Tag Archives: Billy No Mates

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 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.

A Tale O’ Brief Lamentation

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Gaargh, tis a day of woe for ye naturally cheery crew of The Grim Bastard.

Me pet albatross, Peregrine, was tragically immolated in a freak slave-brandin’ accident.

Twas the fault o’ no man. Peregrine’d often shown a peculiar fondness for nuzzling up to ye fortune- and freedom-free passengers we sometimes carried.

Billy No Mates (envious o’ Peregrine’s pal-making skills) postulated this as an attempt to pluck at their man-eggs in an unspecified avian plot.

I suppose ye hottened coals might’ve struck the bird as in need of nestin’.

As the mad old thing dove upon them his beautifully varnished wings caught light. We’d only just shined him up, so’s he’d look his best at the Pirate Pride swim-off next Tuesday. Gaaargh.

O’ course he were not content to simply smoulder away, oh no. He flew in a sparking arc through me sails and crashed blazin’ into me good rum.

Now I’ve got to glue feathers to Neville, me tortoise or I’ll never outshine Captain Aaaarsbeard next week.

Billy No Mates’ Reluctant Mate part 2

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Gaaargh, the island were filled with noisome and disappointin’ly tasteless simians. Despite their unwholesome natures they’d a strong family structure which I’d admire were I not from a broken and lovelorn home. Arrr, but enough about me. Ye see, when we crammed ye brutes into barrels for our amusement they went all tribal on poor No Hands Mick and nicked off with his prosthetic mitts. Ye only other pair were the fine silver twin fists inlaid with gold. Mick’s lost ‘em to Billy in a gruellin’ game o’ Slap Me Knackers (originated by Old Sam Knacker the Sail Patcher) some days ago and they were now hid in Billy’s stash ‘neath him and his primate playmate. And so, on to ye plan…

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 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 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 in the Valley of Seth

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Gaargh, the sky were blue and the sun shone brightly upon me and me beloved wife, Roberta-Clementine, as we drifted over the countryside. Me mates’d surprised me by rememberin’ our anniversary wih the gift of a romantical balloon ride. They’d managed to land a giant puffer-fish, but rather than cook it, the lads’d tethered a basket to the festerin’ fish and allowed it to re-inflate with its decomposin’ gases. Billy No Mates piloted whilst we growled sweet nothin’s an’ tore off our petticoats.

The picturesque valley below, with light dancin’ across a patchwork of yellow and green fields seemed the ideal spot for our pickernick. At me direction, Billy began our descent, slashin’ the swollen carcass above our heads with ‘is cutlass. The fishy-flesh parted with a damp pop and smothered us with a stream of foul vapours. We began to corkscrew down into the valley’s shadow…

I awoke surrounded by wheat and cornflowers. Ye rural scents were spoiled by the rancid balloon blanketin’ me and me bride. Gently I roused Roberta and savagely booted Billy into wakefulness. Gaaargh, ‘e seemed quite abashed, and I’d not the heart to beat ‘im further; Roberta shared not me sentiments and laid about him with the hamper.

For want o’ direction we skipped along a neatly bricked lane singin’ shanties (me current favourite be ‘A Bishop Met a Raddled Whore’, for its fine rhythm and ring o’ truth). Our ramblin’ were disturbed by a rustlin’ in ye field before us from which a figure staggered. Garrgh, he seemed at first to be a fellow of whom we might make enquiries, but ‘is ramshackle gait, sackcloth face and the straw pokin’ from out ‘is garments made us wary. He lunged towards us, as if to partake of our sing-song. To me surprise (though more to Billy’s), ye scarecrow proved to have viciously sharp finger sticks with which he flailed at us. Perhaps our gigglin’ and good cheer’d irritated ye ordinarily inanimate agricultural figure. No matter, we pulled off his legs and skipped away.

Our jiggin’ were further hastened once Roberta’d noted that all the scarecrows dottin’ the fields were not merely twistin’ their malevolently misshapen heads to mark our passage, but were unhitching ‘emselves and stalkin’ us through the corn. Mercifully we soon espied a dwellin’ atop a hill; the doors of which proved robust and easily barricaded.

