07-17-2015, 12:53 PM
“MORE ALE!”
The shouts of Bilgewater’s more colorful denizens filled the front room of the Lusty Wench. The stink of the freshly-docked crew of the Annabelle wafted into the noses of the tavern’s diligent workers as they prepared for what was sure to be quite the busy night. Some of the waitresses, if you listened closely, might be heard whispering about how disappointed the sudden burst in business made them; they had been expecting a quiet evening, and perhaps an early break. When the Annabelle showed up at port by surprise, however, around dusk, all hopes for a night off had been squelched.
The pirates had just completed a successful mutiny. Their captain had always had a penchant for adventures that got them more trouble than booty, and they had recently decided that they’d had about enough of that. They needed gold if they were going to be able enjoy more of life’s finer pleasures—and that was what being a pirate was about, right? Fucking women and drinking booze. Aside from plundering and sailing the high seas, what would a scurvy buccaneer rather be doing?
The celebration had been going on for hours, now; the sun of the Vasty Deep had long since sunk past the horizon line of the verse, and newly-minted captain One-Legged Bruce (complete with wooden peg-leg) had long since lost his impulse control.
“Ow!” one of the wenches squealed as he smacked his hand hard into her ass. “That’s not cool, mister,” she scolded him, shooting daggers at the pirate captain with her eyes. He laughed heartily, not paying any mind to her warnings, and grabbed her by the skirt, pulling her onto his lap. She struggled. “Let go of me, creep!”
“Aw, honey, come on, just give the cap’n some sugar,” Bruce pleaded, puckering up his lips for a kiss that wasn’t going to come.
The wench broke free of his grasp and very quickly reared her hand back, bringing it down and slapping the captain’s face in one quick, fluid motion. The reddish handprint left on his face disappeared as his entire countenance turned scarlet with fury. He cracked his neck, looking up at the girl. “You really shouldn’t ‘ave done that,” the man growled, standing up and quickly reaching out, grabbing her by the throat. “Now, you’re gonna pay.”
He released her, tossing her onto the wooden ground. She let out a yelp, trying to crawl away from him, but she couldn’t escape; he slammed his peg leg firmly on her ankle, snapping the bone and keeping her squarely within his grasp.
“I am One-Legged Bruce, captain of the pirate ship Annabelle,” he screamed at her, quieting the entire tavern down. “Do you know what I did to the last measly little person to cross me? Do you?” He fumed so much that he began to foam at the mouth a little, some of his drool dripping disgustingly onto the ends of the waitress’ short skirt.
The crowd of pirates and other customers of the Lusty Wench had gotten eerily quiet as Captain One-Legged Bruce lorded himself over the scared girl. In the silence, the sounds of her almost-silent sobs could be heard despite the fact that she had her face pressed against the nasty floor of the tavern. “Well?” the peg-legged captain grunted, “Do you know what I did?” The trapped girl shook her head frantically, trying her best to get the gruff pirate to take his attention off of her. “Mills, tell this bitch what I did to the last man who crossed me.”
First Mate Farley stepped out from the gathered crowd. “Well, you marooned him,” he piped up, “banished him from his own ship and left him on a tiny little island to die, y’did.”
“That is correct,” Bruce removed his peg leg from the woman’s ankle. One of the bartenders rushed over and helped her onto her feet, though one of them now proved completely unusable. “Marooned him, left him with no food, no water, just a bit of rum for the road. Took his ship and made myself captain.”
“And gave it an awful new name.”
All eyes turned to the doorway. In it leaned a rather lanky man with long, dirty-looking dreadlocks. He looked, to the naked eye, like the quintessential pirate: quite unclean and unkempt, with a long, brown, leathery coat over one of those puffy shirts and a black vest and matching pants. This pirate, however, still had both his legs—and decorated them with some nice-looking boots. Scattered throughout his dreads and his facial hair were some rather beady-looking pieces of accent jewelry. Overall, his style could be called eccentric. The wench and her bartender friend had no idea who he was, but judging from the crew of Annabelle’s shocked faces, he wasn’t exactly a new character in their story.
“Seriously, Annabelle?” the unfamiliar pirate quirked an eyebrow, and then, his voice getting low: “That girl’s never going to bed with you, matey.”
