I get it now.
TiT had himself tombstoned because the Navy foresaw that it might be called into action on the high seas to deal with a
hostage situation.
TiT foresaw the Navy's foresight, since, after all, he foresaw the creation of Seal Team 3, and was indeed its secret charter
member until it was officially formed.
So he said something he knew would get him 'stoned, just so no one would ask any questions, and he started to prepare.
He stopped drinking and taking drugs. He set up empty Dr. Pepper bottles on a 2x4 floating in the pool of a foreclosed home, and
he traded a few Snowbabies and Webkinz from Giftique for a pellet gun and a tin of pellets. He sat in the bathtub of the foreclosed home and pointed the barrel of the pellet gun out the bathroom window and waited. He re-honed his sniper skills to a degree of accuracy
never before witnessed - he knew that his marksmanship would need to be greater than the time that he held a shotgun to a senator's sternum.
Then his chance came. His mysterious billionairess friend finally succeeded in getting the Bush Junta out of power (around the time of the 2008 election), and installing the one man with the guts and vision to rescue a single man from three teenagers holding AKs that had probably never been fired: Barack Hussein Obama.
The SEAL phone rang at 3am. "Tom," the raspy, cigarette-strained voice whispered, "it's Barack. We need you. Code Chartreuse."
With that, Tom Wright climbed into the cockpit of the only SR-71 still in service, which is now called the TW-71 and is kept fueled and ready at all times on a small airstrip in rural Marin County. His only luggage was his acoustic guitar, which had a module built into the neck that could appropriate the songs of other artists, and could also serve as a copilot. Each of the three women he'd been banging waved goodbye from the Tesla sportscar that Tom had been given, long before it was available to the general public.
Tom free-fell for two minutes after ejecting from the TW-71, which was flown back to Marin by the neck of his acoustic guitar. After swimming onto the Bainbridge, several NAVY Seals were heard to murmur, "Is it...is it really him? Is it really...Tom?" High fives were quietly exchanged, and air guitars were played by the ship's crew as Tom was handed a prototype three-barrel sniper rifle.
"**** THAT," Tom said, as he pulled out a ivory-handled revolver given to him by Lyndon Baines Johnson. He loaded one bullet into every other chamber of the revolver and walked to the fantail of the boat. Witnesses say they heard exactly one shot, but three kidnappers lay dead, and the captain was freed.
Minutes later, the sattelite phone rang on the Bainbridge. It was Washington again: on speakerphone were President Barack Hussein Obama, Michelle Obama, Neil Young, the CEOs of every acoustic guitar maker in the world, a direct descendent of Jack Daniels, a Harley Davidson with an open throttle, and the female waitstaff of the Twisted Titty Bar and Grill from Barstow. "On behalf of the United States of America, Tom, we thank you. From this point forward, you will be the FIRST most decorated man in Navy history. The Tiburon Police Department has been instructed to shoot to kill anyone you regard as a freeper. The owner of the Giftique has agreed to leave all pricing decisions up to you, based on your perception of every client. The people at 3M would like to speak with you about improving their invisible inks. Skinner has agreed to set you up with a new screen name, and you'll start with 27,000 posts. And finally, Michelle has offered her womanly services to you for as long as you like. She's asked me to inform you that the back door is in play. whatever that means"
Tom scratched his graying beard. "Thanks just the same, Mr. President, but I owe all I am to the three chicks I'm banging right now. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to the Tib. Oh yeah, Barack: I'm writing music again."
With that, the TW-71, which had been equipped with VSTOL technology, hovered down and picked Tom off the Bainbridge. He flew back to Marin at Mach 7, a speed which has only been experienced by Tom, and which only left enough time for him to strum a few quick chords on his trusty guitar. Back home, the three chicks he's banging have a jug of wine on ice and are rolling him the fattest joint ever smoked. The Tiburon police dispatcher's voice crackled on radios all over town: "Strap down, fellows," said the dispatcher, "it's going to be a hell of a night."