We’d happened upon an abandoned visitor’s centre featurin’ a range o’ rustic exhibits and blissfully, a bar for ye parched and edgy travellers. We chose to ignore ye eccentric décor of wooden beams an’ whitewash crudely streaked with red, reminiscent o’ some terrible slaughter. Perhaps it were a yokel fad, I knows not, bein’ of the sea.

Accompanied by mugs of cider we ambled about with our minds turned to ye “enquiring” settin’. In the heart o’ ye buildin’ a large arrow declared “ye be here” on a map of ‘Ye Valley of Seth’. The locals were proud o’ their exports of cider apples and golden wheat (and rightly so). Tragically, recent years’d seen a plague o’ thievin’ birdery cause terrible harvests, rickets and so forth. Seems they’d overcome these setbacks, for ye fields were full and we’d heard not a twitter all day.

The next tableau featured a wax figure of King Seth himself strikin’ a plainly insane deal with witches to rid ye valley of pests. There were then a fascinatin’, if disturbin’ explanation of how to make a more effective raven-repellent by transplantin’ a man’s still-beating heart into a scarecrow. Gaaargh. From there ye exhibit digressed to scrawlin’ on ye walls – ‘Seth be killin’ us all, he be a scarecrow himself, aargh, they be comin’ for me now, they be here, help…’ trailin’ off into a pool o’ blood.

Twere a most informative exhibition – but a bit slapdash at the end. It did set concern a-tickin’ in our breasts, for the hammerin’ on ye doors had grown and we’d now reason to fear ‘em even more than the crows did. Roberta, with ‘er practical female mind, found distraction in tidyin’ and re-organisin’ the stuff about us whilst Billy and me sought a moment o’ peace in a third barrel o’ scrumpy.

I decided to establish a dialogue with ye besiegin’ army. Leavin’ Billy curled beneath a shelf, I leaned from ye window and hurled friendly abuse at the agrarian automata. Gaaargh, they’d multiplied since last I checked and ye visitors centre were the heart of a sea o’ gawky straw folk. I could see why they’d scared off ye birds; their button eyes stared into ye soul and left it cold, and itchy.

One scarecrow seemed familiar as ‘e stumbled through the massed army, bearing the tattered robes of a patchwork prince; a cloth crown stitched across his lopsided noggin. He confirmed himself as King Seth, with a yokelly gargle of “get orf moi laaaand, you’m be trespaaassin’ on moi praaarp’ty”. He sounded foolish enough to tear out ‘is own heart at the behest o’ some mad crone. Apple-addled I belched a contemptuous retort (I were not me usual erudite self). This only angered the bumpkin king further for he rattled ‘you’m been drinkin’ moi coider and stealin’ moi craaaarps!’

Frankly, the yokel-ruler’s absurd accent were startin’ to rankle, plus the scarecrows’d started to throw stones – ‘twere time to formulate a stratagem for escape. Fortunately I’d underestimated me bride. While I were busy rilin’ the valley’s ex-populace she’d made amazin’ progress. Roberta were at the top of the stairs, astride a rustic killing cart. ‘Tis remarkable what ye can do with a few barrels and a dozen scythes. I hauled Billy on behind us; though I’d gladly have left him behind, I’ve never yet lost a pirate – in a visitors’ centre anyway.

The monster rook-rattlers were usin’ each others’ spinal poles to prise ye doors apart; ‘twere cruel, but effective. Roberta ignited ‘er makeshift cider rockets and we shot down the stairs and through the first row o’ scarecrows. The bladed wheels mowed ‘em down exactly like a mechanical scythe on wheels – there be a patent pendin’. Roberta be a vengeful wench so we descended spiral-wise, so as to hack up as many o’ the accursed crow-queerers as possible.

They fell upon us in their unfortunately comical manner, and we cut a swathe through ‘em on every turn. Windin’ about the hill, we came upon King Seth himself – but just as Roberta were about to cut him down he showed surprisin’ agility and leapt onto the cart.

He proved a tricky adversary – me hook sliced through him to no avail, merely scatterin’ a few ears o’ wheat over me companions. His claws scratched at me face as he raved tediously about the harvest. As ever, me beloved were straight to the point. She drew her pistol and fired it point-blank through the King’s chest, blasting ‘is rotten heart across Billy’s face. As the scarecrow king fell limp, so too did his army, falling in crapped out crop circles about us.

