Category Archives: Beastly Adventures

Battles with ye bestiary. The seas are stuffed to the gills (and blowholes) with any number of creatures wanting to strip the flesh from ye bones and the marrow from the inside of ye bones. It’s a fearful thing.

Our roaming be broad, and so our encounters with these monsters are all too common. I brings ye tales of giant terrapins, killer whales, vast jellyfish, monks of all colours, zombies and the damned.

Tis pleasing to note that many of them provide an ample supper, especially when the number of diners has been reduced.

The Pitch Black Adventure

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The Pitch Black Adventure

Gaargh, there’s a mean-looking fish-legged fellow at me door, using a trident as a door bell. Tis likely to progress in an ill manner for all concerned, namely meself. I’ve been evading these sea men for these past weeks but they’ve finally caught up with me. ‘Tween times they’ve plagued me with oceanic assaults and scores o’ noisome sea beasts.

The last maritime misfortune I’d suffered by the fins of them merfolk was the sad loss of Grim Pitch, the cabin lad. The manner of his death called to me mind the ancient curse we’d once found and largely ignored as we plundered an undersea cave: “Dare ye to dip ye mitt in a mermaid’s purse, And Neptune’s foamy fist’ll bring down on ye a terrible curse.” Twas not redolent with clarity about the nature of the curse though some annoyance on the sea’s part was plain. But since I’d begun me wooin’ of mermaids I’d felt a teeming worry about King Clam’s paternal temper. For the merfolk are a proud and warlike people and take such sea-shufflin’ shenanigans most seriously.

Ye may not directly perceive the link to the death of me third-favourite cabin boy, but tis me belief that all bad things congregate by the window when ye feel a mite blue, and those nearby may find ‘emselves splashed with the calamitous cast-off. I fear that poor hapless, stupid and unlucky Grim Pitch was the accidental victim of me merwenching lifestyle. I’d never taken the boy with me when I sought out me saucy sea life – tis only metaphorically that I suggest he were caught between me and me mermaid matin’. Twould be an inappropriate venture for a lad o’ his indeterminate age.

Grim’s me lad for patchin’ of the sails, for his grip’s fine and his head for heights second to none. After taking issue with a flock o’ Gobshite Gulls our sailcloth was the worse for wear and needful o’ Grim’s magic slathering. The lad’s tar was freshly drawn and ready for use when a freak swarm of Tiger-Faced Penguins took the ship by storm. The ferocious harbingers o’ nasty pecks and shin-kicking barrelled up out of the water and smashed through or over our railings. They set to their notorious war-warbles and grumpily pecked at me crew with their cruel pointy beaks. Huge and striped like the tigers that also bear their names they lack some of the felines’ artistry and cunning. But they make up for it with their weight of numbers and slappy fin-wings. They’re beasts that call for up close punchin’ in the feather-patch.

Alas, in the excitement no one thought to safeguard the bubblin’ pitch. The added weight of the penguins had the Good Ship Lollipop pitching and yawing like a fat man struggling out of a bath tub. As poor Grim fought with one of the vicious bird-fish creatures the bucket flipped over and engulfed them both in boiling gunk. The wailing and fowl squalling were piteous and irritating in equal measure, though the latter did motivate me to boot another Tiger-Faced Penguin right in the air-sacs and hurry to Grim’s aid.

Twas like watching an exotic love-dance under a black silk sheet, though involving a great deal more pain and but a man and a penguin. There was little we could do but knock ‘em overboard in the hope of cooling the stinky burn fluid. The explosion o’ vapour as they hit the sea saw off most of the Tiggy-guins. The steam took the eyes of Watchful Harry and perfectly prepared a pair of penguins for our postmeridian picnic. Poor Grim and his Siamese twin penguin sank without a trace.

Gaargh! I was enraged for I takes the care of me crew as of at least middling importance and we really had needed that bucket of pitch. I bellowed me defiance at the skies, and then realisin’ me error, re-directed me complaints to the sea and that miserable King Clam whom I were certain lay behind our recent spate o’ watery worries. I suppose I could have recanted me invective but I was fond of the King’s daughter and her scaly thighs and pouted petulantly at the though of nevermore tickling her teasing tail.

Now, o’ course, as the sound of the mermen beating down me door alternates with the sound of ‘em falling over and hauling themselves back up again I’ve cause to regret me angry words. Maybe I’ll just climb out of this window and see if I can give these flippery slap-footed lads the slip.

 

The Culinary Confession of Monty McBuboe

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Gaargh, these be the words of me ship’s cook, the ignoble Monty McBuboe, muttered in’s sleep. He’s no letterin’ of his own, nor digits suffice to the task. Proud leper and gourmet of the rat-infested, weevil-ridden ship’s stores he revealed to me his hopes and fears while snorin’ around his necrotisin’ tongue.

The Culinary Confession of Monty McBuboeTwas a night o’ summeritude, and ye Grim Bastard lolled in a peaceable wake. I meself dozed in me hammock, or rather limb-net. Ye see the fro-in’ and to-in’ o’ the ship can quite disassemble me once common figure, and ye nettin’ keeps it all close by for ye ease of glue and staplin’.

I were awoked by a thin wail what pierced me aural tunnel. I did me limb count and left the galley (in which I sleeps, for ye mates’ve fear o’ inhalin’ me leprosity whiles they yawns). On tip toe (for that’s what I got) I crept to the store-room door. Tis locked, to keep ye rogues without; within lies ye foodstuffs and ye grog. Ye keyhole be sufficient to admit me eye. She’s been loose some months now, and with a teaspoon I can dislodge her orb an’ so I popped ‘er through the lock.

The insides were as dark as an angel’s orifice, for though shadowed twere shot through with flashes of a violent green. The pulses was quite blindin’ to me dislocatered peeper, so I jerked ‘er back into me socket. With a bit o’ fiddlin’ I got it rightways though me blinkin’ had some drag. Luckily me forefinger (I’ve only the left left) had recently whittled itself bony, an’ were an ideal skeleton key.

I’d no choosin’ but to leave the key in the lock, but the door swung gently into the slowly rottin’ fish with which I’d be brewin’ some fine Brain Tenderiser in a half-moon or so. Ye glow warmed me further’n the season’d managed and ye shrill whistle were tauntin’ me again. I follered the fine flautistry to a barrel under the cockle-sack.

Though I does ye chefferin’ hereabouts, tis Barry who’s ye quartermaster and does our shoppin’ when we’re at anchor. O’ course he’s a weakness for the dresses and’s been known to expend ye ration pence and return to the ‘Bastard cased in sequins with feathers in’s hair. So the findin’ o’ mysteries and inedibles be no surprise an’ rarely bars the makin’ of soups.

This cask’d the look o’ luxuries and the sparkle brought to me mind one o’ Barry’s finest deck shows as Sharon; twirlin’ and twinklin’ to the siren song. Ye exotic yellow surface were patterned with neat swirly sigils and cracks leakin’ with the emerald ooze which was soakin’ up into the sacks an’ parcels around it. Arr, a bit o’ gribble’ll merely soften ye vittles but I’d not want ‘em to spoil so I hauled the barrel out and over the side.

