Chattel dressed as men bathe in sweat, death, and whatever fluid the body can spare. The hull bleeds out men and timber like a septic wound, letting in the burn of fresh ocean water. Drums beat as half-whole oar-man groan and bleed. A volley sounds, those next to me transformed into paste and splinters before the devil’s laugh can find them. The ship creaks, moans, and begins to buckle, slinging us screaming into the saltways of oblivion.