Tag Archives: Hamish McMuffin

The Lobster Adventure

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Twilight snuck upon us as a lobster does its pink fleshy prey, its pinchy pincers sneakin’ out in wispy streamers of cloud. Gaargh, we’d good reason to spout purplish in our fear of the night. I’d begun to see a mandible behind every branch, every rock the crusty carapace of horrible doom. Terror had ceased to thrill and I’d only a dreadful lurking fear whenever the moonshine tricked us with shadows.

Ahar! Twelve men and I had been abandoned on this isle following a minor disagreement regarding ship management. Fine; twas a mutiny if ye must have the word. It seemed the quest for me merlass love was not shared by all of me crewmen. Gaargh, our nightmare began within moments of being tossed into the spare long boat. We had front row seats as a krakenish monstrosity rose from the frothy waves, for ye see backwards when rowing forwards. It smashed the ship in two and feasted upon my rebellious crew. We rowed faster.

The isle we hastened towards was naught but a large rock pool – a ring of stony land encircling the blackest water whose depths hid all but the creepiest fronds of anemones and maybe a grinning skull. Twas already fading to dark so we sheltered sleep-wise beneath our boat and suckled from the knitted tuna bag o’ fresh water we’d been allowed. On waking we found to our horror that Alexander Gimpskin’s feet had been nipped off at the ankle. At first we were suprised at his not calling out, for surely twas a thing o’ some annoyance, but then we discovered his head was also missing. Thank goodness that mystery was resolved. The sky was clear and bright – a beautiful day and we were all going to die, for the tuna bag was and without water we were doomed. The prospect quite distracted us from the vastly more pertinent point o’ poor Gimpskin’s noggin pruning.

Daylight revealed a secret what the night had hid: at the pool’s heart was a circular atoll upon which were a heaping of man’s treasures: drink, swords, gold and dainty china crockery. To my finely honed senses it had the scent of a trap. However, our usual caution competed with an abundance of ill temper and thirst. Twas surely not a terrible danger to men such as we pirates. Now a stranded nun and her gelded serf, well they’d probably not even know it for a trap. As I explained to the lads, since we expected it to be a trap then it were no longer a trap – for we knew it to be one. Ye see? Ghostly Steve alone resisted me logic. Gaargh, he was ever troublesome when deciding where to go out for meals as well.

The remainder of our party rowed across, elbows tucked in and rows barely patting the water. Our passage was undisturbed. With caution we probed the barrels and chests. I allowed Billy No Mates to test the water. He gargled a mouthful and snorted it from his nose. (Well if ye know a finer way of testing water’s purity, be sure to share it). We had salted apples, water, swords and rum. Aye we were still marooned but now it felt like a holiday.

We hailed Ghostly Steve across the way with a mug of rum. He took a running dive into the water and began his fateful swim, “Nay,” I bellowed, “We’ll row back for ye.” But it was too late. Perhaps it was his thrashing paddle, or else the gleaming glare of his pallor but he swam only half the distance before a look of pure terror distorted his pasty features. A moment later he was gone – naught remained but a glut of bubbles. I was glad we’d used the boat.

Well that quite dispelled the beach atmosphere. We continued to enrum ourselves (o’ course) but we did so clutching our swords. The moon lingered sickly in the night sky, offering scant light for us poor pirates to which we added rummy brands. A chorus of chitinous chinklings set our nerves a-quiver; the feel of feelers fingering our faces pushed us to breaking point. When they finally came for us we were almost grateful. Massive lobsters bristling with sharp hairs and claws emerged from the black water. Gaargh those terrible click-clacking claws! Even now they disturbs me otherwise bawdy dreams.

They rushed at us, seizing men with rending pincers, flinging them out into the salty water from which they’d not return or squeezing ‘em to popping. Nimble and armoured, they danced around us while our sword points rebounded and we grew desperate. With a mighty bellow, Hamish McMuffin belly-butted one of the beasts, knocking it stunned to the ground. I seized me chance and drove my blade into the gummy scabs between head and neck. I stamped upon the hilt and kicked it through the creature’s brain. When dawn came they retreated and we found we’d traded five mates for two lobsters. If we were to survive another night we’d need of plans – and good ones. Thankfully ye captain’s a veritable Pandora’s box of notions. We’d two of the menacing buggers cracked open before us and a day to fill.

With the tedious repetition of life, night returned and so did the Nefarious Night Lobsters emerge from their hell water. Gaargh, and what surprise for them to meet lobsters in opposition to their cause? We’d spent the day hollowing out their comrades, hauling their shrimpy guts onto the barbecue. No Hands Mick and I then donned the beasts’ shells, swapping ourselves for their organs. Gaargh, ye cannot imagine the sensation – twas like climbing into a gristly sleeping bag reeking of pasteurising cockles.

Ahar! With our armourous extensions we turned the tide on our seeming cousins. We swung our great claws, and darted hitherwise, ripping off eye stalks and whipping them by their curly tails. We pulled ‘em apart and punched them in the nether pits till we stood atop a mound o’ crippled crustaceans, victoriously thrusting our feelers in the air.

No more lobsters crept from the black, and now lumpy waters – we were safe, and yet still marooned. On the morrow we feasted upon lobster-flesh till we’d carapace enough to contain the crew and blubber enough to fill the shells. Full fitted to our crusty suits we dove into the ocean and swam for home. Twas a sea voyage o’ joy and terror in equal parts for we battled Vile Eels and demonic Sea Lettuce across the sea bed, and discovered shockin’ truths about the habits o’ lady lobsters. But tis for another time.

When finally we were trapped in a rock pool high upon the shore we’d lost all sense o’ manhood. A pack o’ children descended upon us armed with poking sticks and the jovial cruelty of youth as we anxiously awaited the tide’s return. We were reborn into humanity mewling, weak and naked in the shattered shells, grimed and reekin’ of lobster grue… Gaargh, twas not me proudest striptease.

The Bloodsoaked Adventure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Pigheart’s Gastronomical Adventure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Pigheart’s Assassination Adventure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Pigheart’s Theological Adventure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Pigheart’s Bangin’ Choon Adventure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Pigheart’s 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.