Category Archives: Adventurous Adventures

Adventures of a kind hard to easily stuff into another categorisin’ – hence they be adventurous.

Here ye may find tales of swashbuckling battles with ye admiralty, mischance and marooning, mischief in the rigging and the Good Ship Lollipop under attack from the fiends of the ocean.

The lads are ill prepared for disaster, so it falls to me to pull ‘em out of it. On occasion I am successful.

The Bloodsoaked Adventure

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Blood spurted into the air and rained down upon me freshly caulked deck. It was to be that kind of day. The sort of day where cutlasses flash in the sun and cannons boom in your ears. For too long we’d been playfully raiding the ships that left the port of Scuppenthorpe-on-Sea and had grown negligent of our security. As we lay in wait for yet another boat-ful o’ jewellery and fancy bread Admiral Kneehorn’s fleet snuck upon us from behind a used whale.

They quite spoiled me morning with their aggressive pre-coffee behaviour. Kneehorn was still smarting from the last slappin’ we gave him when we’d come across his flagship in dry dock for a barnacle-shaving. We’d been quick to bare our rears and waggle ‘em fiercely. We followed that up with a volley of grape shot. Little harm was done but the affront had festered in his breast.

Three ships were all he’d sent for us. Calling ‘em a fleet’s pushing the term somewhat but “a gaggle o’ boats” sounds less impressive. We were outnumbered and we lost a few moments debating the odds (not bad we reckoned). On our side was wit, skill and underhandedness (I’m never sure when to end such a term).

We punted ourselves past them and into a convenient fog bank as The Gilded Helmet, Kneehorn’s second favourite ship opened fire with her port cannons. They shredded the fog and smashed through the banisters young Fingerpickle’d spent hours painting. I’m sure it was the disappointment rather than the foot-long splinters that brought tears to his eyes.

Our surprising manoeuvre bought us precious seconds to wrap ourselves in the ocean’s claggy murk. If ye lack the experience o’ battle enfogged ye would likely prang the vessel on some rocky spit or the fangs of a terrifyin’ sea beastie. Twas precisely those dangers we sought for we were outnumbered, hungover and underhanded.

Kneehorn’s balls dogged us through the twists of mist. Gouts of fire ignited the wisps and the odd crewman as they struck home. It looked like me infamous ill luck was failing me – tis a sad day when ye cannot count on a Spiny Sea Badger to rise up and devastate ye dreams. The Gilded Helmet and her sister ship, Her Lady’s Loins were growing painfully close, each deft bob over the waves narrowed the gap between us.

At last we could weave no longer and the Loins dove into the sea’s groove and slapped smartly against The Grim Bastard‘s flank. The rattle and thunk of grappling hooks came next. Curse their cunning – they were too neighbourly to fire upon for the shatterin’ cannon blows’d shake us to pieces.

I bellowed for me men to draw arms. Pistolled and sworded we had but seconds before we were boarded. Me hook was in constant use deflectin’ blades and gougin’ eyes. The soldiers piled into a man barricade of swords, daggers and wood with nails in it, shots punchin’ men off their feet. Metal hacked into flesh like a maddened butcher, but there were no pies for sharks are happy to eat us raw. Mind ye, the flames that burst from careless gun play and powder caches toasted more than one crewman. Tis not known if the sharks disdained their meal or if they merely enjoyed it less.

Twas Mick who rolled out our special cannon Mr Boom from his hidden nest. He was always packed with incendiary joy and he did not disappoint, layin’ a swathe of explosive pitch across Her Lady’s Loins. The conflagration cut off Kneehorn’s men from retreat and we cut ‘em down as they choked in her nethersome smoke.

We cut loose the blazing vessel so she could swing out into the path of Kneehorn’s remaining boatly brace. With the smoke enhancing the foggy blur we rammed- almost intentionally into the Gilded Helmet, causing her to tip wildly oceanwards. It seemed for a moment as if she might recover her balance, but then I heard a cry from above – the sound of a Scotsman with wind in his kilt. Gaargh, twas Hamish McMuffin lendin’ his unenviable bulk to the bobbing craft. He swung across on a straining rope, his rolls of flab billowing like sails. His momentum flung him into the main mast which accepted him like a reed taking an elephant in the face. The Gilded Helmet sank beneath the waves.

We reeled in Hamish, a task for three men and an ox. Sadly we lacked the beast so it took half a dozen. All men who should have been in the riggin’ to spin us windwards and away from our final foe: The Cutty Mutt. Aye, she was looking reluctant to engage us, havin’ watched her sister ships succumb to our superior wit, swordsmanship and obesity. And yet she could hardly return to Kneehorn with her mast betwixt her legs. Nervously she veered away from the bubbles that marked the Helmet’s passing. We snarled and snapped at her safe on the deck o’ The Grim Bastard, taunting ‘em with our words and manly revelations. Twas clear we’d raised their ire for the ship turned sharply as if she’d pulled a hard-anchor to trick us.

The Mutt curved towards us and yet continued her turn. Perhaps they’d pinned themselves into an anchored spiral. Twas as she sped by that we noted the soldiers screaming. And then we saw the vast pulsating tentacles with an uncommonly feathery grip on the mast that stretched across the deck and the crushed figures and down, muscular into the sea which frothed about the comb and beaky face of a beast most hideous. The ship roared by us and the monster Cocktapus Rex hauled it screeching and crunching beneath the waves.

Gaargh, I’ve long feared the chimerical brute whose origins I’ve heard spill from the lips of mutilated story-spinners into their ninth mug of ale. Aye, the mutant spawn of a cockerel swept out to sea and consumed by a pregnant octopus whose egg laying was violated by a deviant sea lizard. The result was Cocktapus Rex – feared for its hideousness, rage and hunger.

We offered our gratitude to the creature for its timely meal but we were keen to remain off his dessert menu. We hauled at rope and sail to swiftly capture what wind we could. We drifted at a disappointing and nail-gnawing pace from the foaming waters. Just before we re-entered the fog it raised its brightly combed head from the red-stained sea and cried its terrible cock-a-doodle of victory.

Our plan on making land was to spread the tale of how neatly Kneehorn’s miniature fleet was defeated, thus humiliating the admiral further and earnin’ us winks and pints from amorous and easily impressed bar wenches. Aye, we anticipated a triumphal return. Twas disappointing to emerge from the cloudy banks and be faced with a vengeful armada of Kneehorn’s ships. Gaargh, I feared we’d exhausted our reserves of bravery and fortune yet we fled into the fogginess nonetheless!

The Smuggling Adventure (Alphabetic 19)

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Me heart sank like a man wrapped in chain. Never more would me nights be brightened by the babbling banality of ‘Jabbery’ Jackigan Samuels. Oh aye, he was an annoying fellow in his own way. Particularly when ye sought sleep and his endless tongue-flapping persisted into his snoozling drone. Quilts, pillows and sacks of gold merely muffled his ceaseless speech. Recognisin’ the special qualities of a fellow is me own special talent as pirate captain. This lad was one I could send into any sticky situation confident he’d either talk his way out or be permanently silenced; tis a victory either way.

“Unmentionable” is one of the many ways to describe The Fishwife’s Bra tavern and brasserie which skulked under the cliffs at Doompoint. Verucca-footed and syphilis-cheeked were the pockmarked profiteers who managed the local black market from her filthy corners. Why we’d chosen to trade with them’s a matter of debate with knives upon The Grim Bastard. Exit strategies from our arrangement we’d had several and all rejected for such frippery as the difficulty in persuading sharks to pose as night-maidens.

Ye matter was growing serious for the Doompoint Boys were well known for their violent treachery and unwholesome business ethics. Zen was not in their nature. Add to that the further difficulties into which Jabbery Jackigan had gotten us. By leaving the garrulous fellow on his own in their company we’d erred severely. Call me naïve if ye will but I truly thought that even Jackigan had the sense not to tell the bootleggers about our “other deal” with the King of Tarsus.

Deal with the devil it were – Tarsus had granted us privateer rights in his waters, provided we repaid him by occasionally uncloakin’ the viler bandits that troll in the shallow ends of the rock pool. Ever since that unfortunate affair where his son dressed up as a courtesan and slipped aboard our ship durin’ our special time we’d been in Tarsus’ pockets as well as his prayers. For my part I’d no love for these keel-juice men – our treasure trove was the greater for their loss.

Gaargh, but that damn fool with the flapping face had unveiled us as the King’s men. Hell broke loose when we arrived at the booty cave, the Doompoint Boys had sharp swords, pistols and mean faces pointed at us. In the froth of battle I accidentally set light to the bootleggers’ overproof rum which blasted ‘em out of the cave and into the sea. Jellyfish season was in so they’d no chance of swimming for it: they were trapped in that congealed sting-a-ling beast custard.

Kneeling by the shore was Jackigan Samuels still prattling to the bloated, numb and singed smugglers; next to him lay a length of chain. Like I said, me heart sank exactly like the man wrapped in chains with a stream of bubbles a testament to his inability to keep his trap shut.