With a loaf o’ bread I mopped up ye excess slime for the mates’re oft off-put by the sight o’ such squeamies. The loaf I returned to ye bread bin for we were down to our last few. The whistlin’d passed so I returned to me bunk, lickin’ the oddly tasty green sauce off me odd-matched fingers.

Twas some days later when in me increasin’ desperation for somethin’ edible to pop in ye suppery gruel I were clamberin’ about the storeroom and came upon a startle – a throbbin’ heap o’ fresh peppers, radiant with health. Surroundin’ them was a ring of muscular-lookin’ cockles which bounced in a menacin’ way when I loomed upon ‘em. I takes no nonsense from me grub and twattled ‘em with a ladle into a pot for broilin’. Ye peppers looked right juice-some and destined for the captain’s table.

All day I bragged o’ the meal to me noble cap’n and the delight’s his face’d experience before the night were out. Ah, how I loves to overcome his innate scepticism. I must admit ’tis rare that I succeed an’ that night far from bucked ye trend.

Me galley fairly hummed with culinary froth, and the aromas of a dozen arguably gangrenous ‘gredients. Almost all of me digits’d survived the dicin’ and escaped the pot. All was traversin’ the cookery ocean smoothly until the first cockle exploded out of the pot, punchin’ a hole through the wall. I heard a cry and a distant splash; I turned back to me work. The rest of the ballistic bivalves soon left me a new colander and a gap in me menu.

I turned me favoured blade to the peppers. Arr, their red flesh parted before the knife’s virtue; it made me scrofulus skin itch – tis me art and me craft to cook. And yet when I peered at its innards ye familiar glow fell on me face and that eerie wail resumed from me nighttime wander.

Ye could but imagine me amazement, ‘cept I aims to describe it to ye – within the crimson peach lay an homunculus pepper, singin’ its little bell heart out. Each of I penetrated with me fruit-sword held another of the vege-warblers. They were a delight, their chorus near made me fingernails re-grow and me septum cease its wobblin’. Enchantin’… The magic was shattered by the bellow of my hungry captain. Full well dilemma’d – the cockles’d cocked off and me sweet pepper main dish was serenadin’ me. The cockles I could swap with octopus eyeballs or the cartilage in me knees, but the taste of a pepper’d no compare.

I served up to me captain them darlin’ pepper mites. The grillin’ stopped their singin’ and me one remaining tear duct overflowed to salt ‘em just right. The meal was a success but I could scarce stop the tears that coursed down me right cheek. I hobbled off to bed where I both celebrated and commiserated with meself with a tot of Brain Tenderiser.

Arr, I cannot now look a pepper in the eye for memory of their song. Ye cockles returned by the by and the cupboard whence they now dwell is forever denied me.

Captain Pigheart’s Stowaway Adventure

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“I’ve sailed from one end of these oceans to the next and I’ve seen little of the Heavens and Earth ye finds in ye cups Horatio.” We’d been drinking since sunset by firelight. Me guest were one Horatio the Hermit who’d been so kind as to join us in the capacity of stowaway. It’d been a while since any fool had hidden aboard our ship, still less as one disguised as a rabbit hutch. Poor Barry’d been most disappointed as he knelt to stroke the bunny’s ear to find only the twisted beard of some stinking malcontent.

I’d planned to toss him overboard but the man’s silver tongue stayed his execution. Horatio babbled about a sacred cove o’ the ocean where man could commune with the watery gods and receive their blessin’. He was as mad as a flying fish, but o’ course that don’t necessarily make him wrong. We were needful o’ diversion for having plundered mightily off the Spanish coast we now neared the alcoholic doldrums o’ boredom. Our course were set, and for further amusement I ordered the hobo cleaned.

When we reached the Hermit’s temple cove we had a celebratory barrel-draining – just me, Horatio, Barry and Mick ruddy in the light and in various stages of passing out. There came startling thunder from all around us, though it were dry and the stars were clear as day, well – as they be on a clear night (ye knows what I mean). Twere strange. The sea was calm beneath us and yet when we cast lanterns over the side, the water itself was bubbling fiercely. I dashed for the helm to steer us from these queer waters – there was a slight wind I hoped to exploit. As I hobbled over, the seas exploded about us in great fountains of luminous spray, each topped by a mass of jellyfish.

I stood at the wheel, flanked by me battered buddies, gobs agog and gaping with slack-jawed surprise. A deep thrumbling from below forced the rhythmically writhing maritime beasties out of the water. Gaargh, the beauty o’nature near unmanned us, the pulse of the ocean penetrated the inebriate veil we’d drawn over our senses, flinging water over the planks. Horatio bounded over to the rail with customary grace, tripping and flinging himself over the side.

We found him treading water by the ship’s side, lit with an eerie pink from below. “Hop in lads, the water’s lovely”, the man declared. Mick and Barry were already mounting the rail when Horatio chuckled, “there’s a ticklin’ at me ankles, why ye little mischiefs”. A premonition struck me, and I laid a hand and hook upon the shoulders of me crew mates as they straddled the railing. They twisted angrily in me grip, keen to enjoy the peculiar pink waters but I held ‘em tightly.

Sure enough, me creepin’ concern were based on a solid grasp of our likely misfortune. “Why tis the ocean’s own kisses of love as in the days of ancient Greece” Horatio’s babble turned to the inevitable cries and screams as the water foamed redly about him. Barry and Mick’d returned all four o’ their feet to the deck. “Tis likely too late for a rope…” Mick commented as the hobo-hermit vanished in a whirl of bubbles and flashing teeth.

The author of the vanishing sea tramp reared suddenly from the water, borne up on another mast of brine: an horrific writhing mass of teeth and eyeballs, making me suspect the dancing sea beasts were merely escaping its dinner-time intentions. Even in our drunken state we pirates are professionals to the last and twas only a few breaking toes that slowed us in rolling a cannon across the deck. The beast was using its teeth to haul itself up the hull, its horrid eyes goggling at us with hunger, tatters of Horatio being snapped up by lower mouths as they tumbled towards the sea.

“Blast the demon back into the deeps lads,” I bellowed, quite forgetting that Mick still wore his drinking mitts and could only bash at the fuse with a mug. Meantimes the beast was on deck – with me pistol I blasted away one facet of its fishy features which merely caused it to shriek and lash out toothily at Barry who was dashing across the deck with a lantern and taper. The lantern bounced off the piscebeast and onto me waiting hook, but the taper was snapped up by the fiend as it latched onto Barry’s leg. Mick set to whacking the brute with his stein-fists while I whirled, desperate for some tinder to spark alight Mister Boom (as we’d named the cannon earlier).

There was naught to hand, and me lads were in trouble. Naught to hand, but to foot..? I smashed the lamp to the deck and thrust me peg leg into the oily flames. The rum reserve I kept within its hollow core burst into light and I put me enflamed stump to the cannon’s Boom Whisker (the naming’d gone on for a while). Mister Boom kept true to his name and atomised the ghastly sea beast, casting a fishy mist across me and me crewmates. Untethered, Mister Boom thundered back into the foremast, delivering a fatal blow to her upright fortitude.

