Read Online The Devil Is a Black Dog by Sandor Jaszberenyi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandor Jaszberenyi
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finally washed the taste of the desert from my mouth. I took out my smartphone and loaded the game
Sid Meier’s Pirates!
I thought I should keep busy even if I had no real work. I had downloaded the game for free from the company’s site; I got it as a bonus when I reached five gigabites of downloads the previous month, 200 dollars’ worth.
I had begun to play the game the night before, to fill the six-hour trip from El Arish to Cairo. In the game you are a pirate captain. The goal is to retire with the most points by battling other pirates and marrying into aristocracy.
We got caught in a sandstorm on our way back through the desert. When this happens you can’t see anything of the road, because the air is full of dark whirling sand. Nobody was in the mood to talk, so I just played. I began the game as an English buccaneer. It was going well for a few hours, but I kept getting stuck when I tried to take Trinidad. Four frigates from my flotilla with four hundred trained pirates waited in vain to attack, unable to overcome the tricky winds the game threw at us. I tried everything I could with the touchscreen, but my ships could only bob futilely in the sea as the city’s red fortress showered them with fire.
I had to take Trinidad at all costs if I wanted to end the game with maximum points. In Trinidad there was money, Spanish silver, the governor’s daughter. Everything you need to win. It bothered me that I couldn’t find a solution, because I wanted to make the game’s Hall of Champions.
I hate when I can’t finish what I start. It saddens me to think I let an opportunity pass me by.
The menu came up on the screen and I killed the sound. I loaded my saved settings and began to direct the fleet, but again the wind worked against me. My entire fleet was sunk twice. I wondered if the problem was the weight, as there must be some reason the game notes just how much freight the boats carry.
Instead of frigates I need some lighter boats
, I thought.
Lighter boats, which maneuver quickly, even in bad wind.
“I think somebody’s looking for you,” said Omar, taking my empty glass. I turned. By the pool stood Alistair Bleakly, the
Independent
’s newly hired correspondent. He didn’t look good. He was wearing the same clothing he had on yesterday in the desert. He hadn’t shaved and his leather jacket sparkled with sand. I waved him over.
“I tried to ring you several times,” he said, and hopped up on a barstool next to me.
“I was unplugged.”
“You’re a reporter. You should have your phone on.”
“It’s my day off. Why, did something happen?”
“I was just thinking things over. We should do something.”
“About what?”
Alistair stared at me in dismay, but kept quiet because Omar arrived with the two whiskeys I had ordered. I looked into the boy’s bloodshot eyes. He couldn’t have slept much last night. We picked up our drinks.
“We should do something in regards to the woman.”
“What were you thinking of?” I asked, and took a drink of the whiskey. “What should we do?”
“Well, we could notify the UN. About the things that are happening in Rafah.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You’d have to fill out a questionnaire of at least ten pages, and you would have to supply all your information. The whole matter would get to Amn ad-Dawla.”
“I don’t care.”
“They deported people for less just last week.”
“Then we might say something to the police.”
“There are no police.”
“Then the military.”
“The military won’t care.”
“For the love of god, something should be done,” hissed the guy through clenched teeth.
“You could put a paragraph about it in your report.”
“That’s all? They killed a person.”
“It wasn’t a murder; she was executed.”
“Murder is murder. We should do something. We’re reporters.”
“You need to rest. You’re exhausted.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“I can see that.”
“How can you stay
Sid Meier’s Pirates!
I thought I should keep busy even if I had no real work. I had downloaded the game for free from the company’s site; I got it as a bonus when I reached five gigabites of downloads the previous month, 200 dollars’ worth.
I had begun to play the game the night before, to fill the six-hour trip from El Arish to Cairo. In the game you are a pirate captain. The goal is to retire with the most points by battling other pirates and marrying into aristocracy.
We got caught in a sandstorm on our way back through the desert. When this happens you can’t see anything of the road, because the air is full of dark whirling sand. Nobody was in the mood to talk, so I just played. I began the game as an English buccaneer. It was going well for a few hours, but I kept getting stuck when I tried to take Trinidad. Four frigates from my flotilla with four hundred trained pirates waited in vain to attack, unable to overcome the tricky winds the game threw at us. I tried everything I could with the touchscreen, but my ships could only bob futilely in the sea as the city’s red fortress showered them with fire.
I had to take Trinidad at all costs if I wanted to end the game with maximum points. In Trinidad there was money, Spanish silver, the governor’s daughter. Everything you need to win. It bothered me that I couldn’t find a solution, because I wanted to make the game’s Hall of Champions.
I hate when I can’t finish what I start. It saddens me to think I let an opportunity pass me by.
The menu came up on the screen and I killed the sound. I loaded my saved settings and began to direct the fleet, but again the wind worked against me. My entire fleet was sunk twice. I wondered if the problem was the weight, as there must be some reason the game notes just how much freight the boats carry.
Instead of frigates I need some lighter boats
, I thought.
Lighter boats, which maneuver quickly, even in bad wind.
“I think somebody’s looking for you,” said Omar, taking my empty glass. I turned. By the pool stood Alistair Bleakly, the
Independent
’s newly hired correspondent. He didn’t look good. He was wearing the same clothing he had on yesterday in the desert. He hadn’t shaved and his leather jacket sparkled with sand. I waved him over.
“I tried to ring you several times,” he said, and hopped up on a barstool next to me.
“I was unplugged.”
“You’re a reporter. You should have your phone on.”
“It’s my day off. Why, did something happen?”
“I was just thinking things over. We should do something.”
“About what?”
Alistair stared at me in dismay, but kept quiet because Omar arrived with the two whiskeys I had ordered. I looked into the boy’s bloodshot eyes. He couldn’t have slept much last night. We picked up our drinks.
“We should do something in regards to the woman.”
“What were you thinking of?” I asked, and took a drink of the whiskey. “What should we do?”
“Well, we could notify the UN. About the things that are happening in Rafah.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You’d have to fill out a questionnaire of at least ten pages, and you would have to supply all your information. The whole matter would get to Amn ad-Dawla.”
“I don’t care.”
“They deported people for less just last week.”
“Then we might say something to the police.”
“There are no police.”
“Then the military.”
“The military won’t care.”
“For the love of god, something should be done,” hissed the guy through clenched teeth.
“You could put a paragraph about it in your report.”
“That’s all? They killed a person.”
“It wasn’t a murder; she was executed.”
“Murder is murder. We should do something. We’re reporters.”
“You need to rest. You’re exhausted.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“I can see that.”
“How can you stay
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