The Citric Adventure

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Water’s cold when it slaps ye in the face, wettin’ ye features and dragging ye into its arms. Xanthic fish darted about me, evadin’ me splashy bubbles. Yellow they were, and reminded me o’ how I’d come to be sinkin’ face first into the deeps. Zesty indeed had been the feast prepared by our chef, Monty McBuboe. As we’d grown terrifiyingly loose in the tooth during our voyage about the horn of Nepal, I’d made sure to insist that our citric stocks be refilled when we slapped into land once more. Benevolence was the name o’ that harbour, though she were far from’t.

Cautiously our vessel ploughed through their rude pier and came to rest in the general grocer’s. Damned if they weren’t the least friendly o’ folks whose livelihoods we’ve crushed on a poor landin’. Every one of ‘em was in uproar about some matter, whether it were the state o’ their matchwood fishin’ craft, the now open-air market or the grim fate of the orphan crab lads who’d dwelled beneath the pier. For my part I can take such discourtesy only so far, and then I feels obliged to retort ye see. Gashin’ and slashin’ we went, till ye ornery peasants were quieted. Havin’ asserted what the lack o’ manners’ll get ye we appropriated what items we needed for our onward journey. I selected for meself a rare rum or two and left Monty to do the quartermasterin’.

Just as we were to take our leave a wench presented herself – not as a gift, mind ye (which somewhat spoiled me mood) but as a way o’ payin’ off our supposed debt for esposin’ the weakness o’ their portly structures. Keryn were her name, a brooding and malign creature proffered to us at the end of long pointy sticks; I distrusted her immediately, for ye should trust no one who cannot rightly spell their own name. Lest I should seem rude meself I accepted the lass, and promised to convey her to a land of her choosin’. Me next minutes were involved in the sniffin’ o’ them sharp waxy treats that Monty secured on deck, and I quite lost track o’ the mispelled maiden. Neatly we hauled ourselves out from the rubble o’ their town and back into the scurvy sea. Over the horizon and far from where ye enemies can spot ye, that’s me motto.

Perhaps I should have reviewed our inventor more carefully, for tea time brought with it some surprises. Quince be spat into the ocean – for tis lemon that makes the finest tart, and Monty with his dusty top scrapin’s made the finest tart on the ocean. Readyin’ me dessert knife I readied me gullet for its tangy treat, suspectin’ nothing for I’d made no notice of the wench hangin’ above me in the dark. Suddenly I caught her reflection in me blade as she pounced,  teeth bared and eyes ablaze.

Twas then I recalled the reason for mistrust that ought to have preceded her mauled monicker. Usually ye savage Murther-Kin o’ Nethery Hatchet sought me out on land for the offences I’ve caused ‘em. Vanity’s a cruel mistress to their assassins and their greatest weakness so I slapped the tart in her face, followed by me cake blade. Well I’d reckoned without her havin’ a suicide powder tooth ignited by the touch o’ citrus, though it did explain her fearful breath as I was blown backwards into the waiting sea.

The Water-Logged Adventure

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Water poured into me boot while me peg leg grew damp, attracting amorous barnacles. I fear their improbable penile protrusions which dumbfound the scale o’ their horny shells. And yet I was forced to face me fear: the water rose still, drownin’ any mates below knee-height. Twas only one of us, old Skanky Truecalf who succumbed. He was an inevitable casualty of that fateful game of Snakes and Ladders, but given his role in our present misery he was no great loss.

Gaargh, it had been a week o’ bastardy. Monday saw the recurrence of that bleedin’ giant squid. Ye’d think that hacking off its tentacle’s'd dissuade the monster from tugging at me foremast. But no, tis merely a goading stick. It’s a piteous sight watching the stumpy cephalopod slip and slide, his lopped off puckerings futilely seeking purchase on the rails. We used our tin o’ sperm whale lady oil to lure a leviathan from the deeps and get the bugger munched once and for all. Tis a risky stratagem and naturally it cost us the life of young Fistbuttle who was smeared in the special whale sauce and dangled beneath the ship. Yarr, tis the way of the ocean.

Second (merely in time for these ghastly occurences defy me attempts to rank ‘em in hideousness) was the attack o’ the bat-witches. Aye, I can tell ye’ve heard of them, though I doubts ye have been subject to their leather-winged depravity. The crew o’ the Grim Bastard have not had ye fortuity. They fell upon us from the rigging where they’d roosted since we’d blundered into the pitchy black fogs o’ Denmark on Tuesday. Twas bad enough in the fogs, but ye witches, squid and further horrors make it just a damp mist. In moments they’d shrouded three o’ me most virginal crew in the folds of their lascivious wings and hoisted ‘em aloft. We could hear our mates’ mingled cries o’ passion and terror as the devil-wenches had their wicked way with them on the wing. We put balls in a pair of ‘em only to find we’d bored our boys as well as the beasts.

Mayhap we should have tried a less penetrative assault, but at least we’d spared ‘em some of the horror. Fire proved effective on the flying rat ladies and we torched ‘em out, suffering their furry ash to fall across the deck. Now, fire’s fine and all  but its fondness for me sails makes it a back-stabbing ally. The flamin’ sails fell enveloping the rest of the squealing witches in fire. Twas a kind of justice.

After that we drifted. Our sails were blackened tatters and our spirits much the same. Thankfully we’d quite a store of rum with which we planned to while away the hours until we ground into land. Gaargh, we’d reckoned not with Skanky Truecalf’s pets. Our last landfall was the hidden island o’ Misbegottenmas. Tis an unlovely place, and filled with colourful folk, by which I means scoundrels and killers. Amongst them was a man with a curious and unhealthy fondness for unusual animals, in particular the Barbadan Sugar Otter. Truecalf found his treatment of the odd squirly tykes objectionable and promptly abducted them. They seemed nice enough, at least they’d no teeth for snappin’ so I’d granted him to leave to bring the scabby beasties on board. Me ambivalence turned to punchy displeasure when I learned that they were not sea-faring otters; indeed they were creatures of sugary liquor – Truecalf had cracked open the rum casks to give ‘em swimming space in their fluid o’ choice. Aye, they were happy: drunkenly splashing about, covering me rum with a thick layer of sugary moultings.

Sail-less, rum free and on a ship filled with bored pirates. Grand. Twas shortly after the rum-ruination that the lads began to play Snakes and Ladders. Tis a complex sport reduced somewhat by having many ladders but no snakes. Gaargh, the ingenuity of a pirate mind – tie one o’ smaller anchors to a spinning rope. It’s slap was judged sufficient sting to supplant the serpent’s venom. Twas all jolly till Skanky Truecalf blundered into the midst o’ the game, clutching an otter to his face like the beard of a Wildman, hungrily sucking the rum from its matted coat. He reeled back and forth like a madman.

A vile infection, bred twixt the Barbadan Sugar Otter’s rummy sores and the scurvy that lurks in the absence of lemons within us all had gripped the man’s mind. Abruptly he spun and emptied his guts on the deck, splashin’ the bare feet of Hamish McMuffin, the present wielder of the whirly snake-anchor. In surprise, or spite (with Hamish it’s hard to tell) he let fly and the anchor knocked Skanky to the deck with a wet snap.  Twas apparently the prompt for the bewildered plague-bearing otter to leap into the faces of the pirates who circled him with cautious toes. Twas rampant amongst us. Our paranoid delusions spawned fleshy nightmares and we ran about shouting, tugging at our beards and punching one another in the nether sacks.

It must have been the erratic pistol firing and hooting of my crazed mates that attracted the angels of the night. From aft we saw their ship ride up, their sails black and be-decked with skulls. We greeted ‘em in our frenzy with lusty shouts and the hurling of bottles. Me haze parted enough to recognise a demonic Captain Aaarsbeard at the helm. He no doubt meant to board us and relieve us of our booty; gaargh, I was torn between the desire to blast him and hug him but I hoarsely choked out a warning to me fellows. The lads leaped to their duties and despite the disease’s mind fog they prepped the cannons in an approximation o’ good practice.

Twas the second misfire that caused Aaarsbeard to back off. The first had launched the minnowesque Robbie The Bag Lad into the air with a cloud of gunsmoke – he landed in good foaming fettle and launched a spittling attacked Aaarsbeard’s crew. This were a clue that all was not well on the Grim Bastard. The second misfire shattered our gunwhales and we started takin’ on water at a rate of buckets. Aaarsbeard turned tail, already fighting with lead the plague Robbie had borne onto his ship. We was goin’ down regardless.

And that’s where I find meself at the end of this week o’ catastrophe: fendin’ off frisky barnacles with me cutlass while me ship lolls drunkenly in the sea, sloshing me mates with her cruel briny spit. And yet, in the distance… Mayhap tis land, for surely no beast could be so large and spiny. Perhaps next week’ll bring more joy to me pirate heart.

Captain Pigheart’s Santa’s Pirate Elf Adventure

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A haunting jingle hung in the frosted air – the shadow of Christmas darkenin’ ye snow. I gazed up into the sky, wonderin’ if we’d seen the last o’ the malevolent elves who had demanded the return o’ their handicraft. We’d assured ‘em that owing to Santa’s confusion twixt ‘naughty’ and ‘nautical’ we’d been off the nice list for years. I stepped to me cabin and it was Sam Knacker who took the unexpected blow to his face. Gaargh, luck had guided the tumbling box, for Sam were fractionally softer than the icy deck. It flew open on impact; a sudden fountain of unravelling ribbon whipped away by the wind. The ribbon wrapped about poor Sam’s ankle and whisked him overboard. His end was near, so try not to be too concerned.

