stanley is a nut

         The Pacific Star motored through the Caribbean at 21 knots as it has done for thirty years.  This luxury cruise liner was the height of sophistication with every modern convenience of comfort and pampering.  It was just after midnight.  The band was playing, couples were dancing and the wine was flowing.  Suddenly, the lights went out, the engines stopped and there was absolute silence.

         Stanley Rupert snapped.  Before the murmurs filled dance floor, he was off his barstool and throwing jabs to the midsection of the man next to him.  The fat bastard had it coming, flashing his wad of bills all evening, or so Stanley believed.  A stiff left to the man’s jaw, and Mr. Morbidly Obese was on his back in the middle of the floor.  Stanley began to laugh maniacally and kicked the fat man’s lady friend, presumably his wife.  She was equally large and a quick roundhouse knocked her out like the lights. 

         Unable to process what they witnessed, Stella and Bon Fredriksen stared mouth agape. 

         “What happened?”

         “What’s going on?”

         Stanley charged the couple as questions flooded the dance hall.  He slammed a fist into Stella’s jaw and smashed his forehead off the bridge of Bon’s nose.  Stanley shouted, “Woooo.”  He picked up a banquet chair and hammered a large African-American woman, Chantrelle Jenkins from Richmond, Vriginia, upside the head.  The Caucasian fella¸ Dale Jenkins, next to her met an equal fate.

         To add to the confusion, Stanley’s rampage had garnered attention, and the crowd quickly began to disperse.  Larger humans were passed by and shoved out of the way.  Screams and cries filled the air, along with Stanley’s chuckling. 

         A hero emerged in the form of the bartender, Ales.  Ales was born and raised in Calgary, Alberta Canada, and has worked on the Pacific Star for the last six years.  He was a well-built man standing a full four inches above the six foot barrier.  Ales, hopped the bar and darted toward Stanley.  Unfortunately, for our hero, Stanley caught his rush out of the corner of his eye.  Stanley turned to the side and used Ales’ momentum against him.  Both men tumbled to the floor.  Stanley landed on top of Ales and proceeded to slam the man’s head off the ground repeatedly until he lay unconscious.

         Stanley giggled like the Pillsbury doughboy and watched hordes of humanity flee in utter panic.  He climbed off of Ales and walked toward the bar.  As Stanley strolled casually by tables, he grabbed unfinished drink glasses and chucked them toward exits.  A handful of dancers took one off the dome.  Ladies and gentlemen crumbled to the floor bleeding from cranium.  Stanley laughed and laughed as the men and women tumbled down midstride. 

         Someone yelled, “What the hell is wrong with you?”  Stanley took a gander.  The screamer was well on their way out the door.  Stanley reached across the bar and scooped up a half empty bottle of Skyy Vodka.  He stuffed a cloth napkin halfway down the neck and retrieved the zippo from his pants pocket.  He fired up the Molotov cocktail and let it fly.

         The firebomb cracked a policewoman, Selma Smith, on vacation from Worcester, Massachusetts.  The bottle smashed and her head, not to mention a handful of persons next to her, went up in flames.  Bodies were running around on fire like chickens with removed heads.  “Goddamn, that’s funny,” he choked out between bursts of gut-wrenching laughter.  Stanley enjoyed that so much, he lit another Molotov cocktail, this time a bottle of Old Crow.  He wondered who the hell would drink that garbage.  Stanley lit and chucked, lit and chucked. 

         The dance hall emptied as fires blazed sporadically throughout the room.  Stanley began going through the pockets of his first victim.  “Ooooh, what do we have here?  A little ching-ching-a-ling.”  Stanley dumped out a tiny vial of cocaine onto the bar.  He fired back a gagger.  “Oooooh, not bad, not bad…,” Stanley rifled through the man’s wallet coming up with his license, “Mr. Harvey Stapleton.”  Stanley kicked the fat man, smashed a bottle of Appleton’s White Rum and jammed one of the shards into his neck.  “Fuck off, Mr. Stapleton.”  Stanley removed Harvey’s paper money, totaling $421.00. 