“…Jack?” First Mate Farley was the first to speak.
“Oh, good, ol’ Fire-Breath,” Jack smirked, standing up and sauntering over toward the Annabelle’s first mate. “You get those chompers checked out yet, mate?”
One-Legged Bruce was, perhaps, the most shocked to see the man. Jack placed a hand on Fire-Breath Farley’s shoulder, in a sort of ‘no hard feelings’ gesture, and then turned his attention to the peg-legged captain. “Not happy to see me, Brucie?” he smiled. For a few moments, the captain was at a loss for words. Eventually, he finally regained his ability to speak, but could only produce one sound.
“…h-how?”
“Mate,” Jack pursed his lips as if the answer should be obvious.
“You were stranded on that island with nothing but a bottle of rum,” Bruce spat, finally finding his voice once again, “There’s no way in hell you’re standing here right now.”
“And yet,” the dreadlocked pirate said, “Here I am.”
Bruce sucked in a nervous breath.
“Honestly, mate, I dunno why the bloody ‘ell you didn’t just shoot me,” Jack shrugged, stepping away from Farley and crossing clumsily—but with remarkable purpose—toward the peg-legged pirate, “I mean, I am a measly secondary. Isn’t like I would’ve come back, y’know?” He leaned toward Bruce, getting his face altogether to the other man’s. “But you went old-fashioned,” he continued, nodding, “Respectable, I must admit. And it probably would’ve worked, on any other man… but, Brucie, you forgot one thing.”
A beat. Bruce raised an eyebrow.
“I’m Captain Jack Sparrow.”
A shot rang out, and Bruce collapsed in a heap on the ground of the Lusty Wench. Captain Jack Sparrow lifted his pistol up and blew the smoke off the end of the barrel of the gun. Behind where Bruce had once stood, the injured girl and her bartender crutch looked at him.
Jack eyed the bartender. “I’ll take a glass of rum, mate.”
The bartender locked eyes with the pirate captain nervously. “Um… sorry, sir, but we’re currently out of rum—”
“Of course,” Jack interrupted. He turned in frustration to the rest of the tavern.
“Why is the rum always gone?!”
The shouts of Bilgewater’s more colorful denizens filled the front room of the Lusty Wench. The stink of the freshly-docked crew of the Annabelle wafted into the noses of the tavern’s diligent workers as they prepared for what was sure to be quite the busy night. Some of the waitresses, if you listened closely, might be heard whispering about how disappointed the sudden burst in business made them; they had been expecting a quiet evening, and perhaps an early break. When the Annabelle showed up at port by surprise, however, around dusk, all hopes for a night off had been squelched.
The pirates had just completed a successful mutiny. Their captain had always had a penchant for adventures that got them more trouble than booty, and they had recently decided that they’d had about enough of that. They needed gold if they were going to be able enjoy more of life’s finer pleasures—and that was what being a pirate was about, right? Fucking women and drinking booze. Aside from plundering and sailing the high seas, what would a scurvy buccaneer rather be doing?
The celebration had been going on for hours, now; the sun of the Vasty Deep had long since sunk past the horizon line of the verse, and newly-minted captain One-Legged Bruce (complete with wooden peg-leg) had long since lost his impulse control.
“Ow!” one of the wenches squealed as he smacked his hand hard into her ass. “That’s not cool, mister,” she scolded him, shooting daggers at the pirate captain with her eyes. He laughed heartily, not paying any mind to her warnings, and grabbed her by the skirt, pulling her onto his lap. She struggled. “Let go of me, creep!”
“Aw, honey, come on, just give the cap’n some sugar,” Bruce pleaded, puckering up his lips for a kiss that wasn’t going to come.
The wench broke free of his grasp and very quickly reared her hand back, bringing it down and slapping the captain’s face in one quick, fluid motion. The reddish handprint left on his face disappeared as his entire countenance turned scarlet with fury. He cracked his neck, looking up at the girl. “You really shouldn’t ‘ave done that,” the man growled, standing up and quickly reaching out, grabbing her by the throat. “Now, you’re gonna pay.”
He released her, tossing her onto the wooden ground. She let out a yelp, trying to crawl away from him, but she couldn’t escape; he slammed his peg leg firmly on her ankle, snapping the bone and keeping her squarely within his grasp.
