The Log of the Pipistrel

Abstract

THE LOG OF THE PIPISTREL I David OhIe AGRAND SHIP SHE IS. Now July 4, 8 p.m. Latitude 32.7 North, Longitude 136.5 West. Sea smooth, weather pleasant. Crew attired in white. Tonight's menu: spring pie, raw puffer, haggis pudding, Scotch collops, Rouen duck. We put in at an unpleasant little island called Patmos, where the soil is purple, owing to the presence of permanganate. I come to a falling down oyster shack and sit down to a serving of conch fritters. Soon taken ill. Ship's physician decides my body has become the dwelling place of pinworms, transferred to me by necrotized conch meat. They cause no end of trouble by their habit of coming out around the anal region during sleep, leading to painful scratching and restless nights. I am able to remove them with a swab of cotton on an applicator rod. During this infestation I am listless and anemic. Many years ago I conducted a macabre experiment. I cooked one duck and fed it to 19 other ducks. Then I fed one of the 19 to the remaining 18, and so on, until I had but one left, a duck that had eaten 19 of its fellow creatures. That one I ate myself. Off Christchurch, New Zealand. The Pipistrel's nets, drawn up from a depth of 1,000 feet, contained the rotting hulk of a plesiosaur, a marine reptile of the Jurassic period. It weighed about 30 tons, had a small head, long neck, four paddlelike limbs and a short tail. The remains of its ancient flesh hung like laundry from the bones. A foul-smelling white custard filled its mouth. The ship's artist, Anna Belle Hawkins, made hasty sketches of the monster before it was again dispatched to the abyssal depths. I am a victim oiejaculatio praecox, nightly dreams that end in pollution. There is a man aboard by the name of Stekel, who claims some mastery of the psychic arts. I have confided in him on several occasions. Most recently I told him: My semen never comes out normally and it has a peculiar consistency. If I have intercourse with a woman I experience a 32 · The Missouri Review severe cramp in the femoral region simultaneously with the orgasm. There comes only a small drop, but afterwards, while washing, the real semen flows out, as thin and watery as skimmed milk. I think that I shall never have children. I've met Machnov, the Russian giant, and Finlander, the Finn, who stands just over 9 feet. They are the property of the Frenchman, Topinard, who is taking them to Manila for exhibition purposes. Interested parties are invited to the ship's library. Topinard, a shrimp of a fellow, sits between his giants. He says: Giants, as a rule, are liars in proportion to their height. They are indolent, unamiable, irascible, asocial, and unpleasant to live with. They will not stay in private rooms and they wander about at night, never letting you sleep. Finlander is on deck this evening, plodding through his after-dinner stroll. He stops to say, I am so ashamed of my portly condition that I have taken to wearing a LaGreque Reduction Belt. Lined with the purest Para rubber, it carries fatty secretions from my body and into a drain-bag tucked discreetly beneath my clothing. Breakfast with Anna Belle Hawkins and her husband, Roger. She is a woman of striking appearance, hair a radiant red, as is her husband's untamed beard. Have you heard the news? Asks Roger. The news? Yes, the Captain was murdered during the night. The killer forced entry to his quarters, voided his bowels on the puce carpet, beat him viciously, pierced his heart with a darning needle, then scissored off his moustache. Hideous and awful, says Anna Belle, who was asked to sketch the remains. Dreamt I met Roger in a dimly lit passage below deck. He informs me he has been asked to be present at the Captain's post-mortem, then leads the way to a makeshift morgue where the corpse has been set atop drums labeled Lime Pickle—Bombay. It is slit open, throat to...