With a weary creak the mast split and tumbled, smashing down onto the headless stub of the sea beast as it battered against the deck searching for its snappy noggin. With spars embedded in it, the whole lot slipped and tipped off the Grim Bastard, threatening to tug the ship over with it. Only the quick-thinking of me crew, alerted (finally) to the threat by the cannon’s discharge, of hacking at ropes stopped us from following the beast into the depths. The pink temple of fizzing water collapsed back into the sea and apart from the swathe of destruction across the Grim Bastard’s deck there was no sign of the wondrous events of the night. “Right,” said No Hands Mick, “that settles it – stowaways go overboard”.

Captain Pigheart’s Cetacean Adventure

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The deck of the Grim Bastard was awash with the bitter tears o’ the sea, her sails slashed with the fury of a scorned harlot.

Aye, and she had just cause to toss me vessel ‘tween her troughs, for once again in our drunken folly we’d spurned the hairless beasts spawned by her salty nether-fountain. Ye assortment o’ horrors fishy, be-toothed and tentacular what thronged in her deeps (venturin’ too oft also into her shallows) had besieged us as we sought naught but honest trade in the goods of others.

We sought to escape the ill luck that had pestered us by taking a cultural tour of the Baltic. Our first stop was the bustlin’ port town o’ Gloomåë Bøstardsen which, despite its glummy name, was the finest whore-filled harbour of opportunity and delicious vice on the coast of Finland. The normally suicidal folk o’ the Norselands’d found a place to spend ‘emselves in wench and wine before expirin’ in a sauna, thrashin’ one another with sticks.

We interrupted their genial knife-fighting to enquire about their famed whale pummellin’ contest. Me most morose crewmate, Shänkly Morbidsonsen revelled in the many grudges and humiliations he’d acquired as a child in this bleak land. Perhaps could regain his manhood with a spot o’ dolphin-slappin’. He slapped down his huge fists and enrolled the crew in this highlight of the Finnish calendar. All the sons o’ Bøstardsen’d signed up to beat the hell out of a cetacean punchin’ bag and show us upstart pirates who’d be dead in the snow the mornin’ after.

The contest was a terrifying display of drunken bravado and maudlin mammal mauling. Tis a curiously ill-defined sport, for ye object was to dash out as far as ye dared and punch the largest whale ye could reach. We waded out into the shallows and while ye big Fins punched through their tears and me lads met ‘em blow for blow.

The sea was as dark as the looming month-long night to come. For reasons unknown to the locals, the whale kin chose this bit of coast on which to prance and fornicate. Twas a poor choice, for there was surely some other enhumpinateable sand bank where folks were less prone to drunken punching and knife fights.

Me boys were acquitting themselves well, though there’d been some upsets – No Hands Mick’s prosthetic fists’d been banned so he could only batter ‘em with his stumps, bless him. Barry was found pluggin’ a dolphin in its blow hole – tis not the accepted form o’ punching hereabouts. He was gently dissuaded and spent the remainder of the contest wooing porpoises.

Now me lad Shänkly  had stunned a humpback whale with one blow and drawn the attentions of a great lass, by which I mean huge, who lay about the whales with a meanness born o’ young nights terrified by tales of the albino hippopotamuses dwelling in the forests. Surely tis an awful prospect and one that drives ye Fins to drink and incomprehensibly violent music. Gaargh, despite the gravity of the woman (for she drew waves and even the moon seemed larger) I could not help but compete with Shänkly  for his femininish prize, for such be me pride.

With the bravery of spiritual libation I swam out to deeper waters where ye larger sea moose cavorted. I must have stumbled upon one mid-thrust for it squealed and reared up. At first I thought it an impressive male, for its horn split the moon in two – then I realised twas from its head. In some state o’ startlement meself I lamped it in the face with all the strength I could muster. The horned beast tumbled backwards, snortling bubbles as it fell back into the sea.

I turned triumphant to the shore to the roar of me crewmates and a somewhat less heartening gasp o’ horror from the locals. The great barrel of a woman that Shänkly ’d his eyes upon (how could ye not for she eclipsed the landscape) bellowed at me, “ye fool ye’ve doomed us all”. In truth, the number of times I’ve heard that has quite diminished the worry it ought to incite. In addition she used an exotic range of vowels which reduced her intelligibility to whalesong. However on this occasion it was backed up by the frantic dash of Fins for the sanctity of their saunas, and by Shänkly  grabbing me by the collar and bellowin’ “ye’ve knocked out the narwhal princess! Tis time to be gone.”

In haste we splashed towards the Good Ship Lollipop and her alluring rope ladders. From behind came the deep hoon of irate cetaceans. As they surged forwards their fresh wake drove us onward. We’d almost made the ropes when a forest of twisted horns rose out of the sea beside us – the narwhal court set to avenge the honour of their princess. Brave Shänkly tugged Barry free from the enamoured porpoise he rode and forced us up the ladders before turning back to the big spike-faced fish.

Gaargh, I almost leaped back to fight by his side, but the grim set to his face reminded me of me duty to the crew and me preference for survival. Shänkly took a mighty gobful o’ the vodka from his traditional flask and spat fire impressively but futilely, for the beasts were sodden; though he did surprise ‘em before fisting ‘em roughly. As we gained the deck he’d been joined by his lummox woman who rivalled some of them in size, though not, as it turned out in sharpness. The pair fought with courage till they were caught by the brutes, their horns punchin’ through ‘em till they became glum pin cushions pierced in the narwhals’ bloody needle-point.

We set sail. Behind us the leviathans were launching themselves out of the sea onto the beach, flattening the saunas which offered scant protection, and the birch flails still less. The narwhals pursued us but fell back as they grew weary of the impenetrability of our hull, where they dangled from their faces till we cut them loose. I’ll miss Shänkly. Though he was a melancholic fellow he did tell fine tales o’ them white hippos to scare the cabin lads. For my part I’ve a lovely new unicorn o’ the sea peg leg, and a new-found enemy in whale-kind. Twas a good night out. On then to the festival village of Guttering Honk and their notorious owl-gargling rituals.

Captain Pigheart’s Hermitage Adventure

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The roaring ocean tossed me about like a giantess with a sensual dwarf. The rain lashed me battered face, soothing the sunburn till the salty once again fertilised the pain in me cheeks.

Twas only the blinding sheets of lightning that granted me a slight sight of me destination. At the first flash I thought I saw a giant chicken bearing down on a tumescent squid. It flashed again and the poultry were gone, leaving but an island. I barely made it ashore, and I was grateful to the carpet of mating crabs which drew me over the sands with their undulating and left me half-buried in their crustaceous seed.

I lived amongst them for three years, till I outgrew the largest shell they had. With the shell stuck upon me I struck out for human society once more. I left behind two wives and a thousand younglings. Man were not hard to find, for I’d been living in me hermit shell not half a mile from the nearest village. They’d railed against me evil for months and I’d earned a small stipend from me work as a bogey man, terrifying infants should they wander into caves and such. I stayed away out of shame and I’d little keenness to return. However, with ye crabs’ recent social evolutions I were no longer welcome.

