Captain Plaguerat

Like it?  It's a little name I just thought up. 

(NOTE:  The person I'm about to discuss in great detail was to my eyes very clearly oblivious to the disgusting noises being made and also otherwise kindof creepy in a way that made me wonder if there was a proper sickness going on or perhaps a really creepy attention-grabbing kind of situation. I'm not talking about someone on oxygen here, or anyone otherwise similarly impaired.  The people I jab at here, are people who not only should know better, but who are fully capable of writing similarly insulted/revolted pieces about me.  And fear not, kids, I know my uppances will come.  They always do.  My aggressive statements might be misconstrued, however, and while I hope they're not, I also hope that if I offend you, you might reach out to me so we can talk about it.)

I don't know why I always seem to write these kinds of things on the weekends, except that subway-companion-analysis is a far less funny game when you've still got half a workweek ahead of you. 

But today's theme, gentle readers and foaming minions alike, is my new friend: Captain Plaguerat.

He comes in many forms, though usually you can recognize him by his 19th month of pregnancy-belly, covered only under the straining fibers of a thin, blue, buttondown shirt.  It creates a nice camelly-foot kind of effect.  And he harumpfs into the seat on the subway, both butt-places magnificently occupied by his singular posterior.  His feet and knees appear to have had a row, a fierce argument (if you will) and have not spoken to each other in ages as neither leg is pointing even vaguely in the same direction.  His tattery briefcase rests helplessly at his feet and at this point the handkerchief comes out.

If you're lucky.

Sometimes Captain Plaguerat comes without his signature hanky and just has a puffy beard or a withered sportcoat to absorb his pestilence.

And then we're off to the races.  There's no getting away now.  We're crammed in like those feeder goldfish at the petstore with waaaaaaaay less energy or motivation to... you know... survive.  The train lurches forward and you hear it.  *kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

and you're like "oh, that's nice. He's sick as hell and his workplace finally sent him home. at the end of the day.  at rush hour.  Super.  Juuuuuust super."

And you're filled with the kind of delight you get from trying to sort out exactly when it will be safe to breathe so long as you time it properly and are faced the right way.

So you put in your earbuds and turn up the System Of A Down and you just hope for the best.

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Mutherfucker.

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Really?  Seriously?  It's been like, eight seconds!

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Okay dude, honestly, are you just going to sit there and play with it?  *and this is where I start gagging uncontrollably*

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Stop one.  We've made it.  Eight to go.  Maybe Captain Plaguerat will get off at a popular stop like everyone else?  No?  Really?  30 more minutes of this maple-syrup-smoker's-lung?  Every 3 to 17 seconds?  Super. 

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Super fantastic.

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

He's got pink cheeks like a santa might.  But he's got a bleak-looking potato finger for a nose and some serious hair-care-for-men issues. 

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Must.  Not.  Turn.  Around.

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Must. Not.  GLARRRE.

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

OH GEEZ GAWD!  ZOMBIFY ALREADY FOR CHRISTS' SAKES (nb: there were more than one, right?) (no, I know, I'm just being an ass now)

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

Now I'm starting to feel... what's the word my friend used recently?  Oh right "HOMICIDAL"...  but without the stabby-stab because gack who wants THAT mess on their hands, right?  Am I right folks?

*kerHACKm-hem-urghm*

AAAAAND it's my stop.  So I get off the train and gag a little fresh air into my wilting lungs and I start to count the days until I get sick. 

Lucky for me, Captain Plaguerat probably doesn't have something contagious... he's just gross.
He's just one of those unhappy people of the world born to a life of horrible greasy skinflakes, assboils, toenails that look like fritos, and a cough that would retch a hyena.

He's not there to spread contagion, I tell myself, but he's more of a mystical creature.  Perhaps the gods sent him to absorb the evils of the world that they may manifest in his tissues and be kept away from the rest of us.  It's what I tell myself, you see.  And just as soon as I can get the skin on my neck to stop crawling and my ears to stop replaying that horrible horrible sound...  I can start to believe it.

But by the gods, if I get sick next week... 
Well let's just not go there, shall we?  Yes.  Let's not.