The Titanic

Brent Wilson was excited about traveling on The Titanic—or the “unsinkable ship”, as people called it. Brent was a popper and liked to think of himself as an undiscovered artist; he loved to draw anything he came across.
So as he rested on the deck of The Titanic, sucking on a cigarette, he drew the couple in front of him holding hands and peering into the deep sea.
Suddenly, Brent sensed that something wasn’t right. He didn’t know why the ominous feeling suddenly washed over him, but he dropped his sketchpad and pencil, before sprinting into the first class dining room. He thought that he would stick out like a sore thumb, with his ragged pants and stained blouse, but he managed to sneak into the kitchen unnoticed.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, at first. But then he saw her. She was leaning towards the sink—an evil whirlpool feared by all—about to jump.
“Stop!” Brent shouted desperately, and ran towards her. “Don’t do it!”
Oh, she was beautiful. She stopped Brent’s heart. She was tall and slim and had a yellowy complexion, with a ketchup piece on her head. Brent had never seen another French fry like her.
She turned her head to look at Brent.
She said, “Stay back! Don’t come any closer!”
“Come on; just give me your hand. I'll pull you back over.”
“No, stay where you are! I mean it! I’ll jump!”
“No, you won’t.”
“What do you mean, ‘No, I won't’? Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do, you don't know me!”
“You would have done it already.”
“You’re distracting me. Go away!”
“I can't. I'm involved now. You let go, and I'm—I'm gonna have to jump in there after you.”
“Don’t be absurd. You’d be killed!”
“I’m a good swimmer,” Brent sucked in his breath, trying to appear confident. He looked into the foreboding sink and at the harsh, soapy water that sloshed around it.
“You’re crazy.”
“That’s what everybody says but, with all due respect, Miss, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship here. C'mon, give me your hand. You don't want to do this. Like I said, I don't have a choice. I guess I'm kind of hoping you'll come back over the railing, and get me off the hook here.”
Brent extended his hand, and the French fry hopped on.
“Phew!” He smiled down at the French fry. “I’m Brent Wilson, by the way.”
“French Fry De Witt Bukater.”
“I’m gonna have to write that one down.”
Brent carried French Fry out of the kitchen and asked her where he should take her. She crisply replied Cabin 102, where her fiancé, Cal Hamburger was staying. Brent bid her goodnight, and went back to the deck.
That night, he drew French fries.

The next day, French Fry met up with Brent on the deck.
“Thanks for saving me, last night,” she said quietly.
“Hey, don’t mention it,” Brent replied, looking up from his sketch pad.
“You draw?” French Fry hopped onto the chair, and examined Brent’s picture of one of the third class families.
“Yeah.” Brent blushed slightly, and rubbed his neck.
French Fry flipped through the pages, but was taken aback by some pictures of naked women. “These are… beautiful.”
“Yeah,” Brent softly giggled. “Gotta love French girls.” He wiggled an eyebrow conspicuously.
“Will you…” she began. “Will you paint me?”
Brent sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “I’d love to paint you.”
***
French Fry was sprawled on a fancy sofa, her limbs dramatically spread out. “Paint me like your French girls,” she whispered. Her heart fluttered in her chest. It was the most erotic thing she had ever done. She felt scandalous, free. Brent seemed to have that affect on her.
And Brent painted her, soaking in the moment, because, wow, French Fry was smoking. And, oh, what he would give to have that hot piece of ass inside of him.
***
“Come on, I wanna show you something,” Brent said excitedly, holding French Fry close after the painting was completed. He brought her to the very edge of the ship, and held her out over the water, telling her to spread her arms, like she was flying. “I’m the king of the world!”
“Oh, Brent!” French Fry giggled, and flushed a bright pink.
“Where to, miss?” Brent started carrying French Fry around the ship again.
“To the stars.”
It was then that a horrible scraping sound erupted through the whole ship. Brent and French Fry both looked ahead in alarm, and shrieked when they saw an iceberg brushing against the ship.
“Brent!” French Fry cried.
“It’s okay,” Brent reassured her, holding her close.
“Do you think the ship will be okay?” French Fry asked, after they passed the iceberg and the horrible screeching sound stopped.
“I hope so.”
Brent tugged French Fry against the warmth of his chest, feeling the prickle of cold air against his ears and nose.
“Hold me closer,” French Fry requested. Brent could feel her shivering.
“Hey, maybe I misheard you yesterday, but… did you say that you have a fiancé?”
“I do…” French Fry said sadly, ashamed.
“Do you think he’ll be pissed about… you know…”
“No,” French Fry whispered, leaning closer to Brent. “I want to be with you, Brent, and only you. You make me feel amazing, alive. He never has to know. Let’s run away.”
And they kissed, and it felt like a million fireworks were lighting up.
“Come on,” Brent sounded husky, seductive. He briskly walked into the cargo room—a place he knew no one would be—and stepped into a car with French Fry.
He kissed her, long and hard and feverish and urgent, feeling her up and tasting her. Oh, god, she looked tantalizing.
“Are you nervous?” Brent asked, positioning himself on top of her.
“Touch me, Brent,” French Fry moaned.
And Brent did, until the windows were foggy and the whole boat shook.

