unsaid

What the newspaper story didn’t explain was that Percy James Beauxcoup, though fervently anti-religious, had made a vow, a spiritual vow, no less, the day he committed his life’s savings to the purchase of his shrimp boat, which he later christened “The Emerald Queen,” even though it was, at that point, as sorrowfully downtrodden as he. He didn’t exactly look skyward, just out, out there, across the diamond blue Gulf, and promised that if he were able to make this work, this shrimping business, that he would respect, with all appropriate dignity, and defend, with whatever force necessary, the waters in which he fished. And he meant it. So, it was with that in mind that he listened to the East Coast-educated BP veep, in shirtsleeves and Red Sox cap, offer him and the others from the tiny fishing village 15 miles east of Biloxi $100 an hour to help try clean up BP’s mess. Percy didn’t move a muscle nor bat an eyelash, until the vice-president, one of 16 in the international firm, said it was the company’s way of trying to help the fishermen. “It’s not a handout,” the BP VP said, “it’s honest work,” at which point, Percy stepped forward and shot the sorry motherfucker right between the eyes.