Tag Archives: love

The Selachian Damsel Adventure

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Gaargh, me beloved ship’d more holes in her than a Marseilles whore. Alas, she were sinking, her beautiful length up-tipping in the water under constant fire from ye Dutch vessels under command o’ Captain Hendrijk Shtroken. They’d tracked us through a mighty storm and on findin’ our sails in a tatty state took pleasure in holing her.

I bade me lads take what life craft we’d left intact for as a good captain I’d be going down with me ship. Well, I’d gotten me peg leg trapped when one of ye cannons made a break for the ocean. Twas not till the water came over me head that the ship, as it sailed down to the sea bed began to loosen her innards and ye cannon tore of me peg, leavin’ me free to drown.

It looked like I was about to see Davy Jones’ locker first hand. To me shame I were not drowning gracefully. With me last remain’ breaths I flailed at the doorway which steadfastly denied me exit and did what little bellowin’ ye can deep underwater. Gaargh, and then it all went a mite dark and Jelly McFish was there chidin’ me for me carelessness.

I was roused by a curious nudging in me spine. I twisted me back in a manner unnatural so surprised was I by the touchin’. I’d feared to find meself dead and cold in some dim lightless realm populated with grey faces and a tedious range o’ board games to play. Instead I was presented with the grinning face of a Sharktikal Wench.

Aye these are the devilish cousins of me beloved merladies, for they’ve the faces of the terrifying oceanic predators with whom their forbears managed to mate without too much fatality. Tis no surprise then that I jerked back as far as me twisted back would let me, till I was face and shoulder to the wall, me legs splayed behind me at an awkward angle.

The razor toothed lady snapped hungrily and drew herself alluringly over me. She was as appealing a prospect as any lady with bladed skin and a grin that made a dolphin clear its blowhole could be. So rough was her sparkling tail that it tore me britches to scraps and sanded down me peg leg. Gaspingly I enquired as to whether I owed the oceanic vision of feminity me life. She replied in the incomprehensible growlin’ tones of her kind, for their speech is obstructed by the ranks o’ spiky dentition.

Either way I felt I’d little option, and in truth though her seduction was sharp I acquired no more injuries than in a minor sea battle. In the bloody aftermath of our conjugation she kindly unscrewed me abraded peg leg and replaced it with the pincer of a massive crab she’d dismembered in her courting ritual. Twas a good fit.

Though her sea cave was a fine pad and I were grateful for me rescue and love scrapes it was in me heart to return to the surface and a more enduring air supply. She kept me breathing by way of cuttlefish which she inflated at the surface and brought back to the cave for squeezing. Twas not the tastiest of lung gas and despite the pleasing frequency with which our intimate courting occurred I had to make my escape.

I explained me predicament to Lady Sharp Gills (as I’d named her), and her eyes grew moist in sympathy. Perhaps, in retrospect it was merely the sea in her eyes but at the time I took it for a pleasing sign. She fetched me one more cuttlefish and showed me how to tie it about me face for a breathing bag. Then she drew me outside of her cave, into the middle of circling ring of her kin. She gave me a gentle push, to which I responded by drawin’ closer to her rather than further. She escalated to a snap with her lady maw, which did drive me on.

The sharktikals swarmed above me, and as I kicked off from the bottom they thrashed around me. Me heart was in me throat, which I firmly hoped was the furthest from its proper place it might travel that day. Gingerly I swam for the surface, its glimmering blue an enticement that drew me on. Twas as I attained that gorgeous surface and me fingertips broke its magical meniscus that the sea shark women attacked.

Their writhing piscine tails slapped the water and with their deadly dentures bared they sought ye good captain’s flesh. I tore off me cuttlefish mask and beat one of the wenches about the head with it till she took it from me and rended it in two. I thought me end was upon me – for in hoping for home I’d scorned the selachian maiden. Twas not me intent, for I wished merely to live in a region that was sometimes dry. In addition her coarse caresses had titillated an old pirate’s tickling glands and I’d a desire to keep me memories of her for some time.

I espied a turtle seekin’ a swift exit from the apparent feeding frenzy (which I kept at bay with deft kicks from me crustaceous prosthetic) and hauled meself aboard its mighty shell. Now tis a sad tale for me turtlin’ pal for with me weight above the sharkly ladies quite harrowed it from below, till I was left afloat on naught but that homely helmet. The turtle appeased the crazed sea folk and I was left to drift on the waves.