We tootled onward, out o’ the Valley of Seth, we’d reached the end o’ this awful, scenic place. Ahead of us were a quaint little tavern advertisin’ ales, cobs and the cabaret stylin’s of the Siren Singers. Gaaargh, I loves it when a plan comes together.

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.

Captain Pigheart’s Little Christmas Tale

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Gaaargh, ’twere the night afore Christmas an’ all were all peaceful, quieter than ye mouse. O’ course ye’ve not seen the size o’ the mice on the Lollipop, gaargh, they be dwarfin’ ye cat. ‘Tis no wonder we eats ‘em, else they’d be the death of us. Mind ye, what with their remarkable plague-bearin’ skills ye might consider it a kind o’ cannibalin’ on Monty McBuboe’s part.

Aaarrr, we’d moored off the island o’ Streptococcus for the festive season. ‘Twere an odd sort o’ place, renowned for its twin industries o’ whorin’ and the soothin’ o’ sore neckholes. The lads’d disembarked almost afore we’d ceased our sailin’, so keen were they to whetten their whistlin’ gob-’oles.

And so it were left t’ me an No Hands Mick to tie off an’ weigh anchor. To that purpose I’d ‘elped Mick strap on ‘is big wooden grippin’ mitts, the ones with the big spikes for grabbin’ fishies and ye enemy. Aaar, t’ celebrate a successul year we turned ye cannons out to sea and blasted away with good cheer. The balls parted ye Christmassy mist with a satisfyin’ bang.

The bang were follered by a wailin’ what grew louder the longer it went on, ’til finally it were punctuated by a thwack an’ the sound o’ wood an’ iron grindin’ o’er me deck. There were some splinterin’ and dust, but through it we saw a most peculiar vision. ‘Twere a heap o’ horses with sticks on their ‘eads surroundin’ a portly feller dressed in red wi’ a fine, if conspicuous furry trim. ‘E were fairly bellowin’ ‘is fury at us.

I be not a fan o’ being shouted at ‘pon me own ship, so I took the lad by the beard and bounced is noggin off the mast ’til ‘e were quietened. Mick meanwhile were inspectin’ the beasts and the cart they’d pulled. ‘E were pleased to report on the high likelihood that they’d be most tasty, prob’ly even finer than giant rat in an ‘Ollandaise sauce. This seemed to upset the tubby chap further, an’ ‘e protested most vigorously ‘gainst both our culinary devisin’s an’ our blastin’ ‘im out of ye sky. We both ‘ad a bit of a chuckle about that – ’twere a grand shot and we’d be needful o’ a trophy to brag about. And then the fat lad sat us down with a finely mulled bottle o’ wine an’ filled us wi’ Christmas cheer. ‘Twere easier then to believe ‘is ravin’ o’ sailin’ through the skies, tethered to flyin’ deer. Aaarr, there were somethin’ of a fly in ‘is ointment though (we’d treated ‘is landin’ wounds mind – this be but a metaphorical describin’ o’ ‘is woes) seein’ as the reindeer’d been slain either by the cannon blast or from the sleigh bein’ slid at some speed through ‘em on becomin’ grounded.

In our newly excitable state Mick an’ me were keen t’offer our aid an’ so we set t’work a-fixin’ ye sled. Mr Christmas, for that’s who ‘e’d turned out to be, occupied ‘imself with the gatherin’ o’ the children’s gifts what’d been scattered over the Lollipop. The sleigh were lookin’ finer’n ever, freshly reloaded with presents, with it’s rider slightly bandaged. Mick’d been inspired by the reindeer problem but through ‘is alcoholic haze ‘e’d latched onto the notion that ’twere the antlers what made the beasts able to soar through ye skies. If that be so, then we needed some similarly horned creatures.

Bein’ stuck in port on Christmas Eve be not conducive to the managing o’ livestock, but thankfully on a recent treasure-hunt we’d become lost once more an’ run aground. The rocky little spot were home to a breed o’ giant tortoise what we’d found delicious and versatile. Most o’ ye time they’d spend their time weightin’ down ye ship as ballast in ye hold, but come a mite o’ hunger for a special occasion, we’d hook ‘em out and roast ‘em in their shells. Gaargh, it just so ‘appened that Mick’d been brewing a new batch of tar for ye hull repairs. So we sawed off ye antlers an’ glued ‘em to the reptiles. That warranted a few more drinks on ‘er own, an’ we were a-giggle as we popped the horned tortoises in harness.

