“No your honour, we’ve quite sworn off all that piracy malarkey.” Of course, that was a lie. Perhaps if they offered something other than hanging for our pastimes I’d be inclined to toss ‘em some form of truth-telling. Quiddities such as this frequently beset me when I was forced to endure the rigidity of the legal profession. Reassuringly though, a few tots of rum soothes such concerns from me breast. Since such sweet succour is rare and frowned upon in the courtroom I put more effort into my honest face.
The judge scowled at me with a rather hurtful scepticism: “Unless you and your crew give up your wicked ways I shall be forced to confiscate your vessel, goods and also your lives.”
The babble of Vespers had been venting out into the dawn when we’d cruised out of the fog and blown one side of the monastery to the rocky afterlife. What once was stone was now a hole. Exhibited in the heart of the monk house was our prize – their famed golden bust of John the Baptist’s noggin. Ye might consider its nickery a sacrilegious act, but we mainly considered the gold. Zachary (the judgmental fellow who presently regarded our iron-clad feet so sternly) considered it criminal.
A few foolish monks required slapping with the flats of our blades before we could make off with the brightly beaming bodiless Baptist’s bonce and bear it aboard the ‘Bastard. Once we’d done so a sense of calm and wellbeing fell over the ship; a large lump o’ gold’s apt to do that to pirates. Bringing the statue up to melting temperature also brought forth a terrific moaning and wailing which chilled the hearts and stilled the hands of even my fiercest mates.
Contained within that auric masque, ye see, was a still-living face – twas Dunking Johnny No Neck himself, screaming with lungs he’d lost in life. Damn me if, in a sudden fit of fear (or piety – I’ll come back to that notion) I didn’t hoof the howling thing into the ocean. Everyone looked a mite shocked. Fine control of me peg leg for punting’s a tricky matter and I’d managed to impress us all. Gold lay in gobs and nuggets on the deck, so it was hard to deny that we’d had the head in our hands when the soldiers boarded us.
Having a slick and silvery tongue’s an invaluable tool in me pirate bag of tricks (like a teaspoon, tis versatile). We were inevitably hauled before the bench, where I passionately asserted the deep and profound faith which lights me heart and takes the edge off our frequent darkest hours. Just because it looked like we’d thieved it for the gold hardly matched the monks’ terrible sin in sealing up the sacred gent’s skull for centuries – we had in fact liberated the saint’s holy head and returned it to its spiritual home.
Knowing the minds of criminals is likely an important aspect of judgeish training, and Zachary was possessed of all these skills and more. He was somewhat taken aback by me claims and sought to summarise them: “Let me make sure I understand: you destroyed a monastery to rescue the still-living decapitated head of John the Baptist and then ‘released’ it into the bosom of the ocean?”
I fear he was not convinced; my boys and I were to be hanged at dawn.
Tag Archives: monks
Captain Pigheart’s Paternal Adventure
Gaargh, as I sit here with a pot o’ crude coral rum and me peg leg restin’ on the table behind me, I’m minded to recall a day most dear to me black and twisted heart. The sun were bright in the sky, silhouetting them gulls what wheeled overhead. The sound o’ me playmates laughter were on the breeze, along with the endless clack o’ buttons in their bins. Twas just one more idyllic day at the Merciful Monks’ Manufactory Orphanage.
I’d been left there as a mere babe, with all me limbs, wrapped up in a pirate’s hat. I’d only just mastered the sewing o’ buttons onto ladies unmentionables, but in time I’d be skilled enough to stitch boots of high fashion for gentlemen. The sunny day were barely visible through ye high windows, but ye summery atmosphere were suddenly split by a tremendous thunderin’. No, twas not the portly lad chained to me left, for smoke were rising outside and the walls shook more than were common.
Midst the screaming and the sharp tang o’ something I’d one day know as gunpowder there came a hammering at the door to our workshop. The doors flew inwards. A man stood between ‘em, wreathed in smoke with pistols in both of his fists. His beard were tassled with the skulls o’ mice and sea beasties and his eyes had a glaze o’ madness upon ‘em.
