Tag Archives: Good Ship Lollipop

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.

 

A Cold, Cold Night Adventure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hubristic Adventure ~ Captain Pigheart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alphabetic Dialogue 4 A Measurely Morning

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On the deck of the Good Ship Lollipop, Captain Pigheart and No Hands Mick take some air.

‘Gaargh, tis a morn’ o’ uncanny brightness Mick’
‘Have ye taken ye daily measurin’s yet cap’n?’
‘I’ve me scan o’ the horizon and the pairin’ o’ compasses afore me yet’
‘Just strappin’ on me measuratin mitts’
‘Knit ‘em to ye wrists in that clockwards method’
‘Let’s take readin’s!’
‘Mick, I admires ye enthusiasm’
‘Never more enchanted by nature than when takin’ her bearings cap’n’
‘Oh ye are a child o’ science and Madame Mer indeed’
‘Place ye instrument upon the breeze’
‘Quotidian matters such as these keep a man sane at sea’
‘Right you are sir, now shalls we extend together our vanes?’
‘Slight tilt to ye weather-cock I’d not noted previously there Mick’
‘Tis a sensitive matter’
‘Unusually sensitive judgin’ from the rise in its bulb’
‘Verily, for ye salty breeze does pluck at me arrow’
‘Whence comes that wind?’
‘X – tis from the region in which we’ve buried our trove’
‘Ye speakin’s're true, I’ll note it so’
‘Zephr’s be most welcome, see how they do titillate our barometric globes’
‘Aye’
‘Beasts on ye horizon sir!’
‘Come Mick, let us stow our tools and make ready with cannon’
‘Delicate now, for our tackle’s delicate’
‘Eschew ye care for the sake of our lives’
‘Fear not cap’n, on closer peeking tis but a rock’

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 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 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.

The Blissfully Brief Tale of Luckless Larry and King Clam

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Me mate Luckless Larry owed his utter limblessness to levellin’ a drunken accusation o’ cuckoldery at a polar bear. Twas unwise. Nonetheless, he survived his maulin’ and were later installed as the figurehead on The Good Ship Lollipop. There he became legendary, though he suffered further when we forgot to feed him. O’ course when she sank that was reputed to be the last of him.

Tis true that he were rescued from the sinking ship by a drastically unattractive merwench and thence conveyed to the King’s cavernous court. However, rumours that his ill luck were turned about by winning a chess contest against King Clam have since been quashed. He amused ye courtesans with his dextrous features until one day he crushed a sacred prawn with his earlobe thus incurrin’ the King’s wrath.

He was sentenced to be made into one o’ the King’s garden-sized chess pieces. And so he spent much o’ the year stacked up in a shed, to be brought out only long enough for the party guests to grow tired with ye game and return to the barbecue. As far as I know, his attempts to escape came to naught and he resides their still beneath a broken deckchair, sad and useless. Unlucky, gaargh.

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 Triffic Adventure

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Gaargh, I awoke from a night o’ disturbin’ dreams. We’d been swiggin’ vodka for a change, since takin’ it off Danish merchants just after dawn. Me final memory o’ that night were haulin’ Billy aboard after ‘e leapt from the bow to catch a shootin’ star. Yarr, all night the sky’d been full o’ light streakin’ down as if aimin’ for the giant crabs crawlin’ across ye sea-bed. ‘Twere pretty, like a rainbow on fire, though technically it boded ill for us all.

Yarr, ‘twere worse awake than a-snooze, for me wakin’ were pierced a piteous wailin’, “I be blind, me eyes be not workin’.” A-fearful for me own senses I opened me eyes – to blackness! Me heart raced till I realised I’d moved me eye patch to keep out ye pesky sun – thank God, I were still only half blind. ‘Twere just Manky Eye Joe, ‘is peepers robbed by a surprisin’ly agile flying fish whilst mannin’ ye crow’s nest. Joe’s memory’d been nicked too, makin’ his blindness a daily surprise for us all.

The sounds o’ bangin’ on me hull drew me hangover away from Joe. The encirclin’ seas were dotted with steamin’ lumps o’ furry rock, bobbin’ malignantly on ye waves. I’d not seen their like before an’ summoned Kanagawa, for ‘is oriental eyes be witness to the marvels o’ the East. ‘Is speciality be fish, though he’s a smatterin’ o’ whelk-lore to boot. Yarr, ‘is best suggestion were some kind o’ coconut in need of a trim; so we hooked one aboard for further investigoratin’.