Mr Christmas were not so impressed, as the lumpen things simply laid on deck due to the cold and retreated into their shells. ‘Twere a great disappointment to Mick, an’ I ‘ad to stop ‘im from throwin’ ‘imself overboard. It struck me that what were needed were merely a source o’ propellin’ the beasts into the sky, once up they’d prob’ly get the hang o’ it. And so it were that we arranged the cannons on deck, an’ chained each o’ the tortoises to a cannonball. We stood back an’ lit the fuses.

The little buggers flew straight up into the night air, draggin’ the sleigh behind, an’ with a “ho ho oh God we’re going to…” the whole thing exploded high up in the sky. ‘Twere awful pretty. Presents rained down on ye chimney pots far across ye island, bringin’ joy to them as what ‘ad not expected it. ‘Course there were a fair quantity o’ body bits fallin’ too, an’ the odd tortoise, but all in all, ’twere a jolly Christmas for the locals.

It seemed Santa’d been somewhat indiscriminate in ‘is pickin’ up o’ objects left on deck, like the two barrels o’ gunpowder we’d wrapped up for Billy. Gaaargh, we’d ‘ave to go out shoppin’ now, and on Christmas Eve to boot.

Gaaarrgh, have yeself a Merry Christmas!

Captain Pigheart’s Accursed Christmas

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Gaargh, the first snow flakes were soakin’ into the briny seas by the time I regained me beloved crew, rescuin’ most of ‘em from Kneehorn’s infamous Inhospitable Atoll. Ice caught in me beard and I got me first chillin’ sense o’ the Christmas to come.

The nearest harbour, Isla del Morbida off the coast o’ Spain happened to be Monty McBuboe’s home town. Me foul cook’d been a vagabond for years an’ were dead against a return. Arr, but I be cap’n here and we were in sore need of a port to weather the, well, the weather. The waves be less fun when ‘tis freezin’.

As we drew near the lads were full o’ Christmas cheer, already swingin’ an’ swiggin’ rum in the riggin’. Ye hamlet seemed quiet from the water, in spite o’ the festive buntin’ and lanterns. The dearth o’ folk were a mite worryin’, but the crew vanished nonetheless like rats as soon as the gangplank fell. They were scarce out o’ sight afore there were screams an’ hails o’ abuse – all seemed well.

Minutes later, the Doktor dragged a bloodied Johnny Scuttle aboard. Some dock worker’d lunged out the dark an’ taken a likin’ to Johnny’s noggin, forcin’ Gunther’d to use ‘is surgical skills defensive-like. But Scuttle were drippin’ fearfully so we left ‘em together.

Billy’n meself strolled down the bloody pier an’ found the man Gunther’d so neatly nailed up. We gave ‘im a prod an’ leaped for our hearts as ‘e gnashed ‘is gory teeth at us, in spite o’ the cold steel in ‘is heart. ‘Twere not natural, ‘im growlin’ so we put iron through the rest of ‘im. The bits jiggled still so we booted ‘em into the harbour. Barry announced it a bad omen for the season, an’ in time-honoured fashion sought to o’erturn the ill luck by paradin’ naked about the Grim Bastard. ‘Twere another good reason to see the sights, besides me chewed-up crewman.

The village were possessed of the grisly décor of a Slavic serial killer turned interior designer. The plain stucco clashed with the blood sloshed walls an’ trestle tables strewn with body bits. It seemed Christmas’d gone wrong. The terrified locals, an’ me crew were bein’ menaced in the middle o’ the square by a horde o’ ragin’, champin’ loons. Their eyes were glazed an’ their gobs a-drool, seekin’ to slake their thirst for human blood. Or so we assumed, not knowin’ the exact details, but familiar with the general principles o’ a zombie plague

A noise at me side ‘ad me spinnin’ ‘pon me peg to the sight o’ a pustulent creature lurchin’ from the shadows. ‘Twere but Monty. He dragged us into an alley where a tiny crone burst out from behind him, hissin’ in ‘er toothless way, “the curth, the curth!” Aarr, she fair scared the cockles off the lot of us; Billy pulled some groinal muscle in surprise. By the light o’ a gutterin’ candle she lisped to us their woes.