Gaargh, twas the first time I’d ever laid eyes upon me father, Captain Abraham Seaflange. He made an impression I can tell ye. His eyes fell upon me, which explained the glaze. As he pawed the ground hopelessly his hands fell heavily upon my fine pirate hat which dwarfed my child-like head (tis true, as a child I had the head of a child).
With a roar, Seaflange seized me up and ran blindly through the workshop. He was strong in head and hand; he used ‘em both to smash his way out, towing me behind him like a dinghy. After some time and with the aid of me youthful sight he took me aboard his ship, The Vision of Ugliness.
He’d heard tell of me birth and subsequent vendin’ to the merciless manufacturing monks, but could not bear the thought of his blood engaged in such drudgery. Me heart swelled with belonging and warmth, not least on account of ye rum the Captain had tipped into me to dull me squallin’. He was to teach me all I know about piracy, but first we had to escape the monks’ blockade.
Twere the monks’ last desperate effort to prevent me father leaving with their best button stitcher, the bulk o’ their wealth and box o’ ladies fancy goods (me father’s a mean multi-taskin’ captain). They’d piled ye orphans into boats and punted ‘em into the harbour’s mouth. Aaarr, they’d misjudged me piratical papa who ploughed through their plaintive cries, dashing the boats into shark sized smithereens.
In later years we’d lose legs together and go a-whorin’ in exotical ports but just then I were gazin’ at the mismatched buttons he’d jammed into his eye sockets and wonderin’ if he’d need ‘em stitched. Gaargh, I loves me father, the noble Captain Seaflange for he made me the pirate I am today.
Captain Pigheart’s Theological Adventure
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 String Along Adventure
I does like to stroll upon ye seaside a-scannin’ for precious flotsam. Me glass eye literally popped out when a Punch and Judy show blighted me view. A red mist came over me remaining eye and I lunged for ye puppet fondler. Aaarrr, the next I knew Mick were draggin’ me away, me hook bloodied and the air full o’ children’s bawlin’.
I suppose I ought to explain me beach rampage. It all began as we were about to embark for our treasure isle and there to bury our loot. When I were approached by a gentleman o’ Italian inclination I were naturally suspicious. He introduced himself as Olivio di Pederasti, a puppeteer o’some repute, recently fallen from grace followin’ a brave new performance of ‘Ye Lustful Monk’ at a primary school. He sought refuge from the law and offered entertainment as payment. He were a bit odd, but his amusin’ accent would be a welcome distraction from Twister and chunderin’ contests.
Olivio were a boon for the lads. By night he performed tales of derrin’-do and romance with such realism that I’d catch them peekin’ up the ladies’ skirts. Lamentably, I caught Billy molestin’ Judy behind the mast. Aaarrr, I never saw that hand puppet again.
Di Pederasti also revealed a rare knowledge o’ anatomy and woodworkin’ vital to his trade. He crafted a new nose to slot into Monty McBuboe’s weepin’ face hole, and prosthetic paws for No Hands Mick. The man’s wizardry knew no bounds and the parts he fitted moved as if they had life themselves. Even Monty’s new nose had life of sorts: his every white lie caused ‘is nose to extend and after just one intriguin’ meal he were bein’ used as a novelty fishin’ rod.
I were offered a new leg meself, but I dotes upon Idle (the ship’s cougar) who be fond o’ sharpenin’ her claws upon me peg. I’d no objection to the woodenation of me crew mind, despite them fillin’ up ye accident book with splinter mishaps.
I’d not realised how many o’ me crew were horribly maimed till the advent o’ marionette medicine transformed ‘em into models o’ productivity. Gaaargh, it were as if their new limbs had minds o’ their own, tyin’ knots with their toes and sharpenin’ knives in their sleep.
