(It should be noted that spell check thought "Brinley" ought to be spelled "Brainless" and that "crewmates" should be "cremates". Oh spellcheck, I think you have humor of your own.)
Long held as the epitome of fruit, apples are a succulent coalescence of taste and nutrition. Teaming with vitamins like horses galloping free and proud among its succulent flesh, hemmed in only by its bright, alluring peal. It seems natural that such an amazing gift, born to us from beautiful trees, should be used to represent the fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, as it seems at times too ethereal for mere mortals.
Whatever Brinley Brierwood had bitten into, it was most certainly not an apple. Perhaps it had once been an apple in a previous life, but it must have been a particularly dreadful life for it to end up like this. He gripped the gunwale as he retched the mass overboard. The last hamlet to be harassed by the crew of the Miss Adventure had been a bit too eager to surrender their goods, and it was obvious now that it had nothing to do with their intimidation techniques. Half the stores where rotten. Or worse contaminated, Brinley thought as he spat a bitter taste overboard. Perhaps their fields had the misfortune of being downstream from factory. He would wouldn't even think of giving this to the dog.
"Brinley!"
He cringed at hearing his name yelled. Behind him, a bald, stump of a head jutted out of the near-by cabin with a disapproving expression. The stump of flesh belonged to Willoughby Wilcox, the ships cook. It's generally said not to trust a skinny cook, yet Willoughby was a living exception to that rule of thumb. The massive girth which was still tucked in he cabin wasn't earned by eating the fantastic delights he prepared. Nor was it earned through a love of food in general. No, his body mass was a mystery to the crew, because as far as they could tell, the man hated food. His ingredients where but prisoners. Their crime, that of flavor. Only the brutal torturings of a chef especially schooled in the arts of un-cooking could extract their heresies. Carrots would be boiled alive, until nothing but a tasteless mash remained. Potatoes too! The meat, after being brought out of its briny purgatory, would join the others in the pot. There they would swirl in the boiling maelstrom, like sinners cast down into a culinary inferno.
"That hellish beast of yours has gotten into the stores again!"
Brinley rose to his feel, annoyed. His joints, sore from malnutrition, protested the move. "If he did, it's because you forgot to lock it again, Wilcox. What did he get into now?"
"He overturned the apple barrel, he did. He had his head so far in there that he almost got stuck when I caught him! I swear Brinley, you had better shape that dog up. All he does is eat our food, which, as I may remind you, has become remarkably short as of late! Once more, and I'll serve him as stew!"
"And I'm sure it would still taste better then the tripe you're serving now!" Brinely said, laughing off the cooks words. "Where's Triton now?"
"Anywhere but the storeroom. I chased that mutt out with a plank. Anyways, he's your responsibility, NOT mine."
Brinley raised his hands in mock defeat. "Alright, I'll find the poor dog. I'm sure he's sulking somewhere, terrified of your hideous visage, Willoughby." Grimacing for effect, he then left for below deck.
He called the dog's name a few times, but now answer. Finally, he found Triton curled up underneath his bunk with nought but a stub of tail hanging out. "Come on out, boy! It's ok, the ugly man's gone". A wheezed whimper leaked out from under the bunk. "Come on, enough playing!" Brinley reached down to drag the St. Bernard out. It was anything but a trivial task. Triton didn't resist. With a heave, he dragged the dog out from his hiding place. Triton remained prone, unmoving. "He, what's gotten into you?"
Something was not right with Triton. Though normally lethargic, he still greeted people with great enthusiasm. The icy grip of Realization placed its bony hand upon Brinley shoulder. Triton had gotten into the apples, most of which where likely contaminated.
Terrified at the prospects of poisoning, Brinley dashed out of the cabin in search of the ship's resident doctor. "Gunter!" he yelled franticly. He had scarcely made it out of the doorway when he collided with his query. A stream of German oaths flowed forth from the doctor like an uncorked bottle. Running both thought and words together, Brinley attempted to tell Gunter of his concern.
Piecing clues together from Brinleys rambling speech, a smile cracked across his weathered face. A chance to practice his medicine always perked him up. "You'd have me thinking he was bleeding out right here on the deck, the way you reacted! Well, lets have a look at him, shall we?"