Some days before, as the town began to gird itself for Christmas a magical man arrived and amazed ‘em with ‘is conjurin’. ‘Twere all most jolly till the magician turned the Mayor’s daughter into a mermaid, who promptly flopped about an’ died from lack o’ water. The townsfolk, bein’ of a provincial nature, knew a witch when they saw one an’ acted accordin’ly. As ‘is toes caught fire the conjuror cursed the town to a terrible death. Naturally they laughed this off an’ toasted marshmallows and the like. The next day were less cheery when some fool, on hearing a a loud bangin’ from within the crypts, opened ‘em an’ so unleashed the undead fiends. By now they were either zombified, hiding or munched upon. There were but little ‘ho ho’ here.

Me instincts were simple: gather what crew remained an’ cast off post-haste. This simple plan gave the crone some form of fit, judgin’ by the spittle an’ gurnin’. Monty on t’other hand looked somewhat sheepish as the crone flung a pendant at ‘im in a beseechin’ manner. I were about to step in, for Monty’s a mite fragile an’ I be not payin’ for more breakages.

Monty sighed an’ took the proffered pendant. As ‘e did so, an unearthly glow enveloped ‘is crumblin’ frame, an’ on ‘is head, a crown shone bright. The crone were supplicatin’ wildly; we settled for some all-purpose genuflectin’ instead. She insisted on shriekin’ “at latht you’ve returned mathter – to thave our thouls” until Billy clipped ‘er with ‘is pistol, for there were wailin’ a-plenty past the wall. Monty’d the decency to look embarrassed an’ confided that Lord Montague del Morbida were ‘is birthright. He’d fled in shame, havin’ fleeced the peasantry with holy tithes to ward off ye evil spirits; the leprosy were a sort of uniform. Arr, the poor lad blamed ‘imself and begged for me aid.

Gaargh, a new plan formed quicker’n a cloud o’ seagulls about a beached whale. We booted the crone out into the street to scream a diversion, while we ran to the cemetery atop the hill. Monty were loathe to leave ‘er, but since he’d left the whole village to the gastronomical mercies o’ the undead, one more ought to be no more gallin’.

Monty’s glow grew brighter, lightin’ up the ancient graves surmountin’ the peak. He strode amongst ‘em, mutterin’ darkly, causin’ a tomb to pop open, revealin’ a cache o’ weaponry. Monty passed to each of us a ghoulish green sword which hummed and buzzed in our ‘ands as we swung ‘em experimental–like. They cut clean through the first zombie to find us, like a spoon through oven-baked jellyfish.

That signalled our charge and we fell upon the hell spawn with our holy weapons. ‘Twere more fun than puffer-fish cricket, though twice as messy. Afore we knew it we was hackin’ into the livin’. It were clear that the village idyll were over an’ I drew Monty aside. I grasped ‘is duties an’ all, but frankly, havin’ doomed ‘is people anyway we might easily turn this tragedy into treasure. Honour and greed swapped slaps behind ‘is eyes till ‘is righteous glow faded an’ he were me larcenous an’ leprous chef once more. I passed ‘im a finger he’d dropped earlier an’ we set about findin’ the remnants o’ the crew.

Much, much later, after we’d drained the seafront of ale we tottered back aboard the Grim Bastard. Frightful bellowin’ issued from belowdecks, accompanied by a grim Germanic giggle. Aarr, we’d forgot about young Johnny Scuttle. Somethin’ hinted at this not bein’ a complete recovery. But, insulated by drink we flung back the bolts.

At first I trusted not me eyes, drunk as they was. A nightmare clambered from the dark, with Johnny’s head if not his body, for it had far too many arms, and seemed part turtle. Loomin’ into the lamplight I espied fine needlepoint what digressed into a charmin’ depiction o’ the village at sunset across the chest. The Doktor chuckled in delight, “ja, ve haf been most busy viz zis plague, es ist most interesting. See, young Johnny – ach his brain ist gone, but he has now ze four arms, just sink of ze scrubbing! Now, votch him scamper.”

Gaargh, me sternness an’ horror lost out to drunken mirth as poor Johnny scuttled about, snappin’ toothlessly like a violently senile crab. I thought it best to chain ‘im but Sharon insisted that Johnny’d be a fine pet and set about knittin’ ‘im a six-limbed romper suit for rovin’ the boat.

