He typed furiously with a dramatic arched attack on the keyboard using both index fingers only. The desk shook and rattled at the rage of his raid on the laptops fragility After 10 or 15 minutes he would sit back and survey half a paragraph of disconnected spelling mistakes and conceptual caverns. It was painful to watch the inept hopeless attempt to wrest order from an obviously confused mind. As he neared the breaking point of frustrated irrelevance the thought that he had spent his life in the company of assholes, either being one or kissing one, surfaced briefly as a cloud might for a moment resemble a man.

Yes he was a wretch of a man the kind of person everyone immediately disliked and distrusted. He emanated a paranoia that was self fulfilling and resulted in his slinking around like a sick rat, searching eyes, opportune to fall on what was left unguarded. What made him successful was the accumulation of bits of menial castoffs he would cobble together into some misshapen mannequin of premise. Orphaned as a youngster he had a “Dickens” quality that spoke of clever but not intelligent, no learning was wasted on academics, there was always the eye of a thief in his motives. Short, bald patch that made you think of Friar, he always shaved in a careless manner that left patches of beard where they would attract your attention when speaking with him and divert your eye contact, that and the unwashed body odor made one want to keep a distance and slip away from any personal encounter. That was the way he liked it. Time as an outcast had build in his personal defense psyche a strategy of keeping distant while remaining close enough to prey

Pushing back from the ships desk he rose and went on the prowl. In search of whatever, something or someone he could he could cheat to fill the greed that consumed him. On the bridge he tormented the Captain about turning the ship back to the rendezvous location that had fallen astern in the high wind and waves. And then on throughout the quiet ship leaving a trail of cold emptiness in his wake. On the main deck, aft the house there was the ships smoking area where the ships Engineer had left a new package of cigarettes while he went below to fuel the daytanks. His forage brought him in the end to the smoking area, it was deserted. He eyed the package of cigarettes, still covered in the protective

Normally he would slip one out and never be discovered. Without remorse he removed the cellophane and extracted a single cigarette but as he returned the packet to the table it slipped out of his hand and into the water lying on deck. He picked up the sodden pack put it back on the table and stole away up to the second deck by the rail in the dark with his booty. He hadn´t notice the ship had begun it´s turn. The struck match lit his face in an eerie glow as he drew the flame close but just as he was about to touch the cigarette to the fire a malicious gust of wind tore the cigarette from his mouth. He lurched in a wild grab to recapture lost prize at the same moment during the ships turn when the broached hull responded to one of the larger waves that tread the sea that night. He was upended as though someone had swept his legs from under him and over the rail. One hand caught the scupper and his coat snagged on some rusty protrusion of unknown purpose. Inch by inch he worked his way along to the boarding door, meter by meter the ship continued its turn and the waves crawled further up the hull wetting first his boots and then his legs. As he reached the door the seventh wave arrived washing him along the side of the hull and swept him past the stern. Not a soul knew he was overboard. The salty water was cold and dark, choking him as he gasped for air. Dread flooded him with adrenalin but his shouts we lost on the wind. The ship steamed away and the lights seemed to be repeatedly extinguished by the waves as he rose and fell. Then the cold set in slowly numbing his senses as the sea sapped his strength and will.

The morning light, a soft glow on the horizon silhouetted a ship, he would be found if he could hold on a little longer. He was so cold he could barely lift his arm out of the water to wave and call to the approaching vessel. He felt a sharp bump on his foot, then another. He reached down but his hand was so cold he couldn´t feel a thing. As he brought his hand out of the water a thin wash of blood dripped from his fingers. He reached again but this time only returned the stump of a forearm. Pain slowly spread through his body in the company of shock and despair. He was slipping into confusion but the last clear vision he had was of the sleek grey body turning towards him and the cold grey eye that saw him only as prey.

The Engineer returned to the smoking area for his cigarettes and swore as he picked up the soaked pack. “Thief” he cursed, “may you rot at the bottom of the sea”.