#mxladymorgan

It’s me. Just me. Are you disappointed? I bet you were all giddy to get a letter from Santa. Well. He does not exist. So you only have me.

On occasion I write letters as Santa to Bepo. Do not share this fact with him, or you will hurt his innocence, and he would be crushed, and then I would be crushed, and then you would be crushed, and then the crew would be crushed. We would all sink to the bottom of the ocean.

You might think I’m deceiving him – how horrid of me! But through our correspondence, albeit with me concealing my identity, I have been able to converse with him in a way that would not have been possible face-to-face. We talked more in our younger years, but it’s different now.

Anyhow, I thought I’d try the same with you. There are no awkward pauses in writing; my expression as I tell you all this, is left to your imagination. Please be respectful as you visualize my face.

What do you think, of this grand, magnificent idea? Shall we exchange letters? In each response, we could share, about anything. You could even write me a poem. A girl did that once, when I was eight. I told her I didn’t understand, so she burst into (not tears) an animated, thorough explanation – she was bold and determined – and I said her poem made no sense. And then the surroundings whirled and I had to pick myself up from the ground. No one lent a hand. Later, when anyone asked about my black eye, I said I’d been involved in a fight with some gang.

Don’t worry, I feel safer in your trusty hands; you never use your knuckles, only the flat of your unforgiving palm and your dainty little fingers.

That instance aside, I was a very good boy. I never made my sister cry. I was quite protective of her, in fact. She would be twenty-two this year.

She had the sweetest laugh. I don’t remember it. But it was the kind of laugh that made you want to laugh with her. And her face, how it would light up at the sight – or scent – of ice cream, kind of like you do with churros, that crazy, delirious, ravenous look in your eyes, like you’d kill for it.

I’m kidding. You might, but Lami would not kill anyone.

Your turn.

I expect two – three paragraphs at least.

If you can't think of something, I can ask questions. Like…

Tell me about how you met James.

“A storm? It’s worse. Listen, we are on Red Alert—or Yellow—I’ve always mixed up the two.”

“Right, right. It’s the end of the world, folks!”

“Only minutes ago, the Tang’s previously dormant volcano, Mount Trafalgar, erupted.”

“Lava fountains gushed from its crater.”

“Massive toxic plumes of flatulence spewed out, all over.”

“On the Volcanic Explosivity Index, Mount Trafalgar’s eruption is best described as mega-colossal—”

“Cataclysmic, you mean!”

“With the danger zone expanding to the entire Tang, the eruption fuels fear in the crew forced to seek shelter above deck. Some dived into the sea. Others that were unlucky and slow to escape have huddled up in their closets.”

“No reports of death or injuries yet. Nonetheless—”

“We’re all sitting ducks; writing our wills, saying our last words.”

“It’s been a good life, brotha.” Shachi turned to Penguin and placed a heavy hand on Penguin’s shoulder.

“See ya in Hell.”

Penguin and Shachi hugged briefly and then each woefully wiped their cheek with a finger.

“Hey,” came a pained, gruff voice from inside the toilet, Mount Trafalgar roaring. “Make yourselves useful and get me toilet paper.”

Mount Trafalgar was situated on the porcelain throne, battling mortal contractions of his stomach. His face was a tense and grim expression that looked more a hideous mask used to scare misbehaving children. He had plenty of opportunities to mull over his mistake. Yet, learn from it he could not. If he had the chance to go back to the past, he would have made the same decision. He would have gulped down spoonfuls of hot sauce, for Trafalgar Law was not a man to run from a challenge. Because his overall physical appearance was far from threatening, he needed to display his machismo in every which way possible, including foolishness he knew he would pay dearly for.

Of course, Law didn’t feel very manly in the present moment, with his face buried between his knees as he sat hunched over, taking deep breaths while the baby monster, Diarrhea, stretched the skin over his stomach taut. It gurgled and kicked and punched, practised kungfu and did multiple somersaults, to his horror. The pregnancy had reached full term, but the baby monster was adamant to nest inside him. Only lava and fumes erupted, both explosively and effusively.

The pain was nothing like he’d ever endured, incomparable even to the mutilation suffered at Doflamingo’s hands. Every time Law was certain the pain had passed, it surged, ferociously, stronger than ever. He felt like he’d been punched in the balls, once, twice, and then again. His eyes nearly rolled back into their sockets; he nearly bit off his tongue. In the moment of debilitating agony, Law wished hard for his mama. He hoped she could bless him, from up in Heaven, and make the fucking pain stop. Law had been saved from death twice, but burning fucking diarrhea? Death would have been kinder.

Seconds later, footsteps drew closer, the sounds almost drowned out by the splurt of hot lava cascading down the white porcelain slopes. Law wondered if Shachi and Penguin had finally returned with toilet paper after taking their own sweet time, the bastards. Instead, the door was edged open and a sliver of holy light shone brightly into the gloominess of the toilet. Law glanced up and caught a glimpse of an angelic face and he almost sobbed as noxious fumes rushed through the crack and blasted Morgan mercilessly. Law noticed the toilet paper extended to him but made no attempt to accept it yet.

“How are you doing in there?” she asked, and Law gave her a glum look of utter defeat like a man who had spent many harrowing hours at war with himself, legs crisscrossing and face contorting whenever he took a hit.

“Mm…” Law hung his head. “I’m doing…” His fists clenched as pain barreled through him with great ecstasy. Goosebumps prickled his skin and sweat rained down his temples.

“…Doing brilliant,” Law groaned, curling in his toes. “Never been better. Pain…my favorite drug, you know?” Without looking up, he grabbed the toilet paper and clutched the roll in both hands, cradling the precious commodity to his stomach. Law had never wanted for Morgan to see him like this, at his worst, utterly vulnerable, without his usual veneers of composure and power and confidence. 

Law was stuck in the toilet for another hour before he felt confident that he was finished. He was—mind, body, and soul—completely finished. Worn to a frazzle, Law trudged back to his room and spared Morgan a brief sideways glance that was devoid of life and energy. There was a loud thud as he flopped down face-first onto the bed like he’d been shot in the back.

“Feels good,” Law murmured, and then sighed. He nuzzled his face into the sheets, ready for eternal rest—or at least, an hour’s nap. “I’ve been cleansed, purified, detoxed…it was worth it, all the suffering…and now, I rest in peace—but you may join me. It’s cold. Need you.” 

And if Morgan so much as said ‘I told you so’, Law would fart once more out of spite. Besides, who did she think he drank hot sauce to impress? 

Law wondered if Morgan was still impressed. He had displayed bravado, had he not?

Oh, whatever. Perhaps tomorrow he would try again.