Gingerly, I booted the frozen papier-mâché mess into me cabin. I laid it upon me desk and parted the jolly fronds with me hook. A squeak of alarm issued from both our lips, though I masked mine with a manly cough. Twas a tiny person, perhaps the height of me peg leg garnished in green felt and glitter. Twere a she (I’ve experience in such discernation) and her little pointed ears twitched nervously. I gave her me reassuring croon (like so) which soothed her. With rum and a woollen mitten to englove her she defrosted and shared her words.

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A Cold, Cold Night Adventure

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Ye bitter twists o’ winter wrenched our sails about, shakin’ shard o’ ice onto the crew below. Twas a sound akin to dogs bein’ attacked by the Christmas tree they’ve so recently abused with their gnawin’. For my part I shivered in me cabin, furling yet another layer o’ blanket about me limbs. And payin’ especial attention to me stump ends, for the cold plays a special havoc with the joints which’ve no longer a benden’ segment to whom tis married.

Aye, I’d also  been tappin’ away at me special cask o’ rum. Tis the one we use to preserve the mates from whom Fate has withheld her favour. I grant, tis often their own failings which leads Miss Fortune to toss masts and toothy brutes at them. The latest miscarriage o’ justice was Ambrose De’Lentil. Yarr, we knew him as the drunk in the keel.

When I’d first seized the Good Ship Lollipop from her natural owners (though they’d never treated her right: she’d a coat o’ green and orange with sails o’ chequered puppies. I could have happily sunk her had I not found her wheel so spinny), old Ambrose had been hidden deep in the hull behind a bale o’ rotting tobacco and a stack o’ sodden rats. Twas a fortnight at sea before we noted a drop in the rum barrels, and the end o’ the moon before anyone penetrated the stinking barrier he’d become cocooned within.

He was a twitchy madman, toothless from rum sucking and black faced from chewing ye decayed tobac. It took a team of gaggin’ and retchin’ crew to drag the wretched drunk from out his moulderin’ hole. Me natural inclination was to heave him overboard as stowaway, but me pity caught up (tis a result o’ the moral growth I’ve sported as a consequence of the Isle of Letch’s nunnish sponge baths.) We’d a range o’ cages on deck for the restrainin’ o’ beasties such as we’d fancy eatin’ or tradin’, and Ambrose fitted neatly into the Asian Death Badger cage.

We watched him gibber and caper, drooling rope-like strands of black innards-grue. Twas hideous an’ yet captivating. The lads took to sittin’ about him in a ring durin’ their quiet times. They’d do little but stare, toss him the odd share of rum, and listen to his ranted drivel. On occasion a mate’d toss to Ambrose some bauble or other trinket in teasing. Though some items bounced off the vile hull tramp and lay ignored, or at least unsuckled, others he’d snatch up. His twisted black fingers with their sharply broken nails grasped at string, buttons or nails. He’d hoard ‘em in his toothless face hole till he’d enough for his purpose.

Now while he was thus encumbered amusing the crew, Monty and Barry reported a sharp rise in the gnawin’ o’ holes in our barrels of provisions and the spoilin’ of foods. Tis a serious matter, and ye rats’d gotten the better of the vicious cats who’d previously pursued ‘em across the ship. The beasts had grown massive and they bristled at man’s approach. We chose lengthy paths around the Lollipop to avoid their bitey trails. Twas a matter o’ much concern to all those of us who desired food and safety from the Doomrats of the Sea.

Ambrose had gathered sufficient ephemera to undertake his own unique magic. The lads were ever more likely to encircle him at night, for the rats were clearly afeard o’ the stenched fellow. His nasty claws wove the junk into tiny statues o’ mankind. With a globule o’ pitchy spit he daubed ‘em each and the ship fell silent. Slowly, with minute twitches, as if seein’ a thing move from between fluttering eyelids of sleep, the miniature men came to a strange stuttering life. They picked themselves up and bared their tiny teeth. Ye crew were a mite spooked.

The little men stepped out of the firelight and scattered into the ship’s shadows. I know of not one man who slept a wink that night. Ambrose was content to chuckle to himself; a chocolatey giggle that spoke of a disease ridden body. A horrid sound, and one which we stoppered with rum. Despite our fear, alertness and definitely not sleepin’ we woke to a wall o’ rat carcasses around the Asian Death Badger cage. Aye.

The solution to our rat problem were inescapable. The insane filth-spattered raggedy man from the ship’s foulest corner had a power over them. His creepy soldiers prowled the ship by night and delivered their corpses to him. Me preference were that if ye devil’s work were to be done then it should be done belowdecks where we could forget about him. The Asian Death Badger cage we threw in the sea, infested as it was with the man’s reek – we’d no desire to infect one o’ those graceful beasts when we finally caught it. A trail of fish bobbed in its wake until we caught a fresher current.

And so we plunged on through the seas, adventurin’ and piratin’, and beneath our feet old Ambrose the Keel Drunk would be chewin’, drinking and dispatching his little golem to cleanse the vessel of rats. On rare occasions we’d roll a fresh barrel of rum down to him or a bundle of leaf. The next mornin’, or perhaps the next we’d find a neatly crocheted bonnet or scarf pinned to the mast. Twas a boon as we sailed through the seasons into ye winter.

Tis perhaps an irony that twas ye winter that took old Ambrose from us. The icy poles took his hole to a freezier cold than he’d ever before felt. As we made snowmen and battled polar bears old Ambrose was frostifying in his putrid nest. The woollen goods he made for us never warmed his drunken skin, never touched the cankerous recesses of his body. The icicles pierced him sure as deatwpid-tmp_share.jpgh, filling him with snowflakes.

We only knew it when the rats reappeared (them as had not been munched by the vicious Arctic Puffin and its blood-splashed beak – aye, a terrible foe who claimed four of me crew and a polar bear before we stuffed it with gunpowder and spread its pretty feathers over the iceberg), and the mournful troupe of golemic soldiers were found unravelling in the sun one day far south of the Arctic circle. We determined that grim though he were, he were also a man (prob’ly) who’d given much to the crew, and that perhaps we’d give him a land burial, for to our knowledge he’d never seen the sea but for his sojourn in the cage. Also he was fond of rats and they’d be able to pick his bones clean in turn in the ossuary. We were far from land, so we stuffed him into a rum cask to better preserve his rotten form.

As happens now and then to a man of the sea, the memory o’ the crazy man in the hull faded from me mind. Eclipsed perhaps by the excitement of beasts with jaws and claws reachin’ for me skull, the rum cask with Ambrose inside was pushed further back into the liquor store. One day as ye air grew fuller of ice again ye store was growin’ low and me custom was to acquire a full cask and hide it in me cabin before the cellar were drained, lest I be forced to suffer the world in sobriety.

That cask was the one containing the mortal remains of old Ambrose. I discovered this only by a curious confluence o’ sensory gifts. Ye rum held a subtle flavour – strong hints of tobacco and a mouldened scent; the barrel had an unjust weight and on uncorking the rum belly a wizened finger slipped out the hole. It gave me pause I can tell ye, for a moment. I’d doubts as to the wisdom of consumption, for such would have taken Ambrose in time. And yet I’d faith in the spiritual power of alcohol to purify the putrefying man, and no doubt of how little rum was on board.

I popped on the little ear hats that Ambrose had knitted for me and swigged away at his vital fluids. Aye, it keeps out the chill.

The Hubristic Adventure ~ Captain Pigheart

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The timbers of the Good Ship Lollipop splintered about me as the balls pounded into me stern. I bellowed to bring the ship around, for the wind was catchin’ us pretty and presenting us unfavourably to our foe. Smoke and cries filled the air between our two vessels – gaargh, twas the sneering upstart Captain Aaaarsbeard’s Cankered Whore which spat at us with her iron bile.  I’m a proud man, but not too proud to admit fault on them exceptional cases where there’s no one else to blame. I cannot say the same of Captain “Moose Merkin” Aaaarsbeard, whose vexatious behaviour had earned him a sinking. 

He was a petty and whimsical type, much given to the kind of ego massage as’d shame the most devoted onanist. And like most folk o’ so piteous a disposition he was also excessively sensitive. Not as ye might think in regard to his naming (Aaaarsbeard’s the family name), for while the man was bald as a vinegared lime his breeches overflowed with hedgey hirsutitude. Gaargh, the sight may taint the pleasure a man might take in packing his pipe. Tis said he once so terrified the Duke de Vulva-Beard (who ye may recall from the appalling Island of Merkin) that he was escorted from the Duke’s palace in a box lest his hairy tendrils infest the Duke’s dreams. I’d once seen him plunge into the drink while whorin’ along the pier of Butochrie (a charming town ye may wish to visit); his lower half ballooned and it took nine stout wenches to squeeze the water out of his man-britches.