Brent and French Fry laughed freely on the deck after that, looking into each other’s eyes, falling more in love with every gaze. Suddenly, an urgent voice rang out throughout the ship, “Everyone, The Titanic is sinking. Do not panic. We have already started getting the lifeboats.”
And like a wildfire, panic spread throughout the ship, anyway.
“Brent, what do we do?” French Fry gasped.
“Come with—“
Brent was interrupted when a hamburger walked up to him and French Fry.
“What the hell are you doing with my fiancé?” he demanded, appalled. “You dirty little bastard! Stay away from her!”
“Hamburger, please…” French Fry began, but Hamburger slapped her across the face.
“French Fry!” Brent called in distress.
Hamburger grabbed Brent’s hands, and began to haul him away from wounded French Fry. Brent had no idea where Hamburger was taking him, but he knew it couldn’t be good…
***
French Fry woke up in a daze, with people trampling all over her. Brent! She had to save Brent!
She opened up the door that led to first class, but a wave of freezing water shot out. She managed to stay afloat, and proceeded to find Hamburger’s room; Brent was probably there.
Finally, she pried open the metal door, and there was Brent! French Fry had never been so relieved in her life.
“Brent!” she cried, and immediately came to his aid. He was handcuffed to a metal pole, with the water up to his chin. Luckily, French Fry could float.
“French Fry, you’re so stupid,” Brent said, his voice shaking from both relief and disbelief. “Come on, unlock me.”
“You know,” French Fry swam, “once we’re out of this mess, I’d love to see you in handcuffs again.”
“Stop turning me on and untie me!”
French Fry dunked under water, and used her feet to pick the lock.
“We need to go,” she said urgently, and started to swim out of the room with Brent.
When they reached the deck again, everyone had already been loaded off into the lifeboats.
“Oh, Brent!” French Fry sobbed. “What do we do?”
“We jump,” Brent said, running with French Fry to the tip of The Titanic. “You jump, I jump, remember?”
“I remember,” French Fry whispered.
And as the unsinkable boat finally bubbled underwater, the couple plunged into the freezing water that cut into their skin like knives. They swam around desperately looking for something—anything—to hold onto.
“Ahh,” Brent called, his voice shaking. He found a door floating a few meters away, and brought it back for French Fry. “Here.”
French Fry managed to climb on. “Get on, Brent.”
“No, there’s not enough room.”
They sat in silence, with only their chattering teeth for noise. Brent was turning blue, his body was freezing.
“B-Brent,” French Fry trembled, “I love you.”
“I love you, too, French Fry,” Brent told her. “I-I don’t think I-I’ll be able to hold on much longer. You have to be strong, French Fry. Find safety.”
“Brent!” French Fry shrieked in horror as his eyes shut for the last time. “I’ll never let you go!”
She wept, her tears freezing before they even made it down her cheek, as her lover sunk to very bottom of the ocean.
***
After she was loaded onto the new ship, an attendant came up to her and asked, “What’s your name, love?”
“French Fry. French Fry Wilson,” French Fry replied, looking sadly into the ocean.