The MV Lyubov Orlava

A rotten rusting hulk losing its balky battle twixt water. Air and iron plate drawn day by day ever closer toward the briny deep. The string quartet plays a mournful tune echoing around the listing listless ship. Broken furniture and shards of glass litter the wretched cabaret lounge. The swimming pool rocks and rolls with stinking green Adams ale. Cabins are cold dark desolate rat holes.

The cruise to nowhere never-ending, drifting. Lost forever to the eyes of man. From the maelstrom of Antarctica to the peace of a Newfoundland harbour. Tethered to a quiet dock awaiting annihilation at the hands of vicious wreckers.

One dreamy starlit winters night the MV Lyubov Orlova slipped her chains. A million dollars in top grade scrap. Riches deep within her hold adrift forever in the wild Atlantic gyre, endless ocean current. Searched for, hunted, never found. Sunk, gone forever to the bottom of the bounding main.

I think not, for now our ship sails on. An eternal round of dining and dancing for her elegant passengers. The crew forever working, never sleeping, always smiling and of course thousands of cannibal rats trapped in this monstrous floating world.

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