On deck ‘twere as if some Biblical whale’d finally retched up the rancid head o’ Jonah. Yaarr, with me strong botanicorological instincts I knew it for plant-life, though from where I knew not. ‘Tis a love of plants what keeps the pansies alive in me cabin, an’ ye scurvy at bay. I planned to pot it an’ flog ye rare blooms to the King o’ Tarsus. I’d already some namin’ in mind t’establish me immortality ‘orchidae-oceanicus-ignatius’ or ‘floricus-pighearticus’; Latin be rollin’ off me tongue like a native.

Gaaargh, mid-pottin’ the sea cabbage grew feisty, swiftly unravellin’ kelpy tentacles. It gave a vigorous spankin’ to poor Manky Eye Joe, drawin’ blood with its salty roughness. Its frenzy grew, an’ before I could tamp ‘er down, the photosynthesisin’ freak dashed up the mast. We’d not time to warn ye lookout. He wisely chose the relative safety of ye deck. Yarr, that be not the softest o’ landin’s. Once ‘is legs were splinted we pondered ye sea spud further.

The pernicious plant spread its leaves at the ship’s summit. The cheeky sod were wormin’ its roots down me mast an’ through me hull. We cut short that intent, to much thrashin’ and leakin’ o’ sap. At first we thought our ploy successful, but the ornery orchid soon found a new source o’ water, plungin’ its roots into poor Joe’s noggin an’ liftin’ ‘im into the air. We hung on ‘is ankles and tugged back, ignorin’ the scratchy sea vines hamperin’ our efforts. Yaharr! We uprooted it and it crashed down on deck, on top o’ Joe.

Gaargh, me sea-orchid’d flowered already. ‘Er broad fleshy petals had the unhealthy hue o’ a dead shaven mammal (‘tis one lighter than ‘bruised cuttlefish’), an’ run through with a violet criss-crossin’ o’ veins what wrapped around its poutin’ stamen, curiously aflicker with a dozen tiny tongues.

No sooner’d we regained our footin’ than the bloomin’ thing were off again – Joe’d unravelled ‘imself and run aft blindly (‘tis not like he has a choice), with the lethal leaves flappin’ in hot pursuit. Joe got cornered when ‘e ran into a wall. We ringed it in turn, cutlasses drawn for prunin’. It rattled menacingly and pounced at us.

Gaaargh! We made two further laps of ye Lollipop afore it went for Joe once more. I pinned a stalk with me peg an’ hacked it with me blade. The savage sprout were undaunted and seized Joe by ‘is ankles. It tenderised the lad by bangin’ ‘im on the deck then stuffed ‘im headfirst ‘twixt its petals. The plant bit Joe’s head clean off and sucked ‘is body dry. Gaargh, ‘twere not the flower for makin’ amends to a loved one.

Despite me hopes o’ rivallin’ ye tulip trade, it seemed unwise to cultivate ‘em given their demandin’ diet. I set Kanagawa the task o’ distractin’ the bloodthirsty blossom while we gathered herbicidal tools. Me Japanese mate soothed the plant by ‘is foldin’ o’ intricate paper figures what rustled in a leafy manner. ‘E were on ‘is thirtieth petal fold o’ ye origamic sea-urchin when we sprang into action.

The Dane’s we’d “met” yesterday’d been so thoughtful as to leave us their weapons, women an’ assorted vittles. In particular, a gleamin’ double-headed axe with which I cleaved the vicious vegetable in two. Both halves fought back, oozin’ sap an’ stickiness. We doused it with pitch an’ a pinch o’ gunpowder, and garnished it with a point-blank pistol blast.

The explosion took ye eyebrows from us all. The orchid crackled and popped, twitchin’ feebly in ye flames. Billy noted the smell were like that o’ fried tomatoes, and though the taste were marred by the aftertaste o’ tar it were fine with our liberated bacon.

‘Twere then we heard the bumpin’ of the other plant pods ‘gainst the Lollipop an’ the rasp o’ fronds coilin’ over the railin’s, ‘tis a sound to make a grown man hide below-decks. We reached land safe again, but gaargh, me fingers be green with the blood o’ them sky flowers; I can scarce look me pansies in ye eye.

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 Romantical Adventure

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Gaaargh, an’ welcome sir and madam. Cap’n Ignatius Pigheart at ye service. Perhaps I might while away this moment of tedium for ye with me tales o’ derrin’-do and bedevilment ‘pon the high seas?