Gaargh, though I was held against me will I owed the sharktical lass me life for I’d have drowned without her curious captivity. I’d always remember her for denticle lodged in me arm and the tooth marks on me thighs throb with an unholy heat whenever the rain falls sideways.

The Missing Metacarpal Adventure

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Gaargh, No Hands Mick’s one of me oldest mates, and me truest friend. We’ve endured both peril and pleasure together; fondled, plundered and squealed like girls in the face of danger. His life’s a testament to the dangers of ship-board life and his hands if he had any, would finger the poorly completed accident book.

When first we met I was but a scrap of a lad, making me name as a lad-ye-goes-to-when-there’s-a-thing-ye-wants. Aye these were the days before we had words for things and had to adopt the Teutonic habits of paragraph-long job titles.  Me business card was the size of a cartwheel. It hindered me trade but once I’d nailed it to a cartwheel all was well.

One bright day I was plying me trade in the whoring district of Onomatopoeia Peninsula. Twas a trying place where the local dialect supplemented mime with expressive sound effects. Ye ‘ho-ho jiggly-squirt’ (night-lady to ye) quarter drew the sailors and merchants from afar and I was mostly spared the annoyance of orderin’ a mug of ‘glug-glug’ or a sandwich o’ ‘nom-nom gristle-crack’. Here I’d suffer only ye calls o’ what ‘slip-slap’ or ‘glom-glom-gobbly-spurt’ were on offer. There was a constant demand for ales and spirits, powders, unguents, potions, bandages, sandwiches, Vulcanised nether-garb, feathery-tickles and sherbert. All this and more I toted in me cart.

I arrived by Madame Bosombèrt’s Shoppe of Gargantuan Lady Spelunking with a fresh barrel of hog fat for their corsets. Tis a weighty thing, the lard of a pig so I lobbed a stone at the lad lurkin’ in an alley. The prospect of pence drew him out and his manly mitts were ideal for manhandling the oink-grease into the hookery. Mick was an accomplished travelling musician, down on his luck and denuded of music since hocking his cello for lodgings.

We chatted while shuffling the rendered piglet gunk into the ladies’ dressing chambers. Yarr, the sight of ‘em had me itchin’ for a harpoon. Like perfumed whales, lowin’ to one another in the local parlance o’ hoots and giggles. I was banging in the fat tap when Madame Bosombèrt herself bustled in, like a coach bearing down upon blind children. “Oho young Pigheart! Sweet Ignatius,” (she’d a misplaced fondness for me youth), “and a friend.” Her shadow fell across Mick. He flinched like a rabbit beneath an eagle. She snatched up his hands with delight, crooning softly to herself as she pawed his paws, like so: “Aaaaaaarrrrr,” (tis her soothin’ purr to which I attribute me own success with the ladyfolk), “get ye fingers in that grease lad.” Mick was rigid with terror, and not in a good way, him bein’ but young and unscholarly in the lady ways.

His lean fingers massaged hog fat into the mammoth miss’s midriff meat till she declared herself sufficiently slickened to be shod. Mick’s youthful hesitance faded away and he leaped at the chance to gird the girl in whalebone. His nimble fingers played a concerto up the knots and ribbons and he heaved it closed, forcing a pair o’ beluga whales to surface beneath Madame Bosombèrt’s chin. The poor lad could scarce draw his eyes from their creamy goodness.

And so Dextrous Mick the Finger Lad got two jobs in one day; ladies’ girdle-hitcher and carter’s mate. We competed for the monster maidens affections, jealous of their massive love muffins. Gaargh, to press and squeeze them titanic bosoms… Our rivalry was mostly jovial, yet our envy spilled into pranks and mild violence. It caused Mick to poison me rum so I crashed me cart into a handsome lass; the horse hat diminished her beauty and me rib count. Ahar, I hid lobsters in Mick’s britches and later woke at sea bound to an octopus. Aye, they were good times.

O’course the accident changed much of that. On that fateful day Madame Bosombèrt summoned him with some urgency. A fancy customer was making a special request: that they bind together at hip and shoulder a pair of wenches in mimicry of his fantasied Siamese twins. Aye, twas an unusual request, being both creepy and intriguing.