Nonetheless, we’d been mates for many a year. For we had a common foe in the vile Admiral Lucius Kneehorn whose blind obedience to naval law had spoiled many a booty-hunt. Much time had we spent at cards, dice and wench plotting vengeance on the prissy seaman. Twas natural for us to dine whilst spinning the tales of our feats and daredevil adventuring. Me own cabin is filled with treasures and whatever remnant organs we’d been able to retrieve from the beasts we faced down. But Aaaarsbeard’s walls were adorned with fanciful portraits of himself astride (for example) the gaping socket of the cyclopean giant or nestlin’ twixt the diaphanous frills of a fish-maiden.

Me eye took in the veritable panorama of braggery while me hook idly traced the outline of those shapely scales, for twas life size, ye could almost smell the salt. Gaargh, how fondly I recalls them nip-nips, for twas me own Neptuney love. Me eye darted across further paintings and the theme grew clear – twas my past and my victories, not those of Captain Aaarsbeard. I knew ‘em all for tales of me own life save that of the picture o’ Aaarsbeard shakin’ the claw of a bestial figure I knew to be the Pirate King (self-proclaimed for he’s a buffoon and more crab than king). Twas his only glory and a poor one at that. I’d not groom him were he twice the man I be, though his extra limb-ing might well produce such calculation; tis not in me nature.

The smugness on his face (in flesh and in oils) drove me to a tentative baitin’. “Yarr,” I remarked, “tis amazing how close our adventures be twined.” Aaaarsbeard chose not to be abashed and instead of admittin’ manly-style that his was a wall of false and stolen glory, he lashed out with a cutlass in his hairless fist. Me riposte was swift though me reach was not: twas with a figurine of a bountiful dwarf that I defended meself. I knew I was at a disadvantage bein’  trapped within the furry man’s cabin so I bounced the marble midget off his face and put his desk between us. It caught him hard across the cheek and drew a tear. Had it not, we might perhaps have laughed off the insult and resumed our duck à lobster. Pride me lovelies – tis a terrible thing.

While making an honourable rear-wards exit I drew me own blade and we sliced metal rainbows in the air. Being a better man in all respects (save the aforementioned wholeness) I kept him at the tip of me sword and flipped his ugly ornamentation at him with the curve of me hook. The flying cruets (for he’d a collection to rival a Condimentiary nun’s) distracted him for long enough that I could slice the piscine-maiden from out her frame and tuck her into me sash – she were coming with me. Thus emboldened I took the fight back to Aaaarsbeard. There was much in the way of parrying and poking as we danced out of the cabin and across the deck.

The course of battle turned against me when the coward urged his mates to join the fray. When lunging with slightly too much effort I found me peg leg wedged and came under heavier slashing. I’d no choice but to resort to an underhanded move. I threw me sword in the air and, as it hung there awaiting the call of the earth beneath it, I seized a fist-full of his beastly trouser-fluff and yanked with all the might a man used to tuggin’ rope can. Aaaarsbeard fell. And screamed. An unearthly howl as unlike the man’s natural tenor as a kitten is like a cockle. I seized me chance, snatched me cutlass from the air and wrenched me leg from the deck. His men were beside ‘emselves as I dived over the rail, still shaking their captain’s nether fur from me fingers.

And so we are at battle with one another, neither to give quarter until t’other apologises for their faults – imagined or otherwise. Our vessels are equally matched and fast running out of both cannon and shot. Twould likely result in a deadlock, except that before visiting with Aaaarsbeard the day before I’d acquired a small barrel of monkeys to amuse the crew. Even now we’re catapulting the flaming macaques into Aaaarsbeard’s sails. Victory is in sight, as is me beautiful uncreased merwench.

Captain Pigheart’s Exquisite Mermaid Adventure

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Gaargh, the view from the crab’s ichorous peeper-pockets was narrow, but directed me eyes onto the Queen’s bosomous bounty. I was content. But me contentment was disturbed by the hammerin’ at ye door. I attempted to better obscure meself behind the kelpen curtain and a hideous vase. Twas tricky, for me own limbs were ill-stuffed into the recently vacated crab shell; I scuttled as if recently scuttled.

The cause of me cuckoldish caution burst into the chamber in a rush of bubbles, thrashing his scaly tail behind him. Twas King Clam of the merfolk, fresh returned from his extermination of the Snorks (a peaceful but rightly despised cock-headed sea people), and was understandably ill-tempered to be find his bed-chamber locked, his bride within.

She, the queen, lounged negligently in a negligee; the negligible garment drifting alluringly in the current like the diaphanous tips of her fins. Not five minutes before she’d been demonstratin’ the ticklishness of her lady scales. I’d borrowed the crustaceous carapace from one of her personal guards, whose innards now quivered in the vase before me.

Delightful though me time in Queen Acacia Finest Tuna’s embrace had been, the return of her genocidal spouse spurred on me roaming spirit. Twas time for me to once more taste that sweet air to which me lungs’re accustomed. After tumbling out of Kemberton Shatz’ misshapen grasp I were taken deep into the cold darkness of the ocean. From beneath me I thought I heard the alluring ruckus of Murray Eel’s Planktones playing ‘Under the Sea’ and then… nothin’.

I woke, drifting on a bed of sea anemones with a pair of sea horses jammed up me nose. A mite alarmed I tugged ‘em out and immediately choked, for me lungs were full o’ water. With hasty reluctance I forced the spiny squirming beasts back in. Twas then, through the gills o’ the mer-nags that I caught a scent in me nostrils, one I’d not tasted for many long moons. A scent that put wind in me sails. A scent that made me drop anchor. Arr, that’s not quite what I meant.

The clam-shell doors opened before me. Twas my beloved merwench, the one I’d spent a moonlit night with on the rocks, while Mick serenaded us with his wails of pain. She’d aged not a day. Arrr, she took me in her fins as if it were only yesterday. I protested vehemently about me current state o’ matrimony in the softest whisper I could muster. Me conscience now clear I delved into her Piscean charms. As we later lay in a thin film of her natural oils I thought I must be the happiest man alive at the bottom of the ocean, me arms wrapped about this fine fish of a woman, croonin’ in that way she’s fond of.

She said to me, “Ignatius, ye noble soul, I’ve a surprise for ye,” (for they talks as do we pirates, tis part of the charm). From under the bed she drew a mermaid’s purse, which revealed its contents with a tiny wail. Me heart swelled at the sight of the wee minnowlad. “Be he?” I asked, “He be,” she replied, “But ye…” I started, “I be” she said. “Aaarr, but he be…” said I, “Aaarr,” she agreed; “Gaargh,” I concurred. He was the spittlin’ image of his mother, down to the fetching freckles on his tail, and had his father’s beard. Sad I was to leave him and his mother, but ye troubles of merfolk on dry land’re well enough documented by the Danes and Disney.

While the mer-queen distracted her mer-king with a cool swishing of her sinuous tail, with her eyes she undressed me once again. When the urgency of ocular undressing hastened, I realised it were a hint to be fleeing. I side-stepped from the room. Twas a smooth crabwise exit, exceptin’ ye the flailing of me spasmic crablish appendages. I’d almost escaped when the claw me arm wouldn’t fit in slapped the King across his dorsal fin. For effect I twiddled the crab’s mandibles in a cheeky manner.

Then twas the running for me. I don’t know if ye’ve tried to walk in another’s shoes, but try running in a hexapoidal crust with ye own limbs in gristled gauntlets, underwater. Tis a curiously clumsy drowned ballet, punctuated with coralline snags and stumbling. My spasmodic gambol were easily outmatched by the swishing of a tail. I was out of me element. I set meself into a spin and made more ground that way, battering the King’s merguards with my chitinous clubs.

I spotted a corral of fishy steeds and lumbered desperately for them. With a  quick prayer for luck I slashed one of them free and punched it in the swimbladder. Twas more effective than I’d hoped: with a terrifying accelerative lurch we hurtled upwards in a deflatory spiral. So powerful were the launch that it tore the crab carapace from me, save for the claw with which I desperately gripped the unfortunate deflating fish.

The merfolk’s vicious tridents sliced past me as I struck the surface and fountained up in an explosion of fish and spume. I found meself tumbling down to land hard on a wooden deck. Loomin’ over me was the overly-gingered face of Grim Pitch (an ill swap for me merlass), who turned to Kemberton Shatz and muttered, “see, he be fine” before wrenching the seahorses from me nostrils. Me only possible retort were to vomit gallons of brine over the pair of them.

We set sail with haste, fearing predation from the sharp-toothed shark riding merfolk of war. In the distance I glimpsed the sparkle of sunset gleaming off the scales of me love as she dove once more into the depths. Gaargh. I’ve still the scent of her gills on me fingers.

Captain Pigheart’s Gastronomical Adventure

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Foul winds and Captain Aaarsbeard had driven us out of our comfort zone into a running sea battle. We’d valiantly discharged our balls into Aaarsbeard’s stern till there was naught left but a flaming ring upon the waves.Though victorious, our own portside resembled a whore after happy hour, full o’ holes with seamen falling out. Our sails were in tatters and we limped along until we ran into a smashing reef. Away we swam, and dragged along them souls still bafflingly unable to swim, to the island which the reef encircled.