Me father passed on ‘is astro-navigational skills (the art o’ knowin’ where ye be goin’ by the guidance o’ the starry night) which’d been faithfully passed down me forefathers. It seems me grandfather’s father were taught by an idiot who could no more read an astrolabe than juggle ‘is own balls.

Twas no wonder therefore that we were lost once more, the Lollipop bumpin’ ‘gainst the rickety jetty o’ some nameless island. Yarr. We’d been voyagin’ to me treasure cache for the much needed payment o’ me crew. Sadly what with me map-readin’ all askew an’ all we’d been forced to circle whilst I awaited the conception o’ some excuse in me noggin.

I summoned the crew an’ explained to ‘em all that through some act or other o’ God’s will, the island ‘ad tragically sunk beneath the waves as penance for our wicked ways. There were dark mutterin’ but after I made promise o’ future riches an’ more rum per crewman than their livers’d stand all was well once more. I’d never been more grateful for stockin’ the bulk o’ me crew from the educational shallows o’ the port-side slums.

Gaargh, I must confess that night I were at me lowest ebb, the Lollipop an me wallowin’ in self-pity. The town were deserted an’ yet I heard the slappin’ o’ bare feet and the rattlin’ o’ the timbers. Down I looked an’ saw a vision o’ beauty. Arr, she were a proper English rose, starin’ up at me all beseechin’ like, ‘er clothes in rags and hair a-straggled.

I bellowed for me sawbones, Herr Doktor Gunther Garment, an’ together we hauled her aboard. The good doctor declared “she ist helsy but I could be plonking ze xylophone of her ribcage”, prescribin’ ‘er “fur effery day ein Zitronelle und zwei rumtotten” in ‘is thick Teutonic tongue. Monty’d been makin’ lemonade so twas not long afore she could stomach any number o’ such medicinals.

Gentleman what I be, I beat back the crew an’ escorted ‘er ter me cabin for a scrub and brush up. I sought out Barry in search of claddin’ more befittin’ a lady than me second-best britches. I found ‘im struttin’ an’ displayin’ ‘is womanly assets; I distracted ‘im with a pinch on the rear and borrowed a frock.

Aarr, we discoursed on small matters through a screen which near protected ‘er modesty till she pronounced ‘erself clean. That be a relative matter on a pirate ship. Compared t’ Monty McBuboe the galley-master, she were a paragon o’ purity. I can count ‘pon me fingers the times I’ve fished a digit o’Buboe’s from me stew, which is more than he can do himself, the poor leprous wretch. An’ then she gave me ‘er name, Roberta-Clementine. As she spoke I felt the words etch ‘emselves into the flesh o’ me black, yet tender heart.

Later I brought her up on deck to meet the lads an’ tell how she’d come to be stranded on that bleak and lonely isle. Gaargh, I had to contend with Barry glarin’ daggers at me throughout, though I made clear she’d not be crampin’ his style. They later spent many happy hours braidin’ one another’s hair. Roberta’s sad tale made our hearts bleed and rile our tempers.

She’d been kidnapped by Admiral Kneehorn’s tax-collectin’ scum on pretence o’ some quiddity or other. The knave’d taken her to his flagship, the Flamboyant and allowed her to be put to caulking the deck an’ filin’ their bunions ‘mongst other distasteful labours. At last they stopped off at this same island, and seein’ ‘er chance she’d leaped o’erboard in hopes of rescue.

Though her heart had sunk at sight o’ our pirate colours and me boisterous crew she’d wagered on the likelihood o’ so fine a ship as the Lollipop havin’ an ‘andsome captain blessed with kindness and honour. Aarr, ‘tis an easy thing t’ stoke a bachelor’s pride. Twas not for nothin’ that I were known throughout the port-side taverns as Captain Loveheart, what with me strong three limbs and the sight of slightly more than one eye. Aye, it surprised me only a mite when she sought out me gentle embrace, once I’d propped me hook on its stand.

Gaargh, there were a passionate bloomin’ o’ the love betwixt us. Twas like a summer storm, hot and wet. Whippin’ away me doubts she made me a stronger, merrier fellow than I’d thought possible. An’ when she asked me to help avenge herself ‘pon her tormentors, I leapt at the chance to prove me feelin’s true. Naturally the opportunity to strike back at the despicable Kneehorn were a treat for any pirate. The crew’d grown to love her also and bristled at remembrance o’ the injustices wrought upon her and soon were bristlin’ with cutlass and pistol.

