overpopulation? Or is it even me? Oh, wouldn't that be marvelous! I wouldn't even have to worry about this place after the thing to clean it up." She breathed a long sigh of relief, and turned to George. "So, what are they rebelling against, anyway?"

George paused, scanning through his memories and what he'd heard. "Well, Sira, they seem to be rebelling against violence, although I think they're doing it more out of boredom."

The woman paused and turned back to George, fluttering her eyelashes wickedly. "They're rebelling against violence? Violence is an abstract concept--do they mean organized violence, or thugs in the street, or what?"

"Just violence, sir."

Her eyes began to boil red, with her brow creasing to make her entire face look like a cherry pie. "Don't they know that by starting a rebellion they will provoke a massive amount of violence, throughout the country?"

"They didn't mention that, no, sir."

Her face looked much like a pumpkin George had seen several months back, before she slammed her foot onto the ground and beat her hands into her sides. "We must kill them! Kill them all!"

"Yes, sir. How?"

The woman paced back and forth, kicking things along the way. "My other spies have found out who one of their runners are."

"Oh?" George's impatience began to boil over--another moment around his boss and he may explode. He wanted his mission and he wanted it now.

"There's a man along the road, south of here. An old man..."

"...Oh no..."

"...And he sells oyster shooters..."

"Stand and Deliver!"

Oh no, George thought to himself. I've been discovered.

Turning around, shielding his eyes from the sunrise over the sea, he saw two men staring at him. One, he could tell, was obviously blind, or decided to wear black bandanas over his eyes for fun. The other was a tall, gangly fellow with a large wooden spear haphazardly held up in his crusty hands. "What're you doin here?" the gangly one asked.

"Well, I was just standing here, talking to you, you dandelion coot!" the blind one yelled.

"Dang it, Ears! I wasn't talking to ya!"

"Is there someone else here?" Ears asked, quirking his head from side to side.

"Yes, can't you hear him?"

"Yes. Of course I can, Robby. How do ya do, chap?" Ears continued, smiling in George's general direction... well, he was facing the sea-line again, but it was close enough.

"Why, I'm doing--" George's kind response was cut off by a shout from Robby.

"Dang it, Ears, we're trying to interrogate him! For the Re-vol-u-tion, remember?"

A powerful whiff of salty sea-air sent George breathing deeply for a moment, before he interjected, "I'm with the Revolution as well. In fact, I'm passing through to pick up a delivery." He smiled to them.

"You are?" Robby asked. "Wait, how can we be sure?"

"We'll ask him the pass-code!" Ears shouted.

"You twit, we don't have a pass-code," Robby spat.

"Actually," George interrupted, rolling up his sleeves, "I think I can prove my validity. Here." He showed them the tattoo he had, reading: "Cappy's Oyster Shooters, Buy 'em Today!"

"Well?" Ears asked.

"Shush up, he has a tattoo..." Robby whispered, and leaned closer. "That don't prove nothin'..."

George's mind filled with a mix between exasperation and worry--deception might not work, and killing them wasn't really his style. There was only one thing left to do.

"No," George said, "I'm not really here to pick up a delivery for Cappy's Oyster Shooters. I'm a spy sent by Sira to kill Cappy, and then to kill both of you, and the only reason I haven't killed you yet is because you caught me by surprise."

Robby raised his eyebrow at George, and then began to laugh out loud. "Alright chap, go on ahead."

George nodded his farewell and continued along, masking a snicker as a sneeze.

"Would you like a steel shooter?" George asked, popping up behind Cappy. The wrinkled figure spun around so quickly that he wound up losing balance and falling on his buttocks.

"Eha--" the salesman gurgled as George came closer with the dagger. "Or would you prefer I carve a tattoo in your arm?"

The smell of spices and salty foods pierced George's nose as Cappy backed away into his stand. "Now sonny, you didn't come all the way back here for revenge, now, did'ja sonny?" Cappy whispered. "You came back for..."

"No," George shot, "I did not come back for your Oyster Shooters... well, that's a bonus, just like revenge is a bonus." He shrugged. "My job has lots of perks. Cruddy pay though." He looked off, thinking about wage-laws, and then turned back to Cappy. "Listen, I want to tell me who the rebellion leaders are."

"I'll never give up me--" George held the tip of his knife against Cappy's throat. "Name's Cinna. Cinna Bun."

"His name is Cinna Bun?" George asked incredulously, "The famous conspirator who killed Salad Caeser? Impossible!"

"So, ya gonna let me go now?" Cappy asked, visibly avoiding the temptation to swallow.

"Well," George asked, crinkling his toes in the sand, "My mission certainly says I don't have to kill you..."

Cappy smiled.

"...but then again, no one said you had to force me into having a tattoo on my arm, now did they?"

"But... but... me Oysters! Without enough salt, they'll go bad within an hour!"

George glanced at them, and smiled. "Don't worry. I'll take care of them." He paused. "Now, I didn't exactly say I was going to kill you either. I'll give you a choice--a bit more than you really gave me." He smiled. "Either you give yourself a tattoo on your arm that says, 'I am a Crook,' and get in that barrel you got me out of, or I cut off your ear, and you get into that barrel you got me out of."

"But either way, I have to get in the barrel."

"Yes."

"But that's not a choice."

"Yes it is--listen, just decide, stop wasting time!"

Cappy breathed in deeply, and sunk his head. "I always wanted to be an artist..."

"Stand and Deliver!"

George whistled as he turned around, still flipping a small red bundle of cloth in his hand. "Ah, there you are, Robby and Ears! Robby--I have my delivery and I was hoping you could take it down to Cinna for me."

Robby glanced at him, and then to Ears. "Naw, really! You mean, we get Oyster Shooters?"

"Yep, I finished preparing them myself, so now they're just right. In fact, Cappy overcooked a few, so you can get one all to yourself. Ain't that grand?"

"Yeah!" Robby said, coming forward and taking the stand from George.

"Oh," George added, "I have to say something to Ears, okay?"

"Yeah!" Robby said, as he looked through the thing for his Oyster Shooter.

George led Ears to the side, where he promptly took him into a whisper. "Listen--make sure that Robby delivers those okay, and make sure everyone gets one. For your trouble, I've got something that'll help with your hearing. If everything goes well, I'll give you another when you get back." He handed Ears the small red bundle.

Ears felt around the bundle for a few moments and then took on a great smile. "Why, thanks! Yeah, sure, whatever you say!"

"Excellent. You two get on now."

"Thanks Mr. Delivery man!" Robby called as he headed away, thirstily chugging down some water.

"Hey," Ears perked up before they left, "Where's Cappy?"

"Bah," George muttered, waving a hand at the comment. "He's trapped in a barrel."

They all had a laugh at that.

"Did you get the news?" Sira asked, looking away.

"Yes, sir," George reported, "The Rebellion had to be cancelled due to a severe case of stomach flue that developed within the rebel camp."

"Your mission was an udder failure--they all lived!"

"...udder..." George tried to avoid repeating too loudly. "Yes," he said a moment later, "I know my mission was a failure. I apologize full-heartedly."

"Failed, failed, failed," Sira said, shaking her head. "Get out of my sight!"

George nodded, frowning slightly, and turned quickly to leave. As he was two steps away from the door, he heard Sira called, "And you didn't even bring a gift for the family!"

George paused slowly, and then turned back, the lightest smile playing across his face. "How about an Oyster Shooter?"

The End

Published by Fools Motley Magazine, 2004. All rights are property of the author. Copying and distribution of this work is prohibited. Webpage designed by Fools Motley Magazine based on templates from www.angelfire.com . Background and image provided by Grsites .