I sought out a friendly local to aid me in shedding me cumbrous shell. I was so distracted by the hunchbacky pain me personal caravan was causing me that until the blacksmith and his daughter had eased me out of the case I’d taken little note o’ me surroundings. A shudder passed down me twisted spine, poppin’ me vertebral moulding out of its conical shape. Upon the wall of the quaint cottage (by which I mean run-down and pestilential) and indeed across the laps of me charitable metallurgists was a sight I’d hoped never to lay me eye upon again.

I managed to mask me gasp with the syncopated chiropractic clickety-pops of becoming erect. Even as I wavered on me feet, me spine no longer suited to straight-forward standin’, ye crude willow-weave merkin clung to the wall, mocking me with its gash-sash. Perhaps it were too soon for human company. I awkwardly bellowed me thanks and ran side-wise out of the hovel.

For more o’ the merkin adventures, read Captain Pigheart All Washed Up.

Captain Pigheart’s Terrified Adventure

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Greetings fellow Gentleman Ramblers, tis me honour and fortune to be regalin’ ye today with me adventures. Mind not the pistols in ye ribs; had ye but consented to listen ye’d not be at gunpoint.

We were, naturally enough, a-drink and adrift in a mysterious fug. Twas cloying and clung to me beard. From the densest o’ the fog came a dull roar and a twinklin’ sound such as ye might associate with frozen fairies tumblin’ to a floor o’ tiles. I made to alter our course but me peg leg’d been wedged in ye wheel as part of a curious game. We’d no choice but to boldly plunge deeper into the growling smog. Bolts of pink lightning sizzled into the seas about us.

Gaaargh, the ship and crew took on a bright pink glow, like when ye hold ye hand up to firelight and can see ye bones within (if it’s blackened ye’ve left it too long) and the very air vibrated around us. Time grew rubbery and stretched us about like the elbow skin of the world.

It ended with a soggy thunder and our elongation reversed with such suddenness that the limbs of some of me crew were permanently entangled. I had some trouble in detaching meself from Billy No Mates but twas nothing a quick slash could not fix.

Daybreak found the Lollipop twisting gently in pea-green water which lapped at the shore of an alien coast. Twas hot, humid and confusing. As me crew recovered their sea legs, if they could find them. Me first concern were the figurin’ of our position, for what maps we had were but the efforts of a child – never allow a man with no hands to do ye cartographin’. The presence of a number of enraged volcanoes was encouraging; perhaps we’d reached the pacific. Either way, it’d do us no harm to put foot ashore and see what could be seen from a height. Tis always possible we’d stumble upon lost treasure, or a map.

I permitted Barry to join me, and a pair o’ crewmen whose names I’d not yet bothered to learn, but who stood out for the brightness of their scarlet jerseys. Upon gaining the shore, we were immediately beset by insects of a frightful size and vigour. Barry forcefully batted a vast and mosquito into Red Jersey No. 1 (I’d made some effort to distinguish ‘em with numbers on their backs). Gaargh, its proboscis were huge (to echo Barry’s cry) and it wasted no time in burying itself in the lad’s face. Before we could stop it, the beast sucked the lad dry, and hung from his lifeless mug like massive bagpipes, so bloated that we were able to easily slay it. This were not an auspicious beginning.

Me fears were further realised by the immense roaring that penetrated our ears as we violated the ferny bush with our machetes. Twas the sort of noise that turns ye bowels to a seething broth, as Red Jersey No. 2 demonstrated unasked. Even Barry was shaken, but he’d spotted a future pair of boots and matching bag between the trees and urged us on.

Gaargh, I’ve seen a pair o’ creepy dwarf clowns clad in the leather of a single alligator, but this thing’d make catsuits for the whole crew. Twas like a heap of scaly elephants humpin’ a whale. Yet ye teeth, though huge were no sharper than the wits of me sailors. Mayhap this beast would merely trample us to paste.

So we crept nearer, angling to leap upon the dinobrute and stab it through the eyes. We almost had it when a low rumble behind us became a blood-curdling roar and the most terrifying thing of me life loomed over us. Its leg long teeth dripped drool into our hair and its rank stench filled our nostrils. With a snap of its claws it bounded over us and into our prey. Even Barry was sensible enough not to object. It proved a boon in many respects, for the leaf-munching proto-handbag was hardier than we’d imagined, ripping chunks from its attacker with horny toe-claws.

The giant tooth-master tore a strip of the other’s flesh clean off and victoriously tossed it into the trees above us. Barry was overcome with emotion, loudly declaring his delight as he seized it. He was too loud, like his tastes in fashion, and the vast beastisaurus, teeth gleaming with gore slowly twisted to regard us with hunger. Gaaargh, I felt no need to order a retreat; we ran as one, Barry’s new pelt flapping over his shoulder.

We dodged between trees as the slavering monstrodocus stomped hard on our heels, screaming furiously whenever we evaded his toothy embrace. Red Jersey No. 2 was sufficiently new to still benefit from a full complement o’ nature’s limbs and was outpacing ye captain most disrespectfully.

In a noble act o’ friendship I shoved Barry to one side, allowing our brightly caparisoned mate to distract the toothandclawedisaurus. One stumble was all it took and suddenly there was more red than mere fabric could provide. A terrible crunching and noisy gulping followed.

We used the lunch break to scramble into the dinghy and row for the ship like beaten slaves. But that damned beast was hungry still and lumbered into the waves after us. So hard were we rowing and bellowing to the ship to set sail that we barely noted the unusual waves fighting against the current.

We reached the ship as the fangster buried its dripping claws in the Lollipop’s deck, drawing the whole ship forth. It was a partial relief when vast jaws emerged from the frothing sea and clamped down on our terrestrial foe. The terrorbeast was dragged under the waves, tilting the ship until its claws ripped out and it vanished in an explosion of surf and blood. We climbed aboard with all haste as the roiling wake pushed us out to sea and back into the inscrutable fog.

We emerged from ye misty distension into our calm blue native seas. With a sigh o’ relief we discovered that we’d all get a new pair of boots; a noble sacrifice on the part o’ them Scarlet Jerseyed gents. I’d be able to share me experience o’ beastical mystery with ye Gentleman Ramblers. I’ve prepared a charcoal renderin’ o’ the beastie, which I’ve named for ye referential convenience, Ye Ignatiosaurus Scarletio Vex.

Greetings fellow Gentleman Ramblers, tis me honour and fortune to be regalin’ ye today with me adventures. Mind not the pistols in ye ribs; had ye but consented to listen ye’d not be at gunpoint.

 

We were, naturally enough, a-drink and adrift in a mysterious fug. Twas cloying and clung to me beard. From the densest o’ the fog came a dull roar and a twinklin’ sound such as ye might associate with frozen fairies tumblin’ to a floor o’ tiles. I made to alter our course but me peg leg’d been wedged in ye wheel as part of a curious game. We’d no choice but to boldly plunge deeper into the growling smog. Bolts of pink lightning sizzled into the seas about us.

 

Gaaargh, the ship and crew took on a bright pink glow, like when ye hold ye hand up to firelight and can see ye bones within (if it’s blackened ye’ve left it too long) and the very air vibrated around us. Time grew rubbery and stretched us about like the elbow skin of the world.