Gunter Schmetterling was a doctor largely in title only. He largely derived his special brand of practice from his previous career as a carpenter. While serving aboard a Reichswaffe frigate, his superiors had found that he had a particular talent for sawing off diseased limbs. Though proficient, he also demonstrated a particular tenacity which unsettled those around him. While he was keep on board for the full duration of his cruise, he wasn't recommended for reenlistment. It was feared that he would start to find excuses to cut off perfectly health limbs.
The glorified lumberjack knelt down to examine the dog, who acknowledged him only with a whimper. After a bit of poking and prodding, he rose to his feet again. "It's quite simple, really. It seems he's eaten too much."
"Oh, well, if that's all" Brinley said, his panic fleeting.
"Yup, fixing it's no trick. I'll get my saw and we'll open him right up..."
Stopping the thought before it went any further, Brinley quickly ushered him out the door. "Uh, yes, thank you doctor, but I'm afraid that won't be necessary," he tried to hide his revulsion with a mask of politeness. It gave him a sour expression.
It seemed that he brought far more then just a large St. Bernard onboard when he adopted Triton, he also brought a good deal of trouble. He managed to sneak Triton onboard the ship without O'Neil noticing alright. Though the impotent captain had threatened to feed the crew their own tongues when he found out, the offer actually sounded more appealing then suffering Willoughby's devisings. Surprisingly, it was yet another empty threat. Eventually, they learned to live at an equilibrium, where Triton would lurk around the ship, avoiding O'Neil whenever possible. The captain did likewise, though he would never admit it. He simply found more excuses to avoid the the crews common area. Yet, living on such a small vessel, they could not entirely avoid one another. Those few times when they met, O'Neil would wrinkle his forehead and glare at the beast with such intensity that he appeared to be attempting to forge a telepathic link with a brick. This isn't so say that the dog was dumb, but he was far from it. Triton, like the rest of the crew, would let O'Neil play his games, and eventually slinks off to nap in some warm corner to be disturbed by no one.
Brinley braced himself against a beam as the ship uncharacteristically began to list port. He pondered about the dog as he headed to the Miss Adventure's stern. Certainly the companionship was of value. Triton was more loyal and less disagreeable then any of the crew. Yet such companionship came at a price. He snapped himself into the leather safety harness as he began his balancing act across the support beams to the port engine nacelle. The engine sputtered a bit, coughing puffs of black smoke. Bracing himself on the other side, Brinley undid a few latches and swung the service hatch open, exposing its steam-powered entrails. Belts, hung taught around their wheels, spun at terrifying velocity and proximity. Gears wound around axles, their teeth threatening to devour anything within reach. Brass gauges dotted the cavern, their glass covers smudged with soot.
Eyes darted from gauge to gauge, as Brinley Brierwood read them like tea leaves. A cross-head wasn't getting oiled properly as was getting out of time with the others. Fixing it would likely as simple as tightening a hose, but the cross-heads where on the other side of the nacelle. He chanced a glanced down to see the english countryside slowly pass by a thousand feet down. His nerve failing him, he made his way back across to the ship. The repairs would have to wait until they set down again.
A clanging tin bell announced supper was served. The small crew piled into the hot and crowded mess hall, not out of desire for the food, but for something to fill their bellies. Battered wooden stools lined the single table in the middle of the room. A lantern provided smoky light as it swung about, its typical rattle exaggerated by the ill-behaved engine. In the middle of the table, Willoughby set a large kettle of food byproduct. Brinley entered last, and a bit flustered too. “Has anyone seen Triton?” he asked of the gathered crew. While they could care less about the dog, they cared even less about their upcoming meal, so they humored him.
“No, and sometimes I hope I never will again either” remarked Clemons, supported by the hearty laughter of his crewmates. Willoughby gave the boy a wicked look as he served him his portion. It was look of knowing.
Distressed, Brinley played his spoon around in the watery mirk. There's only so many places for a dog to hide on an airship, especially one of that size. He tentatively raised a spoonful of the “stew” to his lips, testing the temperature. While the food inside was always thoroughly burned, it usually made it to the table tepid. Today was no different. Wisps of conversation drifted around him, but the engineer didn't have the will to grasp onto any of them. Mentally, he examined a blueprint of Miss Adventure while fulfilling his caloric intake by the spoonful. He safely assumed the animal hadn't climbed up to the envelope. Nor was he likely to be on the outside hull. That left only the ballast tanks, and those where sealed.
