DEVIL’S VACATION

‘I can feel it all a-tingling
 

From my head down to my toes.
 

It’s sifting shifting in my hair,
 

And pulling at my clothes...
 

I’m the only one who’s listening;
 

I’m the only one who knows:
 

Way out in the ocean
 

There’s a wind that blows and blows.
 

She’s breathing soft this moment
 

On the waters of the deep:
 

And like a woman stirring,
 

She murmurs in her sleep.
 

These dreams will orphan children,
 

And make the widows weep;
 

For life is just a play thing,
 

And death is all so cheap.
 

Then when the spirit takes her,
 

She’ll leap towards the sky!
 

She’ll open up her twining arms
 

To whirl, and twirl… and fly!
 

All isles bow down before her
 

At the strident siren cry:
 

To know her is to hate her…
 

To feel her is to die!
 

But now it’s just a tingling
 

From my head down to my toes.
 

That sifting shifting in my hair,
 

That pulling at my clothes…
 

I’m the only one who’s listening;
 

I’m the only one who knows:
 

Way out in the ocean...
 

There’s a wind that blows and blows.
 

*
 

            She had quietly slipped out of Africa, sidled past the Azores and skipped over the ocean towards her Family’s favoured arena. Her ancestors had embarked on similar ‘voyages of discovery’ over many millennia.
 

            For several days she slowly meandered on a north westerly course, bathing and feeding herself in the warm waters of the Caribbean between Guatemala/Honduras and Cuba.
 

            By the time she was to the southwest of Jamaica she had matured into puberty, and was baptized and confirmed as: ‘Wilma’.
 

            It was here that Wilma’s wanton adolescent frolics began to cause trouble… much trouble.
 

He sat down-wind of her at the Hollywood Bar – close enough to smell her heavy perfume, but not near enough to be later identified as a possible companion.
 

When she left, he noted her route, and a minute later, he followed in the same general direction. Although he had already anticipated her destination, he took nothing for granted – that was the secret of his success.
 

            He strolled into the Casino; and, inevitably, there she was. His chosen prey had decided to try her luck at a Black Jack Table near the banks of gambling machines and conveniently close to the Bar.
 

            His ego always found it extremely gratifying, when a ‘stalk’ proved to be as predictable as this.
 

            He patiently fed a one-armed bandit its customary diet of quarters, whilst she lost a hundred dollars at the Table.
 

            During the same period, the lady downed three large rum ‘n’ cokes.
 

            In his mind he meticulously added up her liquor score for the evening:
 

            Since he’d started counting, over an hour before, she’d swallowed at least seven indiscriminate grape and grain, alcoholic concoctions.
 

            His further calculations told him that the woman had about five minutes left before the ever-so-slight pitch and toss of the cruise-ship, plus the rum, whisky, white-wine and gin build-up in her stomach, combined to take their inevitable toll on her digestive system.
 

            When retribution for over-indulgence arrived only four minutes later, there was already a greenish tinge to the woman’s pasty, white skin. She made it to the Ladies Room without an upheaval, but it must have been a close call.
 

            There was no doubt in his mind where she would go after she came out of the toilet.
 

            He positioned himself at the ship’s rail nearest to the passageway leading to her cabin, which previous reconnaissance had established as ‘136 E Deck’.
 

            The Hunter knew everything about his potential ‘kill’ - nothing had been left to chance.
 

            When the sea breeze blew in the woman’s face, it was exactly as he had expected:
 

            She came through the door in a continuing, mal-de-mer rush, staggered and almost fell at his feet.
 

            He smiled at her, and congratulated his own acumen with the same smile.
 

            The ‘polite’ man, so conveniently placed to give assistance, gently took the suffering woman by her limp arm; and gratefully, she let her full weight lean against his side.
 

            The predator’s plan was so fine-tuned that it was she who pushed him into the shadows between two lifeboats. Her remaining self-esteem was scornful of making a public display when it was time to vomit.
 

            He stroked her head as she retched, and almost felt sorry for her.
 

            Gradually, the convulsions subsided, and gently, he turned her to face him. 
 

            She had her back against the rail, and his arms were around her.
 

            He cautiously slid the ice pick from the sleeve of his dinner jacket, and poised its point behind her right ear.
 

            The ‘stalk’ was now over; and, in anticipation of his forthcoming ‘pleasure’, the front of his pants was already unzipped.
 

            Nevertheless, as a last precaution before the moment of ‘truth’, he made a visual check of the deck from left to right.
 

            He could still abort the whole business, if he had to.
 

            There was no one was in sight; only some dim, distant lights twinkled on the horizon beyond the ship’s rail
 

            He looked down into her blood-shot, blue eyes, and she smiled a bleary, weak smile.
 

            The tip of his ice pick slid into her brain, as he smiled his own arctic smile of triumph. Without making any physical entry, he spasmed between her limp legs, and in thirty seconds it was all over.
 

            Finally, he only had to raise the body about six inches from the deck, before gravity kicked-in with its welcome assistance, and the woman folded over the ship’s rail like a roll of discarded, dirty carpet.
 

            He was already on his way to the ‘Mid-night Buffet’ on the ‘Regatta Deck’ before the ship’s wake enfolded the woman’s body into the shallow tropical sea, just to the north of a Bahamian island called Inagua.
 

*
 

            The stalker licked barbecue sauce from his fingers:
 

            He was simultaneously enjoying both the taste of the food in his mouth and the flavor of the ‘kill’ in his mind.
 

            It was his fifth ‘ hunt operation’; and, as yet, no one had realized that any ‘murders’ (as such) had been committed. 
 

            Perhaps next time, a touch of publicity might add a little more zest to the affair. The ‘nobody - knows - but - me’ thrills were becoming a trifle stale – he now needed some wider recognition of his butchering ‘skills’.
 

 (Many pages to go)