All eyes rested on the feared Admiral Thomas S. Monson as he climbed to the highest point on the deck of the J.$.$. Morgannic dressed in his customary white suit, white shirt, white tie and ill-fitting headgear.

The Mormon Elders and apostates ceased their fighting and held their breath.

The clanging of swords, the grunted shouts, even the mutters and cries of the wounded died down.

There were only the sounds of the rising wind, the slap of the ocean on the hulls, and the creaking of the lines.

As always, Admiral Thomas S. Monson had waited until all circumstances were in his favor before he showed himself.

He had understood the advantage of the rising wind all too well.

Admiral Thomas S. Monson raised his arm.

"Grapples away!" he ordered in his nasally sing-song voice.

A flock of grappling irons from the J.$.$. Morgannic exploded through the air leading thick ropes across the small span of sea toward the apostate vessel.

The stout barbed hooks slammed into the Golden Exmo, burying in the sturdy oak railing, tearing into her thick teak deck, and wrapping her masts and rigging.

Admiral Thomas S. Monson gave another command and a new contingent of Mormon Elders poured out of the hatches and leveled their rifles at the startled and surrounded apostates.

Cricket, still unnoticed in his perch in the J.$.$. Morgannic rigging, watched in horror as each apostate lowered their weapons and raised their hands.

Admiral Thomas S. Monson smirked. "Haul away!" was his command.

Unseen hands below decks pulled the lines from the grappling hooks taut and began to reel them in.

The Golden Exmo heeled toward the ropes. Her gallant old timbers creaked in resistance to the odd, sideways movement.

The apostates stood defeated, waiting for Admiral Thomas S. Monson's inevitable command to board, when hundreds of Mormon Elders would sweep over the rail of the Golden Exmo.

The lurkers and unregistered crew would be tossed into the sea or sold into slavery.

For the officers there was only imprisonment and the mockery of a Court of Love, followed by a date with a firing squad.

The two ships touched gunwales. Admiral Thomas S. Monson stood leering, his hand upraised. The Mormon Elders waited at the rail, bayonets poised.

Admiral Thomas S. Monson gazed down on their anguish with glee and satisfaction. He hesitated a pregnant moment before giving the order.

"Fire!"

The J.$.$. Morgannic had three gun decks on each side of her massive oak planked hull.

Each gun deck had ten four-inch cast-iron cannon a side loaded with solid ball and explosive canisters.

The thirty guns roared at the once.

The J.$.$. Morgannic heeled away from the recoil, tipping sharply and dumping the unready apostates onto the deck.

The braced Mormon Elders took a step closer and pinned each apostate to the deck with the gentle touch of a bayonet point.

A thick, acrid cloud of gray smoke obscured the Golden Exmo from view.

Deafened, the apostates could barely hear Admiral Thomas S. Monson as he commanded his troops. "Let them up," he said with a wave of his hand. "I want them to see and understand the power of the Priesthood."

The Elders beckoned the apostates to their feet.

They stumbled to the rail.

None spoke.

None could believe their eyes.

The Golden Exmo was fatally wounded.

Her side was blasted completely open from waterline to gunwale.

The broken burning timbers of the hold sagged crazily.

The sea was rushing in blending steam with thick smoke from the fire that raged from stem to stern.

Above deck the devastation was equally complete.

Both masts lay across the deck.

Tangled in the jungle of rigging, canvas and wood that covered the Golden Exmo was a wreathing mass of wounded unregistered crew members and lurkers.

Their pitiful cries reached over the smoky water to the J.$.$. Morgannic.

A splash announced that someone dove off the J.$.$. Morgannic.

Mormon Elders raced to the rail, rifles upraised.

An apostate surfaced and began swimming across the wave tops.

The Mormon rifles spoke and the water was peppered with stinging splashes as bullets pocked around the swimmer.

Ricochets sang off debris that littered the surface.

As the swimmer dove under the flotsam, Admiral Thomas S. Monson raised his hand and said, "Hold your fire. I want to see what that apostate is after."

In a moment, it was Susan I/S who clambered out of the sea and onto the tilting deck of the Golden Exmo.

Ignoring the sharply increasing pitch of the ship, the moans of the wounded, and the flames licking all around her, Susan I/S made her way, struggling through the jumbled sails and ropes until she found the top of the mainmast where it lay across the deck.

A spontaneous cheer arose from the captured apostates along the rail as Susan I/S tore the Rainbow Salamander banner free of the mast and waved it defiantly overhead.

Admiral Thomas S. Monson lowered his hand and the rifles of the Mormon Elders spoke once again.

The Golden Exmo heeled toward the open wound in her side.

The ship began to roll and tossed Susan I/S into the sea.

The Golden Exmo showed her keel to the sky and sank slowly downward into in the turning center of an ever widening whirlpool.

Even after the Golden Exmo had vanished from sight, the whirlpool continued to swirl about, pulling all the debris from the ruined ship into its center.

Admiral Thomas S. Monson called out in his indolent way. "Whoever commands this rabble, show yourself to me."

Captain Steve Benson turned toward Admiral Thomas S. Monson and stepped forward.

Admiral Thomas S. Monson opened his mouth to speak, but a Public Relations firm executive in the lookout interrupted him.

'The whirlpool grows!" came the cry from the crow's nest. "Hard a'lee."

"Helm hard a'lee," echoed Admiral Thomas S. Monson.

The helmsman, a Mormon Elder clad in a short sleeved white shirt and clip-on tie, clambered over the captured apostates back to his station.

As he spun the wheel, other Mormon Elders leaped into the rigging like trained monkeys.

Again all apostate eyes turned toward the spot where the Golden Exmo had sunk.

Indeed the whirlpool was growing. But not like any whirlpool they had ever seen.

The whirlpool rose out of the ocean, spinning faster and faster, growing and rising skyward like a charmed serpent, until its mad whirling top stood higher than the crow's nest of the J.$.$. Morgannic.

The whirling mass of water, wind and debris tilted toward the J.$.$. Morgannic.

Its bottom tore free of the wave tops and the immense spinning tower bore down on the LD$ ship.

The apostates felt no fear.

None felt willing to flee or had the energy for feeling the terror which began to sweep the crew of the J.$.$. Morgannic.

What did they care for this foul vessel of Mormonism?

Their Golden Exmo lay blown to bits on the bottom of the pitiless sea, the battle lost and their cause defeated.

Stray Mutt studied the waterspout with growing interest as Admiral Thomas S. Monson barked commands attempting to regain control of his crew.

"Fellow apostates," said Stray Mutt, "Is that some kind of tornado?"

"There are no tornados at sea," retorted SL Cabbie. “It’s a waterspout.”

"That's no waterspout!” shouted Ziller. “It's the Whirlwind of Apostasy!"


ziller

Paleese don't leave us hangin'.

I say, "Keel haul that bastage Admiral!"

Great shtuff!