It were the kind of island where a man longs to bury his treasure. Alas, me gold was now being colonised by humourous octopi who amused themselves by hurling coins at me splashing crew.Now I knows ye may be afeard for the safety of meself and me crew and yet ye should worry little, for this maroonin’ lark is bread and butter to us pirate types. Ye forestation were lush as Eve’s own lady garden before she choked on the serpent’s apple, so we’d not want for sustenance. In time we’d assemble a rude craft to take us back to our wives and other foes. In the meantime we rigged shelters and foraged amongst the local flora for spit-roastable fauna.

I must confess it were a tasty isle with such rare delights to me tongue as I’ve rarely had to me loins. Gaaargh. Each beast tasted sweeter than the last, none more so than the friendly monkeys with the imploring eyes who hopped into our laps.

Understand this, we’d not planned to munch on ‘em, for cute they were with their plushness and appealing blinketing. Twas fate that pushed them twixt our teeth, for they were unwise in the ways of me men. Through excessive petting one grew over-excited and bounced into the fire where it was immolated with an adorable squeak. Why, it would be churlish to waste its accidental encookination… Monty McBuboe served the long-tailed sweetmonkey coiled on a bed o’ forest cabbage with a garnish of amphibious foreskin.

Gaargh… After that we hunted them rapaciously, desperate to cram as much of their divine flesh into us as possible. Every day me and the lads’d rise, with increasing difficulty, and go monkey-crooning.

Whilst out on ye hunt, by which I means casually hooting and herding the keen little beasts into a sack, No Hands Mick were pounced upon by one of the lemurian lunches. The little snackle-ape took exception to the tone of his croon (Mick were apt to ignore me schoolin’s) and it snapped at him with unusual force. Luckily Mick had lost both hands in a tragic oyster incident so when ye monkey latched on, twas only to wood and brass, granting Mick the freedom to bounce it off a rock. It rebounded into First Mate Billy no Mates’ arms, with whom Mick’d been reluctantly saddled.

The stripe-furred ingredient landed in his arms akimbo, its huge pain-filled eyes bored into Billy’s own and as it twitched convulsively, young Billy saw a possible friend at last. He ran back to camp, ignoring Mick’s hungry bellows and barricaded himself in his shack where he stuffed the beast fat with desperate friendship and fruit.

Meanwhile, our epicurean spasms made us rotund and liable to roll into the sea where we’d bob like apples till rescued. And worse, we’d devoured almost every living thing on the rock. And in further worsening, the food was fighting back. We’d found old Archibald Flim-Flam lying in a ring o’ monkey dung, his spectacles speckled with blood and his bones picked clean. Me cankled crew spotted the last vanguard of them gibbon-goujons above him, but no amount o’ hurling their weight at the tree could relax their delicious digits’ grip.

We’d grown short of plans (and breath) till one day as we lay walrusine on the sand, Billy No Mates emerged from his shack, cradling that piteous and well-stuffed monkey like a dead twin. Hamish noted a likeness twixt its big blue eyes and strippled fur and the devilry that spat at us through the canopy. And so a ploy congealed twixt me ears: we’d use Billy’s tufted moppet to lure out the last of his kind and furnish ourselves with another meal. (After which we really must attend to the matters of ship-building and escape.)

Billy took some catching, for he’d grown thin while the floppy ape grew fat on his doting. Twas an effort just to stop me peg leg from sinking up to me hip, let alone run about. But at last we pinned them both down and, to placate Billy’s pleading, tied ‘em together in a pit beneath the monkeys’ tree. I’d no desire to eat the sickening beast for it mainly shivered and slavered whenever Billy hugged it, whispering into its ear.

Me and the fat lads waited in the bushes, attempting for quiet but falling foul of various gastric ailments and the need to chew on anything nearby. Thankfully the howling of the monkey, or Billy (twas hard to distinguish ‘em) veiled our greed nicely.

The sweet simians showered us with bum-berries and abuse in the chittering tongue they employed instead o’ English. Once they’d beaten us off they seized the baboony babe and Billy and buggered off into the bushes.

Gaargh, we found Billy No Mate’s bones some days later. Ye could tell it were him since he were missing. And also his skull had the same look of pathetic friendlessness as when it were clad in skin.

So that were it, no more food. We turned at last to ship-building and on each other. I’d found a handy conch shell and I used it to summon me men. We used dice to make a simple choice, for we’d found that delicious though ye monkeys are, they’d found an even finer meal in us.

Captain Pigheart’s Assassination Adventure

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Gaargh, I remembers the days when I could raise a telescope to either eye without raising a cruel chuckle. Twas back when I could still lay both me eyes upon The Good Ship Lollipop in all of her stereoscopical glory. We were just embarkin’ on our course of piracy and step one was making the ex-Hope Foundation vessel sound more fearsome, like ‘The Scuttlin’ Crab’ (puns’re popular). Or ‘The Tumescence’; twas an excitin’ time.

To pay our way we dipped our toes into the business of assassination. Gaargh, ye excess of sibilance and sociopaths were likely to provide a range of joys. Piracy lends itself to a certain level of violence in any case, and it’d embellish our fledgling resumés. We slashed, shot and stabbed our way through the unpopular classes, losing the odd hand to incompetenth or mocking a thpeech impediment. Tis just part of ye job.

The last assassinatory assignment before we set sail on the seven seas was the bed-time bucket-booting of Albrecht Wifesister, hotelier and breeder of cousins. I carefully selected me team from the least damaged or drunk of me crew. That left just me and Hamish McMuffin to break into the notorious Hotel de la Confiture Noire. I were doubtful of his use, since his girth scorned the traditional use of windows for accessing ye prey.

Indeed, even the patio portals proved too narrow and we were forced to ring the doorbell impatiently. Hamish disarmed the surprisingly well armed bellboy, rearmed himself with the lad’s firearm then strong-armed his way through the armoured door and into the hotel where he promptly tripped over the antique armoire. There he also slew the harmless old man guardin’ the coats: a noble death. By some miracle neither guards nor guests burst forth to challenge our subtle entry, despite Hamish’s impenetrable Glaswegian honking and booming about the place like angry geese with sinusitis.

The carpets leading to the stairs were a pattern of webbed fingers. Twas a pretty hotel, the sort suitable for honeymoonin’ cousins with an interest in the fruits of their loins sprouting into the fearsomely similar fellows in the paintings be-hanging the walls.

We crept up the stairs. I crept up the stairs; Hamish’s vast mass over-stressed ye banisters which popped out from the stairs, showerin’ the hall with splintered wood. Twas the fortuitous sharpness of them flying shards what gave us early warning of the misshapen oddities sneaking up on us. From our reviewing of the artwork in ye foyer we easily identified them as Albrecht’s kin. Gaaargh, twas like fighting a gang of yokel fist-monsters. ‘Twould be an honour to shorten this family’s line.

We fought them off, or rather Hamish did, since his bulk were impassable. I contented meself with tossin’ obscene vases at the ab-featured elbow-faced crowd. At last they stopped their twitching and we continued our ascent with a mite more caution.

After some elementary educational errors, we burst into the rightly-numbered suite with our swords all pointy and poised. The room was dramatically spattered with blood, the decorative work of the man in black whom Hamish had squashed in bursting through the door. Despite our bloodthirsty readiness we found Mister Wifesister lying in the bath, unbreathin’, his mouth stuffed to burstin’ with human toes.

“There’s been a murrrrder” cried Hamish, redundantly. Using our keen deducin’ minds, and the empty bag labelled ‘toes’ in the pocket of the squeezed man by the door, we concluded we’d still a fair chance of claiming our fee.

To remove any confusion we left the Hotel de La Confiture Noire with flames lapping at the roof. We retired to the ‘Bared Rear-Admiral’ tavern. There we received our bounty, and while indulging ourselves, we learned that the peculiar inbreeding of the isle oft produced men with an excess of toes but left ye ladies with a plurality of bosoms.

Gaargh, ye could take a man’s eye out with them things.

Captain Pigheart’s Heroical Adventure

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Gaargh, I awoke half black, half red, and all hurtin’ with the sun glaring in me eye. It took a moment to detach me face from the tarry deck; ‘twould be a long day of rippin’ pitch from me beard. Ah, tis the sign of a fine night’s revel in our latest victory, which I’ll relate to ye now followin’ a brief summary of the events leadin’ to it. The wicked Admiral Kneehorn’d seized the Good Ship Lollipop and her crew, casting me to the whims of ye ocean. I’d washed up on the pitiful isle of Merkin and acquired a serious opium habit.

Some days before, meself, Umberto Phlapjacquet and me shipload of poppy-perplexed puffers had heroically fled the isle o’ Merkin aboard the Sirrup o’ the Sea. Arr, ‘twere an ill name for a pirate ship, but it’d serve till I’d found a way to rescue me crewmates. In the meantime, I were mainly hoping to toot on me poppy-pipe and spend a blissfully delirious day in Mistress Squidlington’s all-singin’ all-dancin’ Cockle Club.

Yarr, me slothful plans were disturbed by Umberto bellowing about some mutatered turtle to starboard. Bless his heart, Umberto had mistaken the raw, pustulent flesh of me old chef Monty McBuboe drowning in the sea for a turtle’s crusty shell. I was delighted to have me leprous pal back in the galley once more. The rest of me crew were not so keen, but being unused to the pirate life they’d little appetite anyway.