The night before our arrival at ye plunder-laden beach Olivio treated us all to a piratical piece he’d devised. The lads wore their usual rapt expressions, eyein’ up ye puppets even when ye tale grew ugly, tellin’ of a prosthetically backward captain hiding the treasure from his renovated crew. It were a tad disquietin’ when ye puppet crew mutinied, admittedly bloodlessly (them bein’ puppets), but ye captain’s death scene were far from wooden. I went to me hammock ill at ease, arrr rum be a blessin’.
After a fitful night of bein’ heavily trod by Idle, I were roused by Monty with a mug o’ coffee. I enquired after the freshness o’ the cream he’d added and were poked in the eye by his conscientious snout. He left me to me body-swabbin’. Smartened up somewhat, I went out to give me lads the treasure buryin’ pep talk I’d prepared.
The cannon pointed at me face were a bad sign. And then recognised the finely carved pine fists clutchin’ ye fuse. Gaaargh, betrayed by me right-hand man No Hands Mick! His shame were evident, for he could hardly speak without slappin’ his own treacherous cheek. And yet his rollin’ eyes were at odds with ye artillery. There’d never been strings attached to his loyalty before, or his sleeves for that matter… At last I grasped his meanin’ and looked up.
Olivio di Pederasti were aloft in ye crows’ nest, a tangle of ropes and poles dependin’ from his hands and feet like a spider for whom it has all gone terribly wrong. At a tug of his foot a brace of me mates lurched forth. Though their faces cried “no”, they could not resist – the Italian puppeteer’d commandeered me riggin’ and made marionettes of me men. I were incensed, and clapped in irons.
Olivio chuckled maniacally as the crew laid out our loot on deck. Gaargh, he’d played us with ease and now looked to be thievin’ me gold. The devil’s nooses were looped about me wrists and ankles so ‘e could jiggle me about in an unwillin’ hornpipe. Gaargh, ‘twere an humiliation I could scarce bear alone so I were not entirely dismayed when the mad Italian formed me and the crew into a kick-line chorus. Every mutter o’ dissent on our part caused ye puppet master to yank harder.
He were likely to have danced us to exhaustion were it not for me feline friend who’d been forgotten as she dozed in me cabin. The swishin’ of the ropes had prickled her interest sufficiently for her to bound into ye chorus, swattin’ playfully at her new toys. Di Pederasti played along, bouncin’ me above her head. Now, Idle’s always been fond of takin’ the hand as well as the treat… She seized me peg leg in her teeth and gave it a ferocious worryin’. Half ye crew flew upwards as Olivio were jerked from his perch. He fell amidst his puppet strings where Idle batted him into a fine cats-cradle.
Ye ropes now slackened I sought to take me revenge, thinkin’ I were now free of him. I be often wrong. Gaargh, he wirelessly took charge o’ the appendages he’d crafted for me mates. Mick’s hands clapped about me throat, and Monty kicked me in the shins. Monty’s extendable proboscis inspired a convoluted plan of escape. “Arrr,” I growled, “ye Spotted Dick were truly a masterpiece, did ye make the suet yerself?” His magical trunk of truth quivered with untold falsehood and he bashfully mumbled, “No cap’n, ahem, it were a, er packet mix. I’d never spice ye pud with me necrotised nethers”. His fervent denial caused his nose to shoot forth a branch o’ honesty matched only by the spear o’ virtue that tore through his britches and doubly skewered Olivio to ye mast. Gaargh, twere not just his nose he’d had refurbished.
I detached Mick’s digital enhancements, for with the manipulative marionette master thus morbidly impaled they no longer squeezed of their own accord. We’d untangled ye crew and made the Lollipop seaworthy, when a cry o’ “ship to shore” rang out, followed by me lookout tumblin’ to the deck. Perhaps it were the safety rope I’d loosened… Yarr, the ropes that bind be our saviours too. We’d no time to ponder the moral o’ the situation and the sawing o’ Monty’s astonishin’ appendages’d have to wait, for di Pederasti’d not acted alone – his accomplices were on the attack.