“I am One-Legged Bruce, captain of the pirate ship Annabelle,” he screamed at her, quieting the entire tavern down. “Do you know what I did to the last measly little person to cross me? Do you?” He fumed so much that he began to foam at the mouth a little, some of his drool dripping disgustingly onto the ends of the waitress’ short skirt.
The crowd of pirates and other customers of the Lusty Wench had gotten eerily quiet as Captain One-Legged Bruce lorded himself over the scared girl. In the silence, the sounds of her almost-silent sobs could be heard despite the fact that she had her face pressed against the nasty floor of the tavern. “Well?” the peg-legged captain grunted, “Do you know what I did?” The trapped girl shook her head frantically, trying her best to get the gruff pirate to take his attention off of her. “Mills, tell this bitch what I did to the last man who crossed me.”
First Mate Farley stepped out from the gathered crowd. “Well, you marooned him,” he piped up, “banished him from his own ship and left him on a tiny little island to die, y’did.”
“That is correct,” Bruce removed his peg leg from the woman’s ankle. One of the bartenders rushed over and helped her onto her feet, though one of them now proved completely unusable. “Marooned him, left him with no food, no water, just a bit of rum for the road. Took his ship and made myself captain.”
“And gave it an awful new name.”
All eyes turned to the doorway. In it leaned a rather lanky man with long, dirty-looking dreadlocks. He looked, to the naked eye, like the quintessential pirate: quite unclean and unkempt, with a long, brown, leathery coat over one of those puffy shirts and a black vest and matching pants. This pirate, however, still had both his legs—and decorated them with some nice-looking boots. Scattered throughout his dreads and his facial hair were some rather beady-looking pieces of accent jewelry. Overall, his style could be called eccentric. The wench and her bartender friend had no idea who he was, but judging from the crew of Annabelle’s shocked faces, he wasn’t exactly a new character in their story.
“Seriously, Annabelle?” the unfamiliar pirate quirked an eyebrow, and then, his voice getting low: “That girl’s never going to bed with you, matey.”
“…Jack?” First Mate Farley was the first to speak.
“Oh, good, ol’ Fire-Breath,” Jack smirked, standing up and sauntering over toward the Annabelle’s first mate. “You get those chompers checked out yet, mate?”
One-Legged Bruce was, perhaps, the most shocked to see the man. Jack placed a hand on Fire-Breath Farley’s shoulder, in a sort of ‘no hard feelings’ gesture, and then turned his attention to the peg-legged captain. “Not happy to see me, Brucie?” he smiled. For a few moments, the captain was at a loss for words. Eventually, he finally regained his ability to speak, but could only produce one sound.
“…h-how?”
“Mate,” Jack pursed his lips as if the answer should be obvious.
“You were stranded on that island with nothing but a bottle of rum,” Bruce spat, finally finding his voice once again, “There’s no way in hell you’re standing here right now.”
“And yet,” the dreadlocked pirate said, “Here I am.”
Bruce sucked in a nervous breath.
“Honestly, mate, I dunno why the bloody ‘ell you didn’t just shoot me,” Jack shrugged, stepping away from Farley and crossing clumsily—but with remarkable purpose—toward the peg-legged pirate, “I mean, I am a measly secondary. Isn’t like I would’ve come back, y’know?” He leaned toward Bruce, getting his face altogether to the other man’s. “But you went old-fashioned,” he continued, nodding, “Respectable, I must admit. And it probably would’ve worked, on any other man… but, Brucie, you forgot one thing.”
A beat. Bruce raised an eyebrow.
“I’m Captain Jack Sparrow.”
A shot rang out, and Bruce collapsed in a heap on the ground of the Lusty Wench. Captain Jack Sparrow lifted his pistol up and blew the smoke off the end of the barrel of the gun. Behind where Bruce had once stood, the injured girl and her bartender crutch looked at him.
Jack eyed the bartender. “I’ll take a glass of rum, mate.”
The bartender locked eyes with the pirate captain nervously. “Um… sorry, sir, but we’re currently out of rum—”
“Of course,” Jack interrupted. He turned in frustration to the rest of the tavern.
“Why is the rum always gone?!”
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)