There was no trouble in enstrappin’ the lasses: Mick’s delicate digits kept ‘em gigglin’ as he pushed their kidneys into their lungs. Ye fetish came askew when the gentleman himself, one Arnold Hornthrust demanded that he be belted into his bucking babe bronco. Poor Mick was half into his Carrick Bend when the deviant gent’s desire overwhelmed him and he hurdled the knotted woman bundle erotically. He failed to note Mick’s hands trapped and twisting under his triad o’ lust. The moanin’ and thrashing was only three quarters pleasure as Mick was tossed and ground beneath their bound bulk. With an unhealthy crunch his hands, pressed white and numb against the writhing flesh twisted one way and he another. He was free, but with mitts so misshapen they seemed more crab than hand.

It took me twenty minutes o’ snap, crackle and pop to straighten his fingers out, and half that spent topping him up with rum. His dextrous paws had had a narrow escape and I bound ‘em with strips of pork bone (which I conveniently had about me person) so’s they’d not wriggle at night. Now, tis possible that were a slight error on my part for I’d also neglected to feed Rancid Albert, the mongrel dogmonkey who slept on and urinated from the roof of our cart.

Morning found Mick hungover and stumpy at the wrist. The poor lad was fairly devastated, but I cheered his ill mood with a bottle of rum and the finest implement man’s ever wrought upon this earth – the humble drinking straw. Twas a sad substitute for a fist full of fingers but with that same straw he retrieved his knuckles from Rancid Albert and bloodily avenged himself on Hornthrust, towards whom I directed Mick’s wrath. The colossal courtesans we courted lamented the loss of his fine fingers but he managed to prove himself otherwise dextrous enough: “look, no hands” became his cry in both love and war.

Merwenchery: a Guide to Consorting with Mermaids

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Ahar mates, tis ye noble Captain Ignatius Pigheart here to advise ye on matters o’ affection. Ye may address me as Captain Loveheart.

Of What We Speaks

Tis o’course that finest love which a man may feel that I speaks of today. Aye, the feelings that a mere gent of ye kind should be wracked with when ye catch that salty tang in ye nostrils (assumin’ ye’ve not sacrificed ye schnozzle to the arctic fogs, in which case I advise ye inhale deeply and roll ye scents around ye mouth). Tis the pinnacle o’ bestiary perfection, ye mermaid. Aye, for though they be the things o’ folklore and madmen rantin’ in taverns, and sometimes even a drunk’s explanation for why they were found pinned beneath a dugong, they are the most beautiful creatures in the sea. Ye might offer in contest the dolphin, the parrotfish, the deep sea angler. And yet me friends, have they bosoms? Nay, they do not. And that should suffice to explain the feelings that even now must be a-stir in ye breast and manly regions.

Bear ye compass down on a Merwench

First, how may a pirate or louche gentleman such as yerself find, and attract a fishy lass? Tis a troublesome affair if ye heartstrings be not tuned to the scaly whisper o’ her heartbeats. If they be, the very pulse of the sea’ll beat in ye skull, directin’ ye wheelspin and the tilt of ye draught. Tis a warmin’ within for the cold touch of the marvellous merlass.

Otherwise I commend to ye a lifetime o’ crawlin’ the oceans with hope in ye heart and rum in yer belly. There’ll be naught in this life to bring ye joy. Perhaps ye should nuzzle ye temple with ye pistol’s muzzle.

Merladiery Happenstance

Should ye chance upon a merwench while stranded tis a fine opportunity to throw yeself upon her mercy. If ye piteousness and her loneliness be equal upon the great scales o’ romance tis likely ye fish lust’ll be assuaged. Drowning’s a ploy ye might advance upon with some likelihood of success. They’ve a fondness for the lack o’ swimmability in ye common man. They might steal ye last breath for bubbles, but at least ye’ll have tasted her sweet lips. With luck she’ll whisk ye off to her nethersea cave for divers pleasures. Returnin’ from ye undersea realms is a tricky matter. Tis possible ye’ll die there.

Tis a different matter indeed if ye nets once cast draw in a wench o’ piscine persuasion. Ye may find her less thrilled than yourself to be roughly dumped with a slew o’ fish upon your deck. I advise ye make yer apologies and your cabin available to the lady. Your natural charm and handsome features’ll doubtless turn her to ye. There be a certain school o’ thought recommending capture and the loves that may form through fear… Tis not to be borne me friends. Aye, for love comes to ye – she should not wish to escape ye hooked embrace.