Monty’d been booted overboard by Kneehorn for fear of pestilence; twas entirely justified – he’d been voted Plague Vector o’ the Year by Scabs and Spots Quarterly for five years running. He brought news of me lads fate: Kneehorn was taking them to his notorious prison island, the Bastard’s Fate, where hangin’ be ye only respite.

This were the spur I needed to kick me poppy habit and be-Captain me ship once more. First: herbal yoghurt drinks to purify me body. Gaargh, I’d rather suckle on Monty’s buboes. Second: shiver and retch to pass the time. That night Monty and Umberto whisked away our supplies and doped ye fishies, so they’d bob eager-like to the surface. Aarr, it were a source o’ no little contention and sadly led to some of the lads desperately gnawing the fishy spines for a taste o’ poppy and choking t’death on them tiny bones.

Me cravings faded, as did me dreams of one day singing baritone alongside Murray Eel and the Planktones. I were heart-broke when Umberto revealed them as drug-fuelled delusions. Yaarr, me naturally irritable nature resurfaced like an ill-weighted corpse. I seized the wheel once more, an’ spun ‘er portwise for Kneehorn’s vile isle. Alas, me crew were but little recovered. Their whining and poor bowel-mastery’d caused me t’evict a number of the drooling wasters already; perhaps they’d make it back to their crotch-cochetin’ isle, should the fishin’ lines to which they were tied somehow snap.

I’d a plan to re-take me crew, a daring rescue requiring swashbuckling, valour and excess cannon-fodder. I directed Monty to brew up some war-juice – a venomous cocktail of rum, brine, rotting fish and a sprinkle of opium to arrest the addicts’ attention.

We slipped in under cover of night for there’s little honour in being seen and slain by light. ‘Tis far nobler, an’ may I say more fun, to come upon ye enemy from the shadows. We dosed up the crew and despite its foulness they gulped it down. Clearly, the time spent sucking on me hempen ropes had paid off. They were a-twitching with the lethal juices and when one bit off his own hand we knew it was time to attack.

Me scurvy and psychotic crew swarmed up the walls and fell upon the soldiers with a savagery unknown to the sober, belying their formerly kittenish weakness. I bade Umberto pause, lest our beserkers mistake us. They were an excellent diversion and I cast a short prayer of longevity upon them before slipping into the jail.

The guards were losing at dice when we ran them through. At least their day could get no worse. It were a simple matter to free me lads once we had the keys that is, although it took the promise of new shoes to extract Barry from his cell. They were in a sorry state, but we pressed arms into their hands and shoved them down the drains.

The roar of battle echoed through the sewers as the crazed wastrels threw themselves at Kneehorn’s soldiery. We sprinted from the tunnels and climbed aboard the Sirrup, shakin’ the filth off as we went. The huge gout of flame that followed us caught Kneehorn’s eye and he directed his guns towards us.

Thankfully Monty were manning the deck still. We heard a SPRANG, a startled scream and the fleshy THWAP of the cabin-boy slamming into the Admiral. Gaargh, bless that catapult, though god only knows why it were on board. We let out a ragged cheer and loaded the next comatose crewman into the net. We soon found that if we set light to the poor buggers they exploded on contact and soon did for the Admiral’s fleet.

There looked to be only a few of me raving troops left, so I let me emancipated mates pick ‘em off with crossbows. Arr, ye may think me callous but I were sparing them the agonising death than Monty’s concoction guaranteed.

Gaargh, they be happy times in me mind, I’d granted me wig-makin’ pals a heroes death and no longer suffered their sickliness and lackadaisical ship-sense. Me satisfaction were only slightly overshadowed by the astonishin’ new prices laid upon our heads by the somewhat vexed Admiral.

We left the Bastard’s Fate to burn and broke out the grog to mull over the naming of our vessel, mindful of its cost in both blood and booty. And so the Grim Bastard embarked on yet another miscalculated adventure.

Captain Pigheart’s Theological Adventure

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Gaaargh, after months of plundering an’ the holing of many hulls, we was looking forwards to the King of Tarsus’ hospitality. In appreciation of the great man’s patronage we’d prepared a chest of lacquered limpets to brighten his cave o’ fancy tat.

The King’s a capricous fellow at the best o’ times, but the town had an oddness to it as we sailed in. The fishing boats that normally plagued the harbour were gone, and the Tarsian flag’d been crudely daubed with a violent pink squid.

The lads were in dire need o’ bathin’ and duty-free shopping, so we docked anyways. We’d scarcely shaken the salt from our beards when we were accosted by a swarm o’ pink-clad clergy folk. They boarded the Lollipop and officiously rooted through me cabins. Rage grew within me, and I expressed meself through the medium o’ a crossbow bolt. The rosy little friar tumbled off the pier with a satisfying splash, but it slowed the slew of ‘em not a jot.

Yarr, they confiscatered me booty and dragged it from me ship – we could not contest it, for me hasty shot’d caused them to direct their arsenal upon us. To break the awkward ice, I enquired after the particular nature of their faith, for their robes were more lurid than Barry’s snog-a-hog skirt. The mad-eyed monks dropped to their knees, waggled their arms and made ‘ooblie-oo’ noises. I were unsure how to respond so I smiled politely. Their bureaucratic brothers gave me a receipt for me tithes and a fistful o’ hysterical pamphlets before flouncin’ off.

Twere highly irregular; I feared there were either a new King in town or our normal crazed one had dived off the stern of his sanity. The King‘s enthusiasms are both a blessing and a curse for his subjects. Well I remember his order that we all wear live jellyfish for their prophylactic effect… twas an unhappy but pregnancy-free week.

Our anchors were locked and me cannons impounded, all on ye King’s orders. Gaargh, I felt more impotent than the operatic eunuch gibbon who tidies me cabin. I’m distrustful o’ priests with pistols, so I dispatched the young simian to investigorate the state of the Kingdom. Off he scampered, chittering in his gibbous tongue, arms a-flail.

There were little for the rest of us to do but drink rum an’ play deck games. The lads’d lost interest in curlin’, and had found favour in the ancient game of Hopscotch, or Hop over ye Scot from which it derives. We took turns to hurdle the inebriate mass o’ Hamish McMuffin, a man prone to ire and deep-fried squid rings. Barry had tripped over the slumberin’ Scotsman and were being battered about the deck when me freakish cabin-lad returned.

Gaaargh, I’d neglected to send a crewman with the gift o’ speech, so we endured an hour o’ monkey-mime to learn that an evil Greek (be there any other kind?) named Testicles the Canker had tainted the King’s mind and taken over the Kingdom with ‘is Church of the Gibbering Cuttlefish. The leaflets showed much leaping on furniture and evangelising of an inventively ludicrous nature. We’d actually encountered one such band of loons swimmin’ with cuttlefish in hopes of saving them from killer whales… they’d not been blessed with success on that occasion.

Testicles’ first edict were the executing of all budgies guilty of gnawing upon the holy husks ‘twixt the bars of their cages. He then embarked on a campaign to educate ye fishermen in the preservation of the sacred cuttlefish. Ye Tarsian fisherfolk be none too bright and after pickling their catch, dungeon-bound. Gaaargh, I be a fan o’ neither zeal, nor learnin’, plus the lads were most aggrieved at bein’ unwhored, so we made our plans with care.

A great storm cast its shadow upon Tarsus that night. We raided Barry’s wardrobe for dresses and body-stocKings of general pinkitude and sneaked ashore. As we slew the dock-guardin’ dullards I noted that the lads had acquired somewhat more ladies’ garb than was strictly necessary for disguise, though the glitter were awful sparkly in the lightning flashes.

From ye palace could be heard a vigorous hooning between the thunderous rumbles. We crept forth in alternate pace with the clouds’ discharging. The vision that forced its way into me eye as I peered into ye window’ll stay with me till I die: ‘twere an undulating mass of pinkish people, frottin’ tentacularly in foamy excitement. Yarr, the sight were queasifying – like a room full of amorous octopi. Even his majesty were thrashing limply with the rest of ye deranged devotees. Gaaargh.

We leapt into the flock of fools, unnoticed at first. I think it were the stabbin’ and stocKings what gave us away in the end. The monks soon ceased to turn the other cheek an’ their faith faltered in the face o’ steel borne by such crudely caparisoned corsairs – as Barry bemoaned: we’d not taken the time to accessorise properly. Me gibbon’d brought a jar o’ pickled squids and were adding to the hysterics by flingin’ them into the crowd.

Yarrr, one slimy squid slapped the King out of his religious reverie; enlightenment be a grand thing to shine in a man’s eyes. The King seized his favourite sword and set to a fine swashbuckling duel with the Hellenic heretic Testicles. Barry discovered that ye could tell the real monks from the press-ganged locals as the latter were mainly trying to escape from the cuttley-tryst we’d disrupted. Them we spared (if we’d not already slain ‘em) an’ mopped up the last of the molluscy monks.