‘Twere an odd Christmas, though not without profit. We left the town afire behind us and totted up our gold. We sailed on into a new year o’ bright dreams an’ broken hearts.

Captain Pigheart’s Birthday Party

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Yarr, ‘twas the maiden voyage of me new ship, ‘The Grim Bastard’. I were right proud of ‘er, she bein’ an upright sea-farin’ wench wi’ extra cannon and sail fer when we hunts down that treacherous filth-spattered barnacle-suckin’ knave whose name be spat upon even by the Isle of Letch’s most elderly nuns, and they coughs up a good ‘un.

We were half-crossed th’ Atlantic, transportin’ legitimate cargo from the heart o’ India. Ye see we be not always brutishly piratical. When there’s greater profit to be had in commerce, why, we just switches flags on ‘em. Now that works a treat if ye’re wantin’ to sucker the navy, p’raps Admiral Kneehorn – he always falls for a white flag.

Gaargh, as ‘twas we’d bartered with the savages, an entire rubber crop in return for not puttin’ fire to their village. ‘Twas a most favourable deal, and we’d the foresight to take out some insurance lest the heathens be thinkin’ it be not such a fine deal. We kept ‘em in the hold on water and biscuits. Clearly ‘twas better food than their native fare, for they were often sickenin’.

One mornin’ I awoke late, which I ascribes havin’ somewhat hammered ye rum whilst discoursin’ at length with Stone Cold Steve in ‘is Crow’s Nest. Havin’ demonstrated a perilous fondness for the bottle, we’d chained ‘im to the mast. Our plan were to cure ‘im with sobriety. ‘Twas not a mutual agreement mind, but I does need a clear pair o’ eyes on ship.

I came onto deck to a chorus of ‘For He’s A Dastardly Rascal’ from me beloved crew – from the buntin’ I realised it were me birthday once more. Arr, it fair brought a tear t’ me eye. Billy No Mates an’ No Hands Mick’d planned a day o’ drinkin’, feastin’ and diverse entertainments. We began wi’ a few tots o’ rum to see us through till noon, an’ brought the heathens on deck to join ye festivities. Their high spirits at the sight o’ the sun after so many weeks brought joy to our hearts and their caperin’ were a marvel, considerin’ the manacles ‘bout their ankles. ‘Twas only later, after the third barrel that our minds turned to darker pleasures.

I were provided with birthday treasures by the lads. Billy gave me a varnished squid containin’ some liqueur tastin’ o’ rancid seaweed. ‘Tis no wonder he has no friends, had we been on land I’d ‘ave sent ‘im home wi’ no cake. ‘Twas all rubbish, but since there be no gift shop aboard ‘tis the thought that counts.

An’ then I were startled somewhat by a loud thunk and the familiar rasp of a body dragged ‘cross the caulking, but ‘twas only Barry the Man-Girl haulin’ a wrapped thing from ‘is cabin. Mentally I prepared meself for smilin’ politely, like when ‘e procured for me the services of his night-time self, Sharon. I leaves that t’ the crew, though Mick were grateful for the voucher. I need not’ve worried – the lads’d been industrious, carvin’ me a rubber woman to while away the long hours in me hammock.

It shames me to say it, but I were delighted. ‘Twas wondrous, right down to the toes (four on one foot, seven on t’other), an’ she were a snug fit in me arms. An’ pliable, like a body left too long in salt water. She were a fine consort for a civilised pirate like meself – there were even a holder for me mug and pipe. I named ‘er India an’ proceeded to try ‘er out, to the audible horror of the heathens.

I’m no fan o’ screamin’ savages and proposed a party game. In no time at all we ‘ad ‘em bobbin’ ‘mongst the waves, temptin’ ye sharks with their flailin’ limbs. My, how we chuckled.

There were a sudden cheer as one o’ the savages vanished underwater. But when the others swiftly disappeared too, the chains left a-danglin’, we knew not what to think. Lookin’ back now, it seems likely that we brought it all upon ourselves, with all the birthday excitement.

With the fishin’ finished we quaffed away, and then Stone Cold Steve were heard to bellow unintelligibly from the Crow’s Nest. We merely drank some more an’ mocked ‘is teetotal lunacy. Next we knew there were a monstrous tentacle lashin’ the deck, its suckers all puckered up for some fatal kiss. An’ that were only the first – afore we could hack it wi’ our cutlass and dagger there were seven more assailin’ the Grim Bastard an’ her noble crew.