         Stanley dumped the purse of the fat woman next to Harvey Stapleton.  To his delight, she too was holding.  He stuffed a couple of wraps into his trousers and flipped open the woman’s wallet.  Sadly, Harvey did not trust his XXL wife, Sally Stapleton, to hold any money. 

         

         Stanley felt he was missing out on all the fun, so he left the comforts of the dance hall.  Just outside the hall, the deck was deserted.  Stanley could hear commotion down toward the gym.  He took his time and crept along the rails slowly.  As he approached a bend, he heard footsteps thumping closer.  He wasn’t sure, but it sounded like a lone runner.  Stanley crouched down behind a lounge chair and waited.

         A blonde woman in her twenties darted around the corner.  She was running right towards Stanley, but had no idea he was there.  Just as she was about to zip by him, Stanley charged the woman and knocked her ass over the rail into the sea.  The last thing poor Zelda Shankle from Tacoma, Washington heard was the giggling of her assailant.   

         

         Stanley located a janitor closet and helped himself to a push broom.  He removed the bristle end and went looking for someone to smack.  A couple of newlyweds from New Orleans, Louisiana seemed content to ride out the inconvenience of the loss of power by cuddling and watching the stars out on the deck.  Cecily and Fred Fulton were so caught up in the romance of it all; they hadn’t even seen Stanley approaching.  With one swift swing, Stanley knocked them both out cold.  He hoisted Cecily up against the rail, grabbed her feet and flipped her over the side of the boat.  He left Fred unconscious and newly widower-ed. 

         Stanley grabbed the push broom stick and waited patiently crouching in the corner.  “Zelda,” Prince whispered as he roamed the darkness searching for his wife.  Stanley stifled his giggles.  Prince crept along turning his head side to side.  “Zelda.”  Stanley waited for Prince to look in his direction, and then charged.  Prince ducked the first swing and raised his hands in defense.  “Whoa, buddy, what’s goin’ on?”  Stanley kicked Prince in the crotch.  Prince buckled to the floor, and Stanley went to town swingin’ and smashing in Prince’s skull. 

         

         Stanley reached into his pocket and pulled out his first wrap.  He worked feverishly at untying the knot.  Once he finally struggled to free the delicious white nose powder, he dumped a large chunk onto a poolside table.  With nobody to murder, Stanley took his time busting up a rail with his credit card.  Satisfied with the smoothness of his line, Stanley rolled up a dollar bill and snorted back some cheap-ass cocaine up his right nostril.  What do you expect on a cruise ship, Stanley thought?  He busted up another line and shoved it up his left nostril. 



         High on blow, Stanley got up to find someone to kill.  He trudged by the gym when he saw a hulking, gorilla of a steroid abusing man.  Salvador Carcillo was in the midst of cranking out some bicep curls.  “Oh, hey man.  I’m glad you’re here.  Could you give me a spot?”

         “Sure,” Stanley replied.  He wanted to see how this thing would play out, so he set his push broom stick down in the corner and followed Salvador to the bench.  Currently, the forty-five pound bar held a forty-five pound weight on either side.  Salvador went over to the rack and pulled off a couple additional forty-five’s.  Salvador reached out with one arm and handed Stanley one of the weights.  Now, Stanley works out and has a solid frame, but his arms buckled slightly when handed the weight. 

         “Same time,” Salvador ordered.  Together they slipped the weights on either side of the bar.  “I’m gonna bust out three sets of twenty.  You want in on this?”

         “No, I’m good.” 

         “Cool.”  Salvador climbed onto the bench, positioned himself beneath the bar, hoisted it off the stand and began to lower the bar to his chest and raise the bar above his chest.  Stanley noticed a couple of discarded dumbbells lying next to the bench.  Weighing at only fifteen pounds each, Stanley was positive he could lift the weight without any difficulty.  Quietly, Stanley bent over to retrieve one of the dumbbells.  Just as Salvador, from St. Louis, Missouri, finished his set, Stanley cracked the hulking Italian-American in the face with the dumbbell. 



         Whistling, Stanley rolled out of the gym and onto the deck.  He had no idea how long he was going to be stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere.  Hell, that other piece of shit was stuck in the middle of the ocean for a fucking week.  Either way, this vacation was shaping up to be the best ever. 

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