We snuck upon ‘em in dawn’s early light. The Lollipop slid ‘tween the flagship an’ its sole companion, the Endurance, as they rocked at anchor. Gaargh, th’Endurance proved poorly named as we sank ‘er with but one brutal volley o’ cannonballs, sendin’ the admiral’s men to the ocean floor still in their bedsocks.

Our attack were as pronged as Poseidon’s trident. That be three for ye non-mariners. As the Endurance endured her last we were swingin’ aboard Admiral Kneehorn’s mighty Flamboyant. Aaar, we were a-drool with bloodlust as we leapt into massacrin’ the likes of which only seal cubs’ve ever seen. I’d a cutlass in me teeth an’ pistol in me mitt. By me side were me beloved Roberta-Clementine, decked out in ‘er piratical wench-wear, powder blowin’ an’ sword slashin’. We fought back to back, snatchin’ kisses between the guttin’ and blackenin’ of our foes.

The battle won we stuffed the Lollipop t’the gills with the Flamboyant’s gildin’ an’ ‘er booty. The brave Admiral were found hiding in a barrel o’ salted and pickled herring. Not wantin’ to incur the full wrath of the British navy we ‘ad some fun, but held back from outright killin’. We stripped the man and keelhauled ‘im thrice afore nailin’ im’ back into the pickle barrel. Gaaargh, he squealed like a man blistered and salted might. I took his hat as me right, and cursed him for a pustulent carbuncle on the face o’common decency and pitied ‘is mother for gobbin’ up such ignoble spawn.

We cut a merry caper on the loaded decks of the Lollipop that night. We divvied our takin’s between the crew and when we’d done, I asked Roberta if she’d take me hand in marriage. Me heart thundered in me chest an’ I near fainted away when she cried ‘aye’ with teary eyes. The last I recall o’ the night were the good Doktor performin’ some obscene Germanic jig with Sharon after splashin’ out his moonshine. I believe we all shone bright indeed and none more so than me beautiful Roberta-Clementine.

The next I knew was the sun bright on me face and timber at me back. Gaargh, the sky tossed about me when I tried standin’. Before me were the Lollipop and surmountin’ it the unwelcome sight o’ Admiral Kneehorn, his arm about me betrothed, lookin’ like the cat what caught the parrot, only somewhat more sore. Me ship were crawlin’ with the Admiral’s men, though not from his best ships, their guns to the heads o’ me hungover crew. Yarrr, the smug deceit were ‘scribed ‘pon their faces. I could scarce ask why, but that pus-filled canker could not hold back. I’d been tricked from the start – Roberta were the fiend’s own sister, the strandin’ a devious ploy.

I swore vengeance and wished me crew well for none of ‘em deserved to swing for this treachery. And yet, as I were cast adrift I caught the eye of me bride-to-be an’ saw the glint of tears rollin’ down her sweet cheeks. Me heart were torn asunder and I had to turn away to hide the tears dribblin’ in me beard. I fell back in me dinghy, floatin’ helpless on the seas.

Twas days of blisterin’ and bakin’ later when I surrendered to me hallucinations. I were tea-partyin’ with me marine pals when I glimpsed me Lollipop’s sails once more. I giggled an’ near split me tea on Mr JellyMcFish before they drew alongside and hauled me aboard.

Roberta-Clementine had rebelled ‘gainst her tyrant brother, led mutiny on the soldiers and returned to her husband-to-be. With me crew and our well-earned plunder we sailed off into the sunset together. Well, twas more like the dawn but I likes to paint ye a pretty picture.

Aaarr! Thankin ye’ sir ye be a-right in ye sharp rebuke. Twas perhaps an overlong gazin’ at ye lady-wife’s fine plumage.

Might there still be a tip perchance? Ah well, where would ye like ye luggage?

Captain Pigheart Lost at Sea

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Gaaargh. Twas a dark stormy night, two men sat upon the waves. Not lit’rally like, we did but sit in a boat.

Little Bo Pete and meself had been cast adrift by that treacherous swine, whose name be like a stinking tobacco-soaked hairball I cannot bring meself to retch forth afore ye good folks. The mere though of ‘is name brings me ter convulse with rage. Aye, last time I thought it I near tore meself a new orifice. Gaargh. I begins to rant – ‘tis a tale for another time.

For now ye must know that me loyal crew an’ I, that is meself an’ Little Bo Pete, we’d been cut loose in the spare dinghy at the mercy of Madame Mer. I ne’er saw me good ship Lollipop again. Gaaargh. But I did see that traitor scum one final time – yahar!