 

It ended with a soggy thunder and our elongation reversed with such suddenness that the limbs of some of me crew were permanently entangled. I had some trouble in detaching meself from Billy No Mates but twas nothing a quick slash could not fix.

 

Daybreak found the Lollipop twisting gently in pea-green water which lapped at the shore of an alien coast. Twas hot, humid and confusing. As me crew recovered their sea legs, if they could find them. Me first concern were the figurin’ of our position, for what maps we had were but the efforts of a child – never allow a man with no hands to do ye cartographin’. The presence of a number of enraged volcanoes was encouraging; perhaps we’d reached the pacific. Either way, it’d do us no harm to put foot ashore and see what could be seen from a height. Tis always possible we’d stumble upon lost treasure, or a map.

 

I permitted Barry to join me, and a pair o’ crewmen whose names I’d not yet bothered to learn, but who stood out for the brightness of their scarlet jerseys. Upon gaining the shore, we were immediately beset by insects of a frightful size and vigour. Barry forcefully batted a vast and mosquito into Red Jersey No. 1 (I’d made some effort to distinguish ‘em with numbers on their backs). Gaargh, its probiscus were huge (to echo Barry’s cry) and it wasted no time in burying itself in the lad’s face. Before we could stop it, the beast sucked the lad dry, and hung from his lifeless mug like massive bagpipes, so bloated that we were able to easily slay it. This were not an auspicious beginning.

 

Me fears were further realised by the immense roaring that penetrated our ears as we violated the ferny bush with our machetes. Twas the sort of noise that turns ye bowels to a seething broth, as Red Jersey No. 2 demonstrated unasked. Even Barry was shaken, but he’d spotted a future pair of boots and matching bag between the trees and urged us on.

 

Gaargh, I’ve seen a pair o’ creepy dwarf clowns clad in the leather of a single alligator, but this thing’d make catsuits for the whole crew. Twas like a heap of scaly elephants humpin’ a whale. Yet ye teeth, though huge were no sharper than the wits of me sailors. Mayhap this beast would merely trample us to paste.

 

So we crept nearer, angling to leap upon the dinobrute and stab it through the eyes. We almost had it when a low rumble behind us became a blood-curdling roar and the most terrifying thing of me life loomed over us. Its leg long teeth dripped drool into our hair and its rank stench filled our nostrils. With a snap of its claws it bounded over us and into our prey. Even Barry was sensible enough not to object. It proved a boon in many respects, for the leaf-munching proto-handbag was hardier than we’d imagined, ripping chunks from its attacker with horny toe-claws.

 

The giant tooth-master tore a strip of the other’s flesh clean off and victoriously tossed it into the trees above us. Barry was overcome with emotion, loudly declaring his delight as he seized it. He was too loud, like his tastes in fashion, and the vast beastisaurus, teeth gleaming with gore slowly twisted to regard us with hunger. Gaaargh, I felt no need to order a retreat; we ran as one, Barry’s new pelt flapping over his shoulder.

 

We dodged between trees as the slavering monstrodocus stomped hard on our heels, screaming furiously whenever we evaded his toothy embrace. Red Jersey No. 2 was sufficiently new to still benefit from a full complement o’ nature’s limbs and was outpacing ye captain most disrespectfully.

 

In a noble act o’ friendship I shoved Barry to one side, allowing our brightly caparisoned mate to distract the toothandclawedisaurus. One stumble was all it took and suddenly there was more red than mere fabric could provide. A terrible crunching and noisy gulping followed.

 

We used the lunch break to scramble into the dinghy and row for the ship like beaten slaves. But that damned beast was hungry still and lumbered into the waves after us. So hard were we rowing and bellowing to the ship to set sail that we barely noted the unusual waves fighting against the current.

 

We reached the ship as the fangster buried its dripping claws in the Lollipop’s deck, drawing the whole ship forth. It was a partial relief when vast jaws emerged from the frothing sea and clamped down on our terrestrial foe. The terrorbeast was dragged under the waves, tilting the ship until its claws ripped out and it vanished in an explosion of surf and blood. We climbed aboard with all haste as the roiling wake pushed us out to sea and back into the inscrutable fog.

 

We emerged from ye misty distension into our calm blue native seas. With a sigh o’ relief we discovered that we’d all get a new pair of boots; a noble sacrifice on the part o’ them Scarlet Jerseyed gents. I’d be able to share me experience o’ beastical mystery with ye Gentleman Ramblers. I’ve prepared a charcoal renderin’ o’ the beastie, which I’ve named for ye referential convenience, Ye Ignatiosaurus Scarletio Vex.

Captain Pigheart’s Misfortunate Mate Adventure

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Gaargh, a first mate on ship be often the subject of a crews’ dislike and moanin’. Ye might think it fittin’ then that my first mate, Billy No Mates was so naturally suited to such daily loathin’. Aye, tis convenient. But tis not the story entire, for Billy were once a man with a mate or two…

Billy’s been me first mate since the day I laid me eye upon the Good Ship Lollipop as she transported lucky orphans to a happier place. Back then it were just me, Cack Handed Mick (aye, he were once in possession of a pair o‘ paws) and an emptied tavern of recently incarcerated drunks, dead set on a few weeks in the sun.

Billy was a bright-eyed young lad who’d fled the circus with high hopes of swashbucklin’ romance and wenchery. He’d been much impressed by me and Mick’s pub-based posturing. Now we’d been stringin’ him along for drinks for some while and ye tab was growin’ fearsome in proportion to the shrinking of his purse. Twas time for action, of a hasty and ill-planned nature. Tis what we do best. Since it was carnival season twas likely we could half-inch ye vessel with the use o’ costumery and dramatic license. We enticed Billy into the role of diversion.

And so, we loitered by the docks beneath an assortment of reeking nets and lobster pots, awaiting young Billy’s signal (the ringing of a tiny bell). There came forth no peals of success and me belly rolled with a tolling of woe. Then we heard a terrible crash, and suddenly the incumbent crew took it upon themselves to flee their vessel, their leaps taking them into the harbour as much as onto the dock. Strange. With a hint of trepidation we unhooked ourselves from our hiding place and hurried aboard, casting off as we went.

On the mid-deck I stopped short in horror. Spreadeagled on deck were the wings of a vast ocean-going bird known to all mariners, an albatross. The creature seemed dead, which accounted for the former crew’s swift exit. I considered following them, but for two reasons: one, we were already adrift and two, the plainly human legs which even now twitched and regained their normal relationship with ye deck.

Not being blessed with seaborne know-how, Billy had selected the costume most like his own circus garb, bein’ formerly of the clowning trapeze variety. I’d thought perhaps a harbour-master’s guise, or an allurin’ nun. Instead Billy had chosen a harbinger o’ maritime doom.

He never washed the taint o’ bad charm from himself. Ye might think that the removal of the costume would be enough to cleanse him. Normally, aye. Yet Billy’s method of acquiring the albatross were both impressive and damning. He’d attempted to thieve a costume from the ladies with the giant papier-mache bosoms, but they’d caught him and chased him with knives up the tower adjacent to ye docks. But they’d not reckoned with his circus roots, for he sped up the tower and onto its roof.

