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After putting the crack monster to bed, JS decided to wake me up out of my own hazy sweaty slumber so we could take the motorcycle over to Copacabana and meet up with his new friend, an airline pilot, whose
name happens to be Captain Kirk. He had been telling me about this guy since he met him on the beach a few days ago in Leme, so I said alright even though I was sleepy and begrudgingly I threw my clothes on and stumbled down the stairs to the garage, rubbing my eyes and holding onto the banister of the big winding staircase.

I hopped on the bike and we blasted into the Rio madrugada.

When we pulled up in front of Help, the quintessential gringo whorehouse, we saw a group of pink-faced middle aged whiteboys sitting around a table yelling at eachother like typical kracker-jacks and, without greeting them, Jonathan turned to me behind him, rolled his eyes and said “no fucking way”. I was totally fine with that because at the very moment he turned around to look at me I was struck with what seemed like a mild case of Dengue Fever and was positive that I was- at any given time- about to start shooting excrement from every orifice of my body.

“Okay” I gurgled and he fired up the bike, but before he pulled off, I heard a funny Southern drawl behind us.

“Hay there buddy”.

 I looked at the guy. Then I looked at Jonathan. Then I really looked at the guy, examined him and the skinny nappy whore who dangled on his arm like a fucking arm-hemmheroid. I looked at the beer in his hand.

Then he spoke. “Man, this whore right here just loves me! I donno how ta tell ‘er I only like em if they’re more than a hunderd keelos”. Jonathan winced, looked at me, shrugged and chuckled.
You have got to be kidding me. This is Captain Kirk? This is the guy you woke me to come meet at 3 in the morning? No. I leaned over and dry heaved as my preconceived notions, and whatever bug was infesting my stomach got the best of me.

But as soon as he started talking, it was only friendly intelligent things that came out of his mouth and I warmed up to him. He seemed to appreciate Narcisa and what Jonathan was doing as a writer and it really felt like he was one of us so I got off the bike sat down on the black and white bubblegum spotted tiles, afraid that if I stood up I would wind up on my face anyway so I might as well go down gracefully.

Jonathan was hungry and decided we should go to the pizzeria down the street. I thought if I walked a bit I might feel better.

We sat down at a little table and Jonathan ordered some sort of pasta dish that I’m becoming nauseous thinking about and Captain Kirk ordered a beer. He told us stories about his travels and the general
misconceptions of being an airline pilot. He told us that he was planning on working in South America for a few years until he could save up enough money to go back to Kansas City to drop acid, live on
the river, attend Burning Man and write the next great American novel. Right on to that.

I was starting to feel a little better after drinking some soda, thank God. After about an hour of rapping back and forth about real estate, flying commercial planes, and corrupt politicians Captain Kirk said
“OH- BRIG- GOT-OOOOO” and paid the tab and we walked back toward the ho-stroll where the bike was parked, me having gotten through the night without shitting myself and also learning, once again, for the
nine-millionth time, that you really can’t judge a book by its cover.

Even if the cover is a Gulf War vet who has a thick southern accent and a fat-girl fetish.

NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor Jonathan Shaw e Alessandra DeBenedetti. Os personagens mencionados são inteiramente fictícios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos, foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência. As várias fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.