We drifted lonesome upon the open sea. ‘Twas gentle with us at first and we passed the time with ye game of ‘Eye Spy’, ‘til Pete grew maddened and violent.

Y’see, ye no bein’ sailors ye prob’ly think that bein’ ‘pon the seas there be no shortage o’ water. And ye be not wrong, but ye may not have heard ye ancient sailor’s plaint, ‘water water everywhere, but gaaargh, there be not a drop to drink’. Young Pete’d no more knowin’ of the sea than a sheep tossed off a cliff.

We got frightful thirsty, an’ for a laugh, I bet Pete that he’d die within a day if he drank of the sea. Being’ a gamblin’ man (which had led ‘im to me crew from ‘is promisin’ Oxford schoolin’), he upped the stakes, reckonin’ on two days o’ sanity before ‘im. An inveterate gambler, I could not dissuade him from his course, the fool. I meself drank only at night, while Pete slept, from the pigskin I always have strapped to me good leg in case of suchlike occurrences.

By the fourth day we was blistered red, or rather Pete were lobstered since ‘e’d left ‘is bonnet upon the Lollipop. I had me fine captain’s crown with its broad, shady brim, which I’d borrowed from the noble Admiral Kneehorn some months before.

By noon that day I adjudged that Pete had won the bet indeed, for he lived still, though he were reduced to the level of the beasts. Gaargh, for the brine’d made ‘im frothy ‘bout the lips as he hollered his nonsense at the gulls. ‘Is ‘igh education came through ‘is madness as ’e explained ter me the jommetry of Euclid and waxed lunatic Shakespearean speeches at the fishies. Gaargh. He was becomin’ a pain to me ears so I clubbed ‘im with me peg leg and got a few hours o’ peace.

As ‘e slept a’twitchin’ the sea began to seethe about us, an’ I caught glimpses of a vast beast flashin’ round and round the boat. Its scaly humps pierced the waves and sank out o’ sight again and again. I must confess ter bein’ somewhat afeard, for the Baltic Straits into which we’d veered have many tales o’ terror about ‘em.

Arrrr! A great tail rose up out o’ the water, studded wi’ spikes like the great pointy spikes of a Caribbean Sea-Mongoose. It dripped salt water upon us for a mo’, and then fell and smashed the dinghy in ‘twain. Bo Pete an’ I was tossed into the sea, naked to the beast circlin’ below. I clung to a plank like a desperate limpet, Pete danglin’ from me shoulder as I slapped him to wake.

The creature reared up before us, revealin’ its brilliant green an’ crimson crest an’ blazin’ eyes with evil feline pupils. Its nostrils were agape wi’ rage and ‘is jaws open to show two dozen rows o’ teeth the size of cutlasses wielded by a Prussian giant. Gaargh! ‘Twere terrible! Me guts turned to dribblin’ jelly and me face were numb with fear.

Not so poor brave, brine-berserk Little Bo Pete. ‘E lashed out at the brute, splashin’ water int’ its demon eyes. The beastie struck at ‘im, engulfin’ Pete with ‘is fearsome maw. Poor Pete – the monster vanished undersea with ‘im, leavin’ me floating cold and alone.

Stunned I was but a moment later (though it felt a lifetime), the beast’s head appeared again, gazin’ at me, its mouth a-bubblin’ wrathful-like. Its jaws slowly opened – prised apart by Pete, who stood upright, a-bracin’ its gob as ‘e stood proud on the brute’s gums. For a moment I though ‘im victorious, and made as if to cheer… an’ then there were a sickenin’ crack, the likes of which I never wish to hear from me own bones, as the beast bit down. Gaaargh.

Now, through some quirk or other – per’aps it were great Neptune ‘imself, seekin’ to lay blessin’ upon an honest pirate – it seemed Pete’s floppin’ corpse ‘ad somehow become lodged an’ the creature could no more close its mouth than I can snap the fingers o’ me left hand. I wasted no time and courageously plunged me plank into its gills and hauled meself astride the beast. Gaaargh. With the wood on me right and me hook in ‘is eye, I turned the beast toward land and urged it onwards.

Whenever I’m adrift on the open sea, followin’ some mutiny or other I often wish I ‘ad Little Bo Pete fer comp’ny. No doubt he be somewhere ‘pon the ocean-wide, a grisly portcullis to the Baltic Beast’s belly. A scholar and a gentleman – I drinks to ye.