As the unfeasibly proportioned women climbed up to meet him, Billy spotted the albatross gliding past. With a cry he leapt for the beast, and grasped it firmly about the neck. The albatross was unprepared for becoming a double act and nose-dived into the deck of the Good Ship Lollipop.

Gaargh, we were undecided, but after detailed analysis over how the luck of an albatross affects a ship, we concluded that since Billy’d plainly killed the beast in self-defence (though not from the bird) and the ship’d been a-dock and not upon ye waves at the point o’ impact, then at worst the ill luck’d reside with Billy and not the Lollipop.

From that point on he were Billy No Mates; a fine crewman but prone to whingeing about his bad luck. Tis a remote possibility that some o’ that luck may have rubbed off onto ye Good Ship Lollipop, for we have been somewhat prone to misadventure.

Captain Pigheart’s Buoyant Adventure

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Yarr, it were a beautiful day and the sun were beating down upon the Grim Bastard and her crew of stalwart bastards like a sea otter opening a crab. The seagulls were screeching their scavengin’ lullabies. Ye may think ‘em coarse and tuneless but in comparison with the whingeing of me crew tis an operatic bliss.

The current complaint was a distant relation to a possible navigational error, which might, if pushin’ came to shovin’ came to a runnin’ through, be laid at me foot. So far I’d managed to divert blame to me helmsman , Abraham Lambkin on account of his being a cloth-eared fool (this is no general term of abuse; the poor lad had suffered terribly in a crow’s cage and covered his aural shame with a pair of fetchin’ lambs tails. Now this sound-proofing plus his habit of rocking back and forth in therapeutic motion makes it difficult to be sure ye directions’ve pierced his skull).

Anyways, due to me misplaced faith in our lug-free helmsman we’d been reefed for some days. In the initial surprise and annoyance I’d loudly declared me displeasure and hurled the youth overboard, his lambs’ tails flapping in the breeze. Ahar, the lad’d landed on ye sandbanks and continued his protestations from below. Lambkin proved surprisingly deft at avoiding me pistol shots. Gaargh, I was gratified when Mick doused him with chum from the fishing barrel. That brightened the mood and we all watched the seagulls divebomb the lad and peck him with vigour.

Gaargh, despite our mirth, it were somewhat chilling to see him tossed about. No doubt it reminded the boy of his earlier ear trauma, for he curled up and sobbed as the seabirds flung him fro and to. The lad’s plight stirred me imagination, for if a pair o’ gulls could lift an urchin off his feet (these were the mighty gulls ye may have heard of), then twere a near certitude that many hundreds of ‘em could raise the Grim Bastard…

And so we dragged Abraham back on board and dunked him in the chum bucket. This time we lassoed the gulls when they went for him (allowing for the odd peck to keep them amiable), and tied each one to a fresh length of rope. In their fury, the birds strained to escape, pulling ye ropes taut.

In time we felt a lurch beneath our feet, and strung a few dozen more for good measure. At last we achieved the air, and the seagulls hauled us aloft. Up and up we went, till we were sailing along at perhaps a hundred feet above the waves.

And so we lie about the deck, under cover naturally, given the squawking shite-hawk horde above us. And so the complaining comes down to this – where the devil are the birdies taking us? We’d neglected to consider a means of directing the feathered fiends; perhaps it’s time to start shooting at them.

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 and The Scary Lady

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Tis a tale o’ romance and thievery…

Night met us at the island, where even the moon turned a blind eye to our questing. Gaargh, not content with ye gloomy shroud, the clouds also tipped their chamber-pots upon us. ‘Tis just as well, for we’d been practising the noble art of piratical prevaricating and the downpour thrust us within.

I should explain how we came to be in this sodden land. Twere not through the usual drink, idiocy and greed. Y’see, we’d been visiting our old pal the King of Tarsus whose daughter were gravely ill. The king’s need were dire enough to outweigh me sawbones excessive keenness to wet his blades on the poor innocent. We spent an anxious night a-waitin’, with the anchor ready to flee.

To me great relief the princess lived, despite Gunther’s ministratin’s. In reward, the king granted us the pick of his famed Hall o’ Bullion. It were huge! We rested by a statue of a pirate captain engraved so finely ye could see the terror in his contorted face and the desperate grip on the plate o’ gold he held.

For a giggle, I laid me bottle of Old Scrotes Midnight Brew at the statue’s lips – as if he were drinkin’ it ye see! Ha har. As the first drop touched his lips, the figure began to rock violent-like, showering me with grit. There were a great groan and its stone jaw creaked open, and spake like a volcano blowin’ chunks.

The stone captain rumbled on and on about his exploits and the lasses he’d loved, though he finally turned to the details of his statuary and that lovely golden plate. “Seekest thou the isle of Gorgon. Treasure lies within, but turn not ye eyes upon the lady o’ the isle for she be most… bashful”. This plunged it into a fit of laughter so vigorous that he were soon naught but a heap of dust under a golden dish. Gaargh, twere a mite disappointing for he’d revealed little of use.

Ye sign over the Hall’s entrance were clear: ‘ye breaks it, ye buys it’. And so, a shiny platter and a sack o’ grit paid for saving the princess’ life (though not her virtue, gaaargh). Twas not till I scraped me breakfast of bubble and squid surprise off the plate that I espied the treasure map upon it.

And so we came to be standing, damper’n usual, in a murky cave. Having some bad personal experiences of poking into mysterious holes, I sent forth old Sam Knacker, the sail patcher. He’d scarcely tottered off before we heard a strangled scream – of the sort ye’d not wish to follow. Gaargh, twas not encouraging but I picked another of me expendable crew an’ we pushed him on ahead.

We found Sam round the bend, grey and rigid with fear. At least we’d truly found Gorgon. Sam’s granite fist still held a torch at a useful angle, brightening a broad chamber awash with untold plunder, tauntin’ us magpies with its glitter. Twere then I laid me eye upon a frightful vision – methought one of Jelly McFish’s more tentacular pals had crawled onto land. Its face were reptilian, and its hair writhed wildly as if eels’d infested its skull. It seemed womanly, though in the rough. Truly I fancied a good shriek and some girly runnin’ but I were mindful of me reputation. So I nudged Scurvy McMurphy towards her. Gaargh, their eyes met across the crowded cavern petrifying the lad mid-gurn. Then I noticed that the cave were filled with such figures – twere an ill vibe and called for a new plan.

Me crew were intrigued by the stonificatin’ and there were much disputing. All were agreed that curious rockipatin’ rays (‘tis Mick’s term) were surely transmitted by way o’ ye peepers. Gaargh, ‘tis here that me optometrical maimin’ by that malodorous octopus be finally a blessin’ for me monocular vision granted me grace against this demon. The plan were simple: I’d distract the crone whilst the lads robbed her blind – lest they be stoned blind themselves.