The monster octopus took hold of the vessel and hauled its body half-out the water. Its horrible beak snapped hungrily as it tossed seamen from the ship and squashed me lads in its slimy coils. tugged me men free from their refuges. Gaargh, those of us still aboard an’ not unconscious with drink were tucked down to avoid them terrible suckers – I saw a man have ‘is face sucked clean off.

Its hideous bulbous noggin hung off the bow with a saucery eye ‘pon ye brave captain. Mick’n me were back to back, me slashin’ at a tentacle while he beat ‘is stumps upon it. ‘Twas not an effective stratagem. The thing’d wrapped half its arms round the main mast, inchin’ closer to poor tethered Steve an’ pullin’ us over and all. ‘Twas then I felt the first drop of rain an’ heard thunder rumble towards us.

As the sky darkened, signifyin’ doom for us all, the octobrute waggled the mast back an’ forth, jerkin’ Steve lasso-like at the length of ‘is chain. Then ‘twas miraculous: the clouds farted and struck ‘im with a vast bolt of lightnin’. The power of the heavens passed through ‘im, the mast, and into that psychotic cephalopod.

The lightnin’ lit up the big bugger like a Chinese lantern an’ it collapsed in a stinkin’, steamin’ heap on the deck, pissin’ ink over me ship. Poor Steve were crispy too o’course, it seems he’d finally dried out. I kept expectin’ to be shocked meself, but the lightnin’ were done an’ the storm withdrew.

Standin’ on our rubbery cargo’d saved us all from the storm’s spark, well, them as ‘ad not been eaten, crushed or otherwise passed on. Sadly the rubber’d melted and with it our fortune.

There seemed but two courses of action before us: either return to India an’ re-negotiate via the medium o’ cannon fire, or chop and preserve the manky mollusc for the expandin’ New World tapas market. Before makin’ a decision we ‘ad a few more drinks an’ took turns on me now slightly deformed India. Gaargh, ‘twas a fine birthday.

Now me lad, are ye ready to blow out ye candles? Be not forgettin’ to make a wish.

Captain Pigheart’s Chelonian Adventure

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Gaargh, an’ welcome back me hearties, tis kind of ye parson to invite such a roguish fellow as I to be speakin to ye fine young mites all done up in yer Sunday bests. It be many moons since last I came to an ‘ouse of the lord on ‘is ‘Oly day. tis not that I have no faith young laddie, tis more the exclusion order slapped upon yon pirate pal before ye, by a fine magistrate named ‘Bedfellow’ upon whom I have since been revenged. Yaaargh, the fellow’ll be spendin’ time a-bed no more. Apologies father, I’ll get to ye point.

Me lads an’ I’d been sailin’ through a miserable and brutish fog for many days. There were little wind so we had naught to do but play hangman with ye prisoners seized durin’ our last exploit on the mysterious isle of Ibiza. Yarr, as’t turned out they spoke mainly Spanish and could no more spell ‘yard-arm’ than they could wriggle from out their nooses. After that time dragged slower than me tortoise mascot, Neville.

‘An yet, one day the foggy thinned and me lookout cried ‘Land! Land ho!’ Gaaargh, ‘twas well to see a shoreline once more, even one so alien to us as this ‘un. We’d travelled many days a-fogged and so we ‘ad not the foggiest as to our present location. We drew in close enough to land for anchor and I led the beach party made up of my best crew. I took Mick o’ course, Barry (called Sharon by night), Kanagawa – an exotic fellow from the far East, an’ me first mate, Billy No Mates.

The lads rowed us to shore. On the way we saw the curious symmertry o’ th’ island, but ‘twas fresh water and provisions we sought, and perchance treasure, so we noted it not.

Kanagawa led us in some devilish Eastern exercise which stretched parts I’d never wanted to know I ‘ad. Barry an’ Mick trapped some o’ the birds what nested upon the island. Billy went a-wanderin’ in search o’ some vegetables, for that’s ‘is nature. I detached me spare parts and gave ‘em a rinse in the freshwater pools from which we filled our barrels.

Afore we headed back to ye ship Cack-Handed Mick started up a fire for the roastin’ o’ some dinghy-snack. An’ that were what proved our undoin’. Where sometimes we’ve ‘ad whole herds o’ native loons come spear-ready at us, we had none o’ it, bar the sudden shaking o’ the ground at our feet.