Wooin’ at Ye Merlass

When ye encounters a mademoiselle de mer in her habitat naturelle, ye should account yourself with honesty and courage. And yet salt ye bravado with sweetness and an enticin’ manner. Ye fishwench’re a teasin’ folk and enjoy ye romantic overtures. Try a gentle croonin’, tis sure to reassure her that ye be not a shark or crocobeast. They are romantic creatures. If ye manner be the opposite of a be-toothed manatee or pond-barracuda then ye be one step ahead already.

Aaarr, beasts o’ stroking and rubbin’ they be. Ye might consider detachin’ any battle or needlework prosthetics before engagin’ in the writhin’ magics o’ love. Tis considered rude, as with ye land lasses, to pierce ‘em by accident. Now ye’ll find a mermaid’s anatomy curious (though tis doubtless the incitement of ye love keening). Being a gentleman I’ll not dwell on the mernethers overmuch, save to note that once ye go fish ye’ll never seek another dish.

Here Endeth The Lesson

So that’s ye lesson for today. I hopes ye manage to cool ye ardour betwixt a mermaid’s fins, but if ye do not – fear not. Ye be but a common man with no features special enough to draw their salted mackereline amour upon ye. There’s no shame in it, and I recommend to ye a night in Lady Taschewitche’s House Of Curious and Unlikely Love. Tis located but a few moments stroll from this hall – mention Captain Loveheart and receive a night’s womanticore attention for a shilling.

Further Readin’, for the Scholars ‘Mongst Ye

The Mermaid Adventure – surely the most romantic wooery ever conducted twixt man and fishgirl.

The Exquisite Mermaid Adventure – some hint of ye consequences o’ lying with a merlass.

An Amourous Adventure – a short re-tellin’ of oceanic conquest.

 

An Amourous Pirate – Alphabetic Dialogues 14

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Captain Ignatius Pigheart samples the dubious pleasures of ‘Old Maisy’s Hole’, one of the few hostelries that offer welcome to a man of the sea. Within its dank walls lie the scum of the port; gamblers, thieves, cripples and night ladies sprawl across the stained furniture. Ignatius brings out the old Captain Loveheart routine for the pretty barwench. Not Old Maisy mind. Braver men than he have attempted to plunder her charms and beaten a hasty retreat as lesser men.

‘Bashful lass eh? Come to me lap ye fine chested beauty. Don’t fear a man with just one hand. Eye too. For tis a sign o’ me bravery and manhood. Gaaargh, ye seems not tempted. Have I an unappealin’ scent about me? It be to ye credit that ye be so honest. Just withhold ye further candour for fear o’ harmin’ me pride. Know ye that I’ve wooed many a lass, above and below ye waves. Let me regale ye with such a tale o’ me piscine paramour. Me state were one o’ inebriation. No, not ye same degree as me present. Oh, for ye moon were spinful and ye stars a thicket. Pray, imagine ye the calll of a merwench. Quite the most allurin’ sound to pierce a fishy gill. Readyin’ me lovin’ portions I were, for action. Softly I called to her. Twas an arrow through me heart when she splashed towards me. Under the waves our bodies met, me leg and her tail entwined. Velvet soft was ‘er touch, aye, ye captain shivered in her embrace. Wet too, but tis expected in ye ocean. eXitin’ ye tavern already? Ye’ll be sad to miss out of the climax o’ me tale. Zephyrs o’ sighs spilled out of ye merwench in delight. And ye could be so lucky, if’n ye so choose…’

Captain Pigheart’s Exquisite Mermaid Adventure

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Gaargh, the view from the crab’s ichorous peeper-pockets was narrow, but directed me eyes onto the Queen’s bosomous bounty. I was content. But me contentment was disturbed by the hammerin’ at ye door. I attempted to better obscure meself behind the kelpen curtain and a hideous vase. Twas tricky, for me own limbs were ill-stuffed into the recently vacated crab shell; I scuttled as if recently scuttled.

The cause of me cuckoldish caution burst into the chamber in a rush of bubbles, thrashing his scaly tail behind him. Twas King Clam of the merfolk, fresh returned from his extermination of the Snorks (a peaceful but rightly despised cock-headed sea people), and was understandably ill-tempered to be find his bed-chamber locked, his bride within.