The evil Greek fought on, face flushed in the manner of his favoured cuttlefish. With a dramatic spurt the King castrated him to polite applause, since we’d no desire to unhinge him further. It seemed the King were in the pink once more, for he ordered the monks stripped and their fine silks hung in the courtesans’ quarters whence he bade us all retire.

Around midnight, when the storm’d passed, I heard Testicles a-wailing for his, um, testicles, and were soon joined by the sympathetic tones of me gibbon. ‘Twere quite a castrati lullaby, for I fell sound asleep. Of course the next morning I awoke to find meself securely knotted to the mast of me ship. But that be another tale and never did dim the memory of me night in a King’s harem – gaaargh!

Captain Pigheart’s Orthodontic Odyssey

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Gaargh, once more I were bound against me will. This time it were not, strictly speakin’, me own fault. Ye see I’d fallen for the beauteous but eccentric Discombobula Dentata, Queen o’ the tiny island o’ Munt.

Of course, she were not aware of me adorin’ until I broke into her bedroom and offered her me hand. Yaarr, she took it, along with me teeth. Them she returned these to me mouth after sowin’ each tooth in the volcanic earth o’ her magical realm. There they gained the power to sprout into dinky homunculi – little versions of meself with twice the cursing. In reciprocative devotion I were to slay her nemesis, the wizard of Ars’Hole; bein’ young and on pain o’ death I agreed.

Ye plan were one o’ hotheadedness an’ toothache and led directly into a cell, where I prayed for a dose o’ scurvy to loosen me chafin’ pegs. En-manacled as I was were I’d no way to yank ‘em so I employed a cunning ruse. I adopted a ladyish pose an’ began a beguilin’ croonin’, like so. On lurin’ a gullible soul into me false embrace I were keen to avoid becoming his prison bride. So I nutted him in his manly region, acquirin’ the desired smack in the chops.

With a vigorous shake of the noggin, me unnatural fangs bounced out onto the floor. The cell filled with a fizzin’, rum-scented fog and high-pitched cries of ‘ahoy’! Blinded, I heard the clatter o’ tiny peg legs, screaming and the thump of the guard striking the earth. Through the alcoholic fug I glimpsed a pocket-sized pirate hoofin’ the guard’s eyeball into a rat hole. Gaaargh.

‘Ahoy shipmidgets’ I whispered in me newly gummy voice as they freed me. The little devils were already torturin’ ye rats as I stumbled out of the cell. Yet I felt dizzy, for I’d a kaleidoscopic view through the eyes of me homunculi. It made walkin’ tricky and when ye shipmites grew bored of me totterin’, they hoisted me aloft. With a delighted “we’re off to see the wizard” we barrelled up ye dungeon stairs like a disabled centipede.

I was still attainin’ full mastery o’ me migrainous vision when we charged into a room bristlin’ with soldiery. A choral “gaaargh” heralded our attack and the wee mes hurled themselves forth. Ye battle were frantic – them hook hands be nasty, especially when there’s a midget halfway up ye nostril. Some of the lads got a mite trampled and booted out the window, but we won the day through sinus punchin’ and entrousered combat. Both relieved and impressed I fell through the next door and blundered into a boudoir.

I grinned gummily at the dusky maidens strewn upon cushions in artful states of undress. In husky, enticin’ tones they explained that they were the wizard’s concubine slaves desperate for manly aid. Twere a tangent from me mission, and not one Discombobula’d welcome, but in truth me heart were wanin’. And they cheered me eye. Ye fancy wenches hustled me towards a small door shrewdly secreted within a paintin’ of a door. It led into a tunnel filled with much gigglin’ as me pygmy pirates tickled ye ladies with their clamberin’ and bosom-ridin’. I were gladdened by me splintered sight.

The passage emerged into an alchemical utopia o’ phials and jars the contents of which’d shame Monty’s galley. I espied me desire a-float in a jar – a fine set o’ dentures, fashioned, so the label said, of a narwhal’s love handle. I snapped ‘em into place and rewarded ye ladies with a devilish grin and a lemony aftertaste. Twas mid-snog that I noticed ye wizened feller in the chair.

I deduced from his weird shlurring tongue that I’d nicked hish teesh and though I could not grashp hish shpeesh, his crazy mime denoted a spell-casting. I dove sideways as his mangled magistry struck the wall, flingin’ forth gouts of ensorceled fluid. The ladies cowered behind me against the malodious magic. Meanwhile one of me mini-men grew horns and impaled himself in the enchanter’s chest. Under steady fire o’ transmogrifyin’ unguents hurled by me atomised army the wizard’s shape stuttered like a zoologists’ zoetrope; finally he turned into a giant pigeon and with a quizzical coo detonated into a rain of explosive butterflies which obliterated half the chamber.

Flowers, rabbits and angry doves ricocheted off ye surviving walls as we regrouped. I were untouched, save for the wings sproutin’ from me ears, but half me ex-teeth were grimly enchanted, bein’ either newly amphibious or bubblin’ sludge. The remnants hopped me-wards, their pegs shieldin’ ‘em from the ooze. I swivelled on me budding stump, afeard o’ what harm might’ve befalled those ladies from the tide o’ thaumaturgic broth without such maritime maiming.

Gaaargh, not only were their clothes magically vanished, but the potion’d reduced the bosomy wenches to the of me delighted diminutive doppelgangers. I had to remind ‘em to talk to the face, not ye chest (unless ye be alone with ye treasure). Ah, ‘twas sweet, but their widdle wooin’d have to wait for ye furniture was largely crocodilian and large.

I gathered up ye tiny tribe and secreted ‘em about me person. Oh how they tickled, the naughty rapscallions, until they realised I meant to leap out the pigeonated wall. Then twas all squealin’ and pinchin’. Ignoring them, I dived through the hole and fell. And fell. Finally I discovered the means o’ flappin’ me head wings and began a brief spiral before we smashed onto a little fishing boat. Fear not – ye crew were easily subdued by me band of shortened swashbucklers.

Then the teensy turncoats bound me to the mast and used me outspread ear-flaps to guide their vessel to a landfall o’ their choosin’. Gaaargh, I suppose they merely sought sanctuary for their tiny trysts safe from the larger boots of our kind. Gaargh, I’d have appreciated bein’ unbound before bein’ set out to sea once more; I’m growin’ too long in the tooth for these misanchored maroonin’s.

Captain Pigheart’s Bangin’ Choon Adventure

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Gaaargh, we’d been at sea some while and the lads were growin’ crazed as a hermit crab in an undersized shell. Sean ‘the tool’ O’Toole was bein’ especially tiresome, wailin’ about his engorged manly bits an’ his need for a spot o’ lancin’. The lad were not quite the Casanova he hoped for; he’d merely grown infected after humpin’ a manatee. ‘Tis natural for a bleary-eyed sailor to mistake a half-tonne sea cow for an amiable maiden when he stumbles across one on the sloop deck.

Our hold’d been a bestial mess since being commissioned to gather a hoard of maritime wonders for the King o’ Tarsus. We’d gone a mite overboard in our freakish fauna fishin’ and had a shipful of odd-legged amorous octopi and the like. We’d even snagged a downy-breasted siren! The feathery wench’d been gagged by ‘Not Got A Shell-like’ Charlie who were immune to her mesmerisin’ song; the king’d reward us handsomely for the mythical bird-lady, especially if no man’d plucked ‘er.

Ye traditional pirate pastimes’d worn thin and the lads were reduced to a half-heartedly tauntin’ ye menagerie. Their gripin’ were clamberin’ over me breast so I shoved Charlie into the lovin’ mollusc’s seven-legged embrace to amuse the crew and retreated to me cabin with a tankard o’ whale ale and distant screamin’.

Me boozy snooze was disturbed by me pirate-sense a-tinglin’. Gaargh, some danger were near and likely related to the bangin’ tune piercin’ me looming hangover. I groped for the door, mistakin’ at first the fine Grecian statue with the delightful cleavage. I paused there for an extra grope or twain. Yarr, it’d been some while since I’d tweaked more’n her stony teat.

When I opened me door the thump were accompanied by an enticin’ ‘oo-oop, oo-oop’ as if some tropical bird’d been unleashed on deck; unlikely given the crew’s appetites. In the ‘cumulatin’ gloom o’ dusk I made out the giant form o’ Hamish McMuffin beatin’ an old barrel, his kilt swishin’ with an alarming freedom. The patter o’ me old renegade snares matched the moanin’ o’ Sean O’Toole as he gingerly tapped his bulgin’ bongoes. Slap in the middle of the deck pranced the siren, enchained yet unstoppered, chirrupin’ that eerie whoopin’ into the mix, shakin’ her feathery behind and be-stirrin’ me crew. The sea-witch’s tweetlin’ sent an intoxicatin’ thrill up and down me spine, ticklin’ me cogitatin’ orbs.

I felt a powerful urge to join me lads in their tribal bangin’: gaargh, we’d already yielded to the siren’s charms. Our only hope were to outdo her spell. I directed First Mate Billy No Mates to break out Monty McBuboe’s emergency store o’ sea-slug tequila and cockle shots and distribute ‘em to the crew. With the pirate percussion growing I hurried back to me cabin a-tremble with excitement.