Mightily afeard we leaped into the dinghy and rowed like madmen for the ship. Once upon deck we leaned out to see the queer isle as it rolled over in the ocean to be replaced in our sight by a pair o’ huge flippers and a giant, fearsomely gaping physog. Ye could feel the varmint lookin’ at ye, much as ye’d regard a bacon butty after a month at sea eatin’ Mick’s weevil stew. With but a few mighty strokes the kraken-like fiend did embrace the Lollipop with ‘is beaky jaws. There were much screamin’, and then ‘twas all dark.

The first clue that we were not yet dead was the remarkable stench violatin’ our nostrils. Second were the screamin’ issuin’ forth from me wretched crew. Once Billy’d the torches lit and the lamps a-burnin’, we realised what had truly befallen us, and I think Kanagawa spoke for us all when he said “we’re all going to die”. The crew put forth that we’d been swallered by a whale or somesuch hogwash. But it seemed to me that the beast was neither whale nor fish but rather some gigantic relation to my dear tortoise Neville, perched atop me shoulder, where I’d nailed ‘im fer safety.

Its turtlin’ qualities accounted for the island’s roundness and o’ course the Large Pan-Atlantic Terrapin swallows its prey whole with a hunger rivalled only by Billy’s piteous need for a friend. I owes me knowin’ o’ turtles to one drunk afternoon on the poop-deck with Neville, a spyglass and curious state o’ mind. And so I laid out me fishy knowledge to me quailin’ crew and of our likely fate – bein’ slowly digested over several years, lest we starve or be drowned by a thirsty turtle. ‘Twas not promisin’.

Gaaargh. To be honest I think Kanagawa just snapped… he commandeered me dinghy and rowed vigorously o’er the beast’s bumpy tongue – sadly towards the belly not the beak. We thought him doomed till an eddy twisted the dinghy, jammin’ Kanagawa sidelong into the turtle’s gullet. Then the tongue began to buck beneath us, tossin’ the Lollipop to an’ fro like a pickled walnut in a preservin’ jar rollin’ about ye table. Gaargh, then ‘twere messy as the turtle choked further on the dinghy and its spasms rammed the mast o’ the Lollipop into the roof of its vast mouth.

We dangled there for a moment like a child’s mobile. It throat spasmed again, then, with a veritable geyser of regurgitation we were spewed out onto the sea. We fairly skipped across the waves till we came to a stop, turtle-puke drippin’ from the sails and every man jack of us. ‘Twas a moment afore the dinghy, Kanagawa heroic at the helm, followed us in a vomitous arc, right into a feedin’ frenzy o’ sharks. I’d see him feed such fishies as these afore, as curator o’ the Japanese Fish Palace, though normally with a stick. The giant Trans-Atlantic Terrapin sank out o’ sight as queasy as a sober man seein’ Barry in’s womanly guise.

Gaargh, we scrubbed the decks an’ the riggin’ till we hit upon land once more. After so close an escape as this I found meself turnin’ to God. I thought to find meself a priest and confess me sins, lest a greater tragedy befall us sooner. I’d but lightly touched upon me incarceration and transport in the belly of a giant sea creature (an’ the epiphany I’d suffered upon me escape) when I were struck an’ hounded out the church by a horde o’ crazed Catholics denouncin’ me blasphemy. ‘T think I once thought of takin’ the cloth… which we did later, there bein’ quite a market in the colonies.

I were chased to the Lollipop where we were assailed wi’ torches and the flame o’ their passion. Turned out that the turtle’s chunder had proofed me whole vessel ‘gainst their fiery outrage. Though not me first mate, Billy who was afire until some kindly comrade shoved him overboard; I’d’ve helped him meself, but he’s not me mate. Somewhat put out by this, the locals bade us come ashore for a more personal burnin’ at ye stake. We politely declined and pounded their church wi’ cannon as we took our leave.

Yaargh, ‘twas in the very next port that ye legal papers came through. Though by then we’d earned it, what with our brief stay at the nunnery on the Isle of Letch; arr, they were lonely souls, even Billy almost found a friend upon that bleak rock.

Still, it has been a pleasure to join ye Sunday school today. Would there be any questions for ye Cap’n children?