She, the queen, lounged negligently in a negligee; the negligible garment drifting alluringly in the current like the diaphanous tips of her fins. Not five minutes before she’d been demonstratin’ the ticklishness of her lady scales. I’d borrowed the crustaceous carapace from one of her personal guards, whose innards now quivered in the vase before me.

Delightful though me time in Queen Acacia Finest Tuna’s embrace had been, the return of her genocidal spouse spurred on me roaming spirit. Twas time for me to once more taste that sweet air to which me lungs’re accustomed. After tumbling out of Kemberton Shatz’ misshapen grasp I were taken deep into the cold darkness of the ocean. From beneath me I thought I heard the alluring ruckus of Murray Eel’s Planktones playing ‘Under the Sea’ and then… nothin’.

I woke, drifting on a bed of sea anemones with a pair of sea horses jammed up me nose. A mite alarmed I tugged ‘em out and immediately choked, for me lungs were full o’ water. With hasty reluctance I forced the spiny squirming beasts back in. Twas then, through the gills o’ the mer-nags that I caught a scent in me nostrils, one I’d not tasted for many long moons. A scent that put wind in me sails. A scent that made me drop anchor. Arr, that’s not quite what I meant.

The clam-shell doors opened before me. Twas my beloved merwench, the one I’d spent a moonlit night with on the rocks, while Mick serenaded us with his wails of pain. She’d aged not a day. Arrr, she took me in her fins as if it were only yesterday. I protested vehemently about me current state o’ matrimony in the softest whisper I could muster. Me conscience now clear I delved into her Piscean charms. As we later lay in a thin film of her natural oils I thought I must be the happiest man alive at the bottom of the ocean, me arms wrapped about this fine fish of a woman, croonin’ in that way she’s fond of.

She said to me, “Ignatius, ye noble soul, I’ve a surprise for ye,” (for they talks as do we pirates, tis part of the charm). From under the bed she drew a mermaid’s purse, which revealed its contents with a tiny wail. Me heart swelled at the sight of the wee minnowlad. “Be he?” I asked, “He be,” she replied, “But ye…” I started, “I be” she said. “Aaarr, but he be…” said I, “Aaarr,” she agreed; “Gaargh,” I concurred. He was the spittlin’ image of his mother, down to the fetching freckles on his tail, and had his father’s beard. Sad I was to leave him and his mother, but ye troubles of merfolk on dry land’re well enough documented by the Danes and Disney.

While the mer-queen distracted her mer-king with a cool swishing of her sinuous tail, with her eyes she undressed me once again. When the urgency of ocular undressing hastened, I realised it were a hint to be fleeing. I side-stepped from the room. Twas a smooth crabwise exit, exceptin’ ye the flailing of me spasmic crablish appendages. I’d almost escaped when the claw me arm wouldn’t fit in slapped the King across his dorsal fin. For effect I twiddled the crab’s mandibles in a cheeky manner.

Then twas the running for me. I don’t know if ye’ve tried to walk in another’s shoes, but try running in a hexapoidal crust with ye own limbs in gristled gauntlets, underwater. Tis a curiously clumsy drowned ballet, punctuated with coralline snags and stumbling. My spasmodic gambol were easily outmatched by the swishing of a tail. I was out of me element. I set meself into a spin and made more ground that way, battering the King’s merguards with my chitinous clubs.

I spotted a corral of fishy steeds and lumbered desperately for them. With a  quick prayer for luck I slashed one of them free and punched it in the swimbladder. Twas more effective than I’d hoped: with a terrifying accelerative lurch we hurtled upwards in a deflatory spiral. So powerful were the launch that it tore the crab carapace from me, save for the claw with which I desperately gripped the unfortunate deflating fish.

The merfolk’s vicious tridents sliced past me as I struck the surface and fountained up in an explosion of fish and spume. I found meself tumbling down to land hard on a wooden deck. Loomin’ over me was the overly-gingered face of Grim Pitch (an ill swap for me merlass), who turned to Kemberton Shatz and muttered, “see, he be fine” before wrenching the seahorses from me nostrils. Me only possible retort were to vomit gallons of brine over the pair of them.

We set sail with haste, fearing predation from the sharp-toothed shark riding merfolk of war. In the distance I glimpsed the sparkle of sunset gleaming off the scales of me love as she dove once more into the depths. Gaargh. I’ve still the scent of her gills on me fingers.

Captain Pigheart and The Scary Lady

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Tis a tale o’ romance and thievery…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Pigheart’s 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?