Tag Archives: assassin

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.

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.