The man was drunk. Really, utterly blasted. So much so, that I wondered how he was still standing. He held the webbing strap so tightly that his knuckles were white, and swayed alarmingly as the transport took corners on its meandering route towards the docks. Nothing seemed to stop his singing, though.
“I’m gonna be the captain, I’m gonna be in charge. I’m gonna be the captain, I’m gonna be-…”
We stopped, allowing a missionary to board. He took a single step towards the red faced man before he caught the scent of stale alcohol.
“You can fuck off to the back and sulk there,” roared the man as the black clad boy scurried away, distaste twisting his pale, beardless face.
“I’m gonna be the captain, I’m gonna be in charge…” The voice swelled to a yell. “Captain Bollocks! I shall be Captain Bollocks. On the good ship Scrotum. It’s a small boat, but it’ll pack a punch. We’ll be able seamen in our boat, Scrotum.”
It seemed appropriate, and I wondered whether the Ship’s AI had chosen him simply for his name.