I returned to the cave bearing rum and a bucket o’ charm. In me most alluring tones I called her forth. Gaaargh, she were grimmer than Barry in the ship’s panto, but a swig o’ liquor softened her hiss. ‘Twere not long afore we were pleasantly conversing on matters from the military uses o’ whelks to the tragic loss of her sisters to some Greek feller. She’d been alone ever since with just her curse for company in this dank fortune-crammed cavern. Despite me instinctive revulsion, what with the rum an’ cushions me heart swelled for this sad creature, in whose eyes I saw not petrifyin’ doom but a glimmer o’ beauty deep, deep within. Her skin, while scaly were warm, although me fingers were numbed by her snappin’ mane. Yarrr, ‘twere a task for Captain Loveheart. I thought I’d lost me touch along with me hand.

We lay twisted in her silken sheets hissin’ softly to one another, when her eyes grew watery. Me heartstrings twanged as she sobbed that she were disfigured an’ ugly. She were no classic beauty ‘tis true, but I’d spent good money on far worse. I chanced upon a hand glass nearby, and held it to her face. She had time enough to whisper “Ignatius” before turnin’ herself to stone. Gaargh, I’d only wanted to show her the rainbows cast on her cheek by Sam’s torch. I lingered for a moment, then pulled up me britches and pillaged.

We filled the Grim Bastard with the Gorgon’s loot an’ steel enough for an armada. As for ye fossillated folk, the curse were not lifted so we flogged ‘em all to Polyorchid Paul’s Garden Chintz Boutique for a tidy sum.

Twere all grand until we found another map directing us to the island o’ Minos with its tantalizin’ labyrinth. Gaargh, the temptation were too great, and the ball o’ wool too short. If only I’d worn me bigger jumper.

Captain Pigheart’s Gelatinous Adventure

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Ye clouds clustered about ye swollen moon, like octopi menacin’ an expectin’ merwench (gaargh, memories…). Twere an ill omen, for ye lunar cycle breeds anxiety ‘mongst even the saltiest seamen, who prefer to be docked and drunk midst full moon. But we’d no chance of makin’ land fall for we’d lost both map and anchor in a bet over who were the most superstitious: ourselves or the crypto-astrological whalers of Gullible’s island.

Instead we busied ourselves with ordinary shipboard activities such as drinkin’, doin’ fiddlesome things with ropes and tormentin’ the new cabin lad we’d… acquired some weeks earlier, oh and worryin’ about ye portents.

A cry from the top mast dismissed me morbid musings. Tricolore Francois the tri-eyed recipient of the Good Doktor’s infamous opthalmic experiments, bade us all into the riggin’ for a glimpse o’ one o’ Mother Nature’s rarest sights. I espied only two dolphins dabblin’ carnally, this I’ve seen before. Me other port?

Arrrr twere a fine sight – beneath the waves pulsed the eerie glowin’ of a shoal of jellyfish, driftin’ in our wake. Twas most soothin’ to our lunar-inflamed nerves. With thoughts of dolphinry we rolled into our hammocks, or squeezed into ye bilge accordin’ly; tis Billy No Mates’ abode – his fresh stench were easier to tolerate than his cleaner-than-thou superiority.

Dawn eyed up the night suspiciously before creepin’ over ye horizon. He were soon startled off again by the inevitable shouting: Billy No Mates stood on deck, arm and finger extended in ye well-known ‘pointing’ gesture; me eye followed his finger. At first I were unsure to whom ye gruseome corpse belonged, but beneath the mass of red welts I recognised the same terrified features as I’d seen when bundling him into a sack. At least we’d not named the cabin lads yet, else I’d feel a greater sorrow. As twere, his pals’d commenced some communal keenin’ which grated vastly on me nerves. I’d no tolerance for that so I had Francois Tricolore harangue ‘em in his unspeakable tongue till they fell silent.

Aaarr, back to ye body. Whenever a man slips away on board I likes to have a bit of a poke an’ make some guess as to his fate with me mind suitably ajar. So I screwed in me magnifyin’ eyeball for a closer peek. Now this lad were wet and somewhat slimy – which we might attribute to our watery environment or perhaps some homicidal sea cucumber emergin’ from ye deeps. Gaargh, who knows?

I followed the strange footprints leadin’ from ye blistered body right up to ye rail and over ye side… A frenzy o’ panicked surmisery ensued in spite o’ me lighthearted comment that he were “a bit wet behind the ears” – gaargh! Because ye see, he were both new and wet. Tis a joke. Perhaps tis inappropriate to jest at such times.

When night boldly thrust herself upon us once more ye crew were exceedin’ jitter-some. The moon struttin’ out from her cloudied bower were yellow and engorged, impressin’ on us a sense o’ malevolence and slight stirrin’ of arousal… no? Tis just me then. The lads were windin’ themselves up nicely, so we watched ye pretty underwater undulations before retirin’.

Me slumber were arrested by a piercin’ scream, followed by an aghast scream which petered out into an anguished wail and finally a strangled squeal; twere a fine range. The lads burst forth with lamps and pistols at the ready. At the foot o’ the mast a grim sight greeted us: the three eyes o’ Tricolore Francois – red starin’ straight ahead, white down at the viscous filth slopped over his blotchy body and the blue gazin’ to starboard. Alas poor Francois, ye pretentious accent annoyed me more than reason could bear. We followed his blue eye and the footprints with all the stealth of an armed mob.

A further cry hurried us on. Out of ye shadows stumbled Mute Charlie bellowin’ “alarum” (he were dumber than a tin o’ squid rather than mute – curse that Billy and his blasted thesaurus; I’ll never know why we let him pick nicknames). The lads were on hair trigger and unleashed a salvo of shots at poor Charlie. Well, he howled out, but so did something else – an uncanny shadow of a man peeled off me crewmate and lollopped towards us.

The thing were like a fat drunk child ye could see through (that be translucency accordin’ to Billy. How I despise his pedantry). It quivered like Monty’s “Surprise Extract o’ Whale” but with added radiance. As with all things strange, we colanderised it with our discharge. It collapsed to the deck, spreading and elongatin’… with one last pulse o’ phosphorescence it grew still. There were a moment’s peace followed by a uniform hushed “well bugger me” at the sight o’ the dead jellyfish on deck. The moon winked sarcastically at me. Gaargh, I prefer daytime.

I sent Billy up the rigging to see how many more o’ them jellyfish were still hanging around. Shakily he reported ‘em bloomin’ thickly about us. Next we heard the sound of a gloopy hand slappin’ onto ye planks and another o’ the bioluminescent bastards slopped onto ye sloop deck. “To arms” I cried, earnin’ me some dark looks from me more unfortunate crew members. Pistol shots rang out as the battle began in earnest. Cannon fire, slaps and cries of “ow that really stings” surrounded me.

The sun’s morning glory finally fell across us and the hordes of blobby blighters slopped back into their natural shapes where we could stamp on ‘em. We’d many dead and the rest had taken their share o’ stings in surprisin’ly sensitive regions. Gaaargh, the moon ceased her waxin’ that night and ye mass of glutinous goblins sank out o’ sight, leavin’ us to pickle our weals.

One month later horrid smug-faced luna swaggered out from twixt her cloudy bower and leered knowin’ly at ye good captain. Suddenly I felt a stirrin’ within me, as if I’d eaten too much soup. I wobbled across the deck, unsteady at sea for the first time in years. So I reached for a bucket, anticipatin’ some unpleasantness, but me hand just flopped into it, stretchin’ away from me like hot wax tossed in the sea. I gaped at meself in the mirror – from beneath me eye patch came a deep green glow. Me artificial appendages clattered to the deck and I slid blubberily out of me clothes and into ye bucket, me tentacles floppin’ feebly over the lip. Bugger.