Like a spotlight over a prison camp, his eyes darted over his crewmates accusingly. Not only did they not share his concern, but they seemed almost relived. Had they plotted something? Clemons looked as relaxed as he ever did, nor was he the type to plot something. Gunter joked about in his morbid way, as usual. He didn't hate Triton, but you had to keep an eye on living things around the man. And while O'Neil certainly felt threatened by the harmless mutt, this would be the first time he had come through on any of his threats. Well, save for the pudding.
Thus, the full force of his smoldering suspicion came to rest on Willoughby, who had both motive and ability. He mulled this over while finishing his stew. Perhaps he had not the time, because the meal today was actually passable. The meat especially had a flavor of something other then salt.
Watery broth splashed over the tin bowl as Brinley let his spoon drop. His mental functions gathered around this horrible fact like gawkers to a car wreck. Not even his motor functions could tear themselves away from it. It was obvious now what had happened; Willoughby Wilcox had fulfilled his threat, killing the dog and serving him in the stew.
His mental functions remained transfixed on that horrible conclusion, drinking in dire resolve. Slowly they began to coalesce around a new conclusion. It was the motor functions that where first to act by picking the spoon back up. Brinley pushed his chair from the table and rose to his feet, slowly, as if he where heavy with purpose.
His other mental functions quickly returned to their stations, save for his emotions. No, that one would have to remain hidden until the fateful moment, lest it give him away. He focused on Willoughby, but not at the expense of everything else. To the contrary, he became acutely aware of his environment. The plump chief had finished serving the crew and had just taken a seat for himself. If he was drawing attention from the crew he didn't notice it. With spoon firmly gripped in hand and his face a blank mask, Brinley strode across the room. Willoughby looked up as he approached. Seeing him in a state of blissful oblivion was too much for Brinley, and a jagged smile cracked across his stone features.
The cooks oblivion quickly faded as Brinley's purpose was betrayed, replaced instead by a sudden fear. Narrowly avoiding a spill to the floor, Willoughby fumbled to his feet. Wheeling about he darted out of the mess hall into the storeroom. Brinley raised the spoon in pursuit, the crack of his smile widening into a chasm of pleasure.
The slamming of the storeroom door momentarily halted his vendetta. Undeterred, Brinley threw his whole self at it, yet the door stood solid. A cry of frustrated rage bellowed from his throat as he continued to throw himself at the door with all the futility of a fly. The crew darted up from their seats at the spectacle. It was Gunter her first attempted to restrain the engineer, but he alone proved insufficient. Others took his place as the doctor darted off for his bag. Over the sound of their scuffle, a startled scream could be heard on the other side of the storeroom door. Obviously, Willoughby was so frighted at the prospect of righteous vengeance being taken upon him that he was likely wetting himself in terror. The thought made Brinley break forth in dark laughter. A prick on his arm brought his cackling to a halt. He looked over to see Gunter pulling an empty syringe from his arm.
No! The filthy Kraut had tranquilized him! It was as if a heavy quilt was slowly settling upon him, weighing his limbs down more and more every second. Soon, he required no restraint. The two men holding his arms became ghosts who then blurred out of existence. The shouting and yelling became but a dull roar in his head. His vision narrowed, yet a fleshy stump of a head moved into view. It was trying to tell him something, but it was indistinguishable over the static. Brinley gasped for breath as a great weight crush down on his chest. Something large and wet lathered his face as the smell of rotten apples pushed him over the edge into unconsciousness.
Triton sat atop his owners body, his dirty fur stained with apples. The crew had tried to shoo the mongrel away, but to no avail. Triton fiercely defended Brinley and dared to snap at any who would attempt to take him away. Thus, they simply left him there, lying on the mess floor. But when he awoke, there would be punishment, thought Captain O'Neil. Murder may be perfectly acceptable on any other pirate ship, but most certainly NOT the Miss Adventure!
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