I tossed back me mattress and unlocked the oaken chest beneath. ‘Twere bequeathed to me in case o’ dire need by me father, Captain Seaflange, of whom me last memory be his toothless grin after pinning the tail on a real donkey at me ninth birthday, and his consequent fatal head-hoofin’. I popped the lock to reveal phosphorescent crabsticks, a single white glove and a whistle exquisitely carved from the face of a mermaid. Gaaargh, thankin’ ye pa.

The atmosphere were electric when I returned to ye deck: we were sailin’ into a storm. The first raindrops spattered onto the planks, syncopatin’ with ye frantic beat as I handed out ye crabsticks. Lads o’ various disfigurements abandoned the tame hornpipe to chant ‘big fish, small fish, cask o’ rum’, blazin’ neon whirls about ‘em with their glowin’ crustaceous canes. Barry’d donned his silks for the occasion and so Sharon were gyratin’ enthusiastically in ye brig.An’ then the storm tossed in her own beats, rollin’ filthy bass notes through me rigging. The dance’s intensity grew with the wind whistlin’ through the sails while Hamish’s hammerin’ drew schools o’ dolphins to circle us, yakkerin’ rhythmically.

Yarr, I felt like me time’d come at last. I burst into the heart of ye dance and threw down me own piratical shapes. Ye’d be amazed at the breaks ye can achieve with a peg leg to pivot upon. The lightnin’ flashes strobed across me crew, renderin’ us all to jerky puppetry. From without our manly beatin’ came a soarin’ vocal chorus – the angelic sound urgin’ us onwards and inspiring’ Monty MCBuboe into a euphoric rantin’ so fast as to be near unintelligible, showerin’ us with digital breaks from ‘is leprous limbs.

As I dodged his flyin’ thumb I noted the horde of voluptuous yet ornithine ladies engaged in boardin’ me ship. The siren wench’d summoned her pals and in spite o’ me good sense I couldn’t help wagglin’ me glowstick invitin’ly. The lads let out a cheer as their dainty toes hit the deck, their unearthly wailin’ blendin’ harmoniously with the orchestral hues of a ship’s galley played by its tone-deaf crew.

I peeped me whistle in chime with the beguilin’ bird brushin’ her bushy plumage ‘gainst me. As if hypnotised they joined with the crew in an ecstasy o’ ‘starfish, jellyfish, what the devil’s that?’ Gaargh, we danced through the night, by which I mean both ye upright and horizontal tangoin’.

Gaaargh, I awoke spittin’ out feathers and cuddlin’ a huge and crackin’ egg. It took a moment to realise me crow’s nest’d been redecorated with a fetchin’ interweavin’ o’ riggin’ and odd limbs; at a quick count o’ legs I figured me crew’d struggle to win the next Twister death match.

A shadow were cast over me as its mother descended upon the nest bearin’ the flailin’ deformity of Sean O’Toole. The siren’s arrival met perfectly the splitting of the shell, a slimily feathery head poppin’ free in time to engulf the Tool’s danglin’ nethers. ‘Tis a wincing form o’ nourishment, but at last Sean’d served a purpose.

Twas clear that me seductive groovin’ had saved at least some of me crew from the sirens’ song, for I could hear their shufflin’ below. Like any proud father would, I peeped me whistle encouragin’ly at the fine young fledgling. Perhaps I’ll name him Polly.

Captain Pigheart’s Polar Adventure

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“Gaaargh, Mick it be not brain surgery,” I spat derisively as I cheerily spun me shiny new wheel to the left. ‘Twere a lovely brass wheel, with moulded grips, arrr she were a pleasure to grasp. But perhaps ye sporty gleam had affected me thinkin’, for over the next few days the air grew overly chill and me ship frosty. Gaargh, I’d probably meant me other left (or port as Mick insists).

Twas the danger in urinatin’ over the side what tipped the lads off to the error in steerin’. I arranged me pens and flipcharts so as to diagrammatically explain that the weight o’ gold in our hull were draggin’ us down the slopion’ side of ye Earth. Now given ye circularity o’ the globe twere as well to continue on our present course. I were takin’ ye long view but in any case, twere too late now.

Ye see, it were as cold as a snowman’s seed, too cold even for Mick’s sweaty palms, and they’d frozen tight to ye wheel – our course were fixed. At least it spared me own arms from hours at the helm. Ye increasin’ly bitter weather turned him blue despite the vast merkins I’d knitted. But in tuggin’ him free his mitts snapped off at the wrist takin’ him from ‘Look – No Hands Mick’ to mere ‘No Hands Mick’. Twere a shame but we all cheered up when his fists proved ideal for puckin’ in ice hockey.

As I were about to thrust Mick’s fist between Billy’s legs and score me third goal, the Grim Bastard lurched violently, tossin’ me mates hither and thither. I hoped we’d struck land- but twere just me stern bein’ ravished by a courtin’ whale. Ye humpin’ whale’s lusty thrusts bumped us onto a sheet of ice where we lay like an ill-used walrus.

The prolonged moanin’ of ye whale were taken up by Herr Doktor Gunther’s surgical plaything, a lad he’d borrowed from a circus upon whom to expand his medical repertoire. His lobotomised lowin’ brought forth a brace o’ sea unicorns to joust for me ship’s booty. The nasal swords clashed in freezin’ spray, occasionally plowin’ into ye Grim Bastard, callin for much pluggin o’ holes. That be a risky matter, and ye lads came out with as many holes as they’d stoppered.

‘Twere then we conceived of danglin’ the howlin’ half-wit over ye bows to distract the bladed sea-beasts whilst we seized their ivory. Arrr, Mick could only toe the line and so the mooncalf plunged into the sea. Twas the divertin’ sport of bobbin’ for the lad which led the narwhals to mortally wound each other. Bravely I ordered me lads to mount the dyin’ beasts and relieve them of their horns and meat before they sank.

An ice floe be a tedious place and I were despairin’ of ever eatin’ somethin’ other than blubber. Even spicin’ it with a lime marinade only pained us with discoverin’ that it were the source o’ the whales’ lust – the knaves of ye Piratical Catalogue had chosen to pickle ye ricket-haltin’ limes in the urine of a lady whale.

For want o’ diversion and a greater share o’ supplies, I encouraged me men to wander ye ice, especially Billy No Mates. He came slidin’ back one day, with news of fat birds dressed as nuns. Yarr, that confirmed why me polar bear patrols’d been so bored. I quietly inverted me compass while reassurin’ the lads they’d now no reason to fear ye dreaded arctic hare.

The discovery of ye penguin-folk ignited a worryin’ gleam behind the tiny dark glasses upon me sawbones nose. “Ha ha ha. I haf ein plan mein Herren, first ve must capture ze flippen-flappen-fischen-birden.” Ordinarily I’d press Gunther for details, but I were tired o’ checkin’ me tackle for icicles, so I led a team o’ burly mates out upon ye ice meself. Ye ice be not designed with a peg leg in mind and it were a perilous journey.

We motivated ye penguins by puntin’ their eggs towards ye Bastard where we leaped upon ‘em and tied ‘em to ye mast. They sank into a foolish complacency once we’d stuffed their eggs back under them – the next generation were the least o’ their worries.

Gunther unveiled his new contraption with a feverish grin: “Viz zis device ve vill hollow out ze penkvin und ve vill escapen ze ice.” I weren’t followin’ entirely, but when the psychotic Teutonic asked for volunteers I took a closer peek. Gaargh, if ye can imagine a man-sized melon baller studded with more blades than a blind barber, then ye’ll understand why I volunteered me first mate, Billy No Mates.

The machine were swift in its evisceratin’: a sheet o’ frozen blood mist cascaded to the deck revealin’ a dazed penguin and a heap o’ steamin’ gore. Arr, we were suprised, ‘specially when Gunther flipped open the penguins beak to reveal Billy within. Aaargh, he also seemed a mite taken aback.

Gunther’s crypto-zoological chicanery were interestin’ but hopefully had a purpose (unlike the unfortunate incident with ye dwarves). He aimed to graft the least popular of me crew into manguins, grantin’ us aqua-mules to haul us from the ice. It seemed a tad extreme, but Gunther swore it’d be a reversible procedure and were our sole hope. After some vicious votin’ we got another five hybrid pengmen into ye water. But before we could even test ye Doktor’s thesis, black fins arose from ye waves.

There was naught we could do – the killer whales each picked up a penguin, and wolfed them down. Gunther looked oddly triumphant at ye eruptin’ foam of blood. I were not best pleased and told him so, though be begged me indulgence. I soon saw his reasonin’ – munchin’ on me mates had ensnared the orcas (I’d wondered at the cutlasses’ purpose). The enraged fish whipped us off our ice floe and back into ye ocean.

It were a noble, if excessive sacrifice that saved most of our lives. I were about to offer a few heartfelt words in memory of Billy when a flipper slapped wetly on ye gangplank. Even though Billy’s survival spoiled me eulogy I’d not the heart to throw him back for despite his fishy scent he were far less irritatin’ in his nunnish birdery. Since I’d forgot the names of our other saviours there were little else to do but celebrate our escape from ye south pole with mugs of whale beer; all the blubber turns to alcohol – or a thick floatin’ scum.