Gaaargh, every night of lunar largesse turns me into a jellyfish. Now that be the legend o’ the were-jelly – long may ye fear ‘em.

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.

Captain Pigheart’s Crustacean Adventure

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Gaargh, twas the night before ye mornin’ after. Me and the lads’d put in at nearby Thorny Knobbler for a well-deserved and liver-bruising bingein’. Y’see, our lootin’ of a brace o’ refugee ships just off the coast looked to be boostin’ our lamentable performance in ye Piratical League Tables.

We gatecrashed the village’s annual Crab Fete, and found ‘em celebratin’ their crabbin’ at the Sole Tavern where they merrily capered in amusin’ marine garb. Ahar, we had a fair old braggin’ over the sheer cunning we’d expended on ye luckless travellers. We’d masqueraded as a ship o’ mercy, offerin’ to tend to the various sickenin’s such as ye know from ye times at sea. Gaargh, the surprise on their faces as we boarded ‘em unasked and then sailed off with the remnants o’ their former lives – it be a treasure itself.

Talk soon turned to the fresh tally o’ league points we’d accrued through our sheer pirattitude – ruthlessness, and such precious heirlooms as a fishin’ rod and cardigan – would more than counter-balance the sea-beasties and disaster with which we be unfairly afflicted of late. Ahar, I had meself a fine new hat, and me lads were suitably bedecked with their spoils.

Me mates challenged the crabbers to a drinkin’ contest which left ye cellars drained, and Billy No Mates blubberin’ in a corner. Thus brutally inebriated we turned rowdy and broke ye tavern. The locals’d been somewhat crabby throughout and their sourness peaked: it seemed their visitin’ cousins had arrived late and naked, and we were wearin’ their fine embroidery… it were an awkward moment.

These quiet times be dangerous for pirates – a few drinks make us prone to melancholic or mutilatin’ moods. Twas in such an interlude that Monty McBuboe unveiled a truly manly brew – his infamous barnacle absinthe, scraped from ye hull and crudely filtered through the bowels of a monkfish. Gaargh, it tasted like the ocean had shat itself in a bottle and died. A few rounds later we were tossin’ back jellyfish shooters and laughin’ at the stingin’ sensation in ye eyeballs.

I suffered a glimmerin’ of alcoholic contrition – though we’d certainly not be returnin’ their family jewels (we be pirates!), we had shared their shindig and our fermented molluscs – and it seemed right that we be makin’ some recompense. Yarr, we’d much experience o’ crabs, and given the encouragin’ cheers I committed our hands and hooks wholeheartedly to honourin’ their crab-catching ways.

Those of us still capable o’ perambulatin’ (let alone rowin’) tumbled into the dinky coracles favoured by ye locals. After much gigglin’ and splashin’ only Monty, Hamish an’ meself were still afloat, the rest mostly made it back to shore. Gaargh, me plannin’ under the influence be poor and we’d failed to take note of ye crab lines or even bring any bait for the temptin’ of ye crusty snacks. Twas well we had Monty McBuboe and his loose leprous limbs. We tugged free a handful o’ toes and dunked ‘em in Monty’s brew to sterilise ‘em – we’d not want the catch inedible.

We tossed the baited pots overboard and toed ye line patient-like, enjoyin’ the stars as they spun widdershins above us. Arr, the barnacles be makin’ a giddyin’ brain-pickler and the world blurred about us. Me old pal Jelly McFish and Sir Lee Shark serenaded me with a shanty about a grumpy mermaid and her itchin’ nether-flippers.

I were brought back to meself by the sound o’ the sea to which Hamish were addin’ with ‘is rhythmic retchin. But that familiar sound were not what roused me – ‘twere in part the urgent jerkin’ o’ the line I’d tied ‘twixt pot and Monty, an’ partly the result as it tugged off his foot. Hamish and meself grasped the rope and hauled upon it (for Monty seemed ill-disposed t’assist), reelin’ in ye kreel and the tasty supper it doubtless held.

Ahar, as ye water grew foamy, so too did me excitement – mayhap a half-dozen o’ the wrigglin’ tykes’d be the meal to square us with our reluctant hosts. ‘Twas when a claw the size o’ the coracle itself broke the surface and seized Hamish that I recalled the somewhat ominous edge to ye yokels’ cheers. I looked about hopefully, but there were no sign o’ me delusional chum Jelly McFish to mediate with our new pincered pal.

Gaaargh, I smote it a blow with me cutlass that made me hook ring. Its gnarly forelegs tilted me boat and its monstrous mandibles made nibblin’ motions at the screamin’ Monty – methinks the absinthe’d taken ‘im badly. Hamish struggled in the crab’s squeezin’ till his eyes bulged and his sporran quivered – thank the gods for his deep-fried-flabbiness, it’d be awhile before findin’ bone.

Though I felt its mad boggly eyes upon me I grabbed for Monty’s sack, squeezed and pulled out the last two bottles of barnacle absinthe and smashed ‘em over the beast’s carapace. The liquor were certainly irritatin’ the creature, but I were countin’ on Monty to snap shut me trap. I urged ‘im to scrabble faster with ‘is tinderbox. Gaargh, he were makin’ a poor fist of ye task – ‘tis tricky when ye be a thumb short. At last me disastrously-dextrous chef achieved flame and laid it gentle against the crab’s craggy shell.

Ahar, that vile spirit caught with flair, cookin’ ye crab in ‘is own exo-skeletal pot. Me prey seemed immediately displeased and pulled harder, until in its broilin’ frenzy the crustaceous monster popped poor Hamish like one o’ Monty’s buboes. Gaaargh, ‘is lad-lard bubbled and spat on the deceasing sea-fiend. At length the thrashin’ ceased and the crab floated still and steamin’ in the first light of dawn, Hamish’s tam o’shanter welded to its claw. Twere a sad sight but a marvellous smell. We hopped aboard, so as to punt it to shore.

We’d great expectations o’ a grand welcome and reconciliation and hopefully the revealin’ of a secret supply o’ grog. As we hauled the crabbish dish onto the pier ye locals fled shriekin’ and yellin’. ‘Twere a puzzle till Billy observed, with rare lucidity, that it be odd to find just one giant beast – they be known for begattin’ further monstrous kin, which were at that moment sidlin’ up to ye village in angry, snappin’ waves.

The chances o’ sortin’ our differences seemed limited and less important in the light of day, so we fled to ye Lollipop. We sailed off to a safe viewin’ distance and cracked open our breakfast smackerel. It turned out me Scottish butterball’s man-fat’d flavoured the crabmeat finely. ‘Twere a balm to me burgeonin’ hangover and added to ye excitin’ crab-cabaret ashore. Gaargh, we’d ruined most of our embroidered prizes in our briny flailin’ and had little but a new recipe to show for our bravado the night before. I’d blame me men, but I fear it be me own catastrophic magnetism what consigns us to the shallows of ye Piratical League Tables.