Tag Archives: romance

The Welcome Rescue Adventure

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Gaargh, I was woken by the taste of salt water on me parched lips. Twas followed by the familiar pressure of a pair of puckered lips. Aye, now this is the way to survive a ship wreck!

I took a moment to savour the sweetly soft taste of me rescuer. I ignored the faintly fishy tang and rubber texture till she nipped me lip. Ahar, a cheeky wench. I squinted me eye open to the sun’s glare.

Gaargh, twas not the sweet-cheeked wench I expected but the rude explorings of an octopus’ tentacle. Twas a shock to find it gripping both me face and private place, but its unbidden embrace had brought me to land.

Despite me natural misgivings I’d unquestionably have drowned elsewise – well, I’ll not deny her affections. And later, I’ll break me fast on her tasty beak.

The Blundering Buccaneer

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Twas sprung upon me with but a moment’s notice, that me fair brother young Timothy Seasbuttock would wring a tale from me filled with adventure on this, the day he’ll finally consummate his manhood.
Allow me to sketch ye a crude portrait o’ the lad noting first that his noggin is free of the flowing locks which grace his elder brother. So too, the handsome features, wisdom and judgement which were splashed upon the brother and sister he followed. Tis true, and sad – all that was left to the youngest of three siblings are baldness and mighty facial caterpillars determined to mate upon his brow.
This is the tale of how we met…
In the port town of Gunt-on-Trent, the locals spoke of a madman – Terrible Tim, a hermit-hobo who lurked in an abandoned circus tent. Twas rumoured that he’d been shat out by the stars, for as a child he seemed an angel, with his shock o’ blond hair and winning grin.  He spoiled it by stripping naked incessantly and waving his pixie-stick at ladies till the menfolk grew testy and beat him off with sticks.
When we blasted his home into smoke and splinters he burst forth, his formerly adorable fur matted into vile dreadlocks like a clown had died on his scalp. He looked amusing, but was alarmingly scented. We treated the malodorous hum by towing him behind the ship. A school o’ porpoises had their wicked way with him, and doused Timothy in their salty stud suds – it’s a kind of cleansing scrub. To deter his obsessive nudity we stapled a fat man’s clothes to his furry frame.
Tis necessary that all hands perform some task o’ value aboard a ship; twas not his way. In even the simplest matter he displayed a baffling defiance, risking his own life for the mere sake of being free to do so. Gaargh, the vital and base task of scrapin’ barnacles from the hull (a task, I should add, which was previously undertaken by a brain damaged monkey) lead to him knocking a hole in the ship and drowning three cabin lads. Aye, even when directed to merely “stay here, touch nothing” he left sails aflame and a village o’ fresh widows. At best, his works ended in disaster.
Clearly young Tim was a special fellow, in the sense of quietly leaving him on the beach at low tide, but he had a charm that belied his outright idiocy. He was the sort to headbutt a shark, or plug a dolphin’s blowhole with a cheeky grin and wink o’ the eye. He’d break ye most valued possessions and turn them big brown eyes upon ye – the wenches were suckers for it. Save that one lass with the fetish for knives… but the boy looked fine in his eye patch. It added to the wooden fingers, peg leg and gashes that came from his unique combination o’ carelessness, bad luck and stupidity.
In time he became one o’ the crew, in disfigurement if not competence. So we took him ashore for larks and giggles. Once we’d swum to land (for he had contrived to sink the jolly boat with no more than an innocent whistle) he simply vanished. I swear to ye that I turned me back for less than a heartbeat and all that remained was a jumper hanging from a fence post. Eventually we found him in the cut-price brothel down Skanking Lane where he’d nested in the questionable bosom of old ab-gendered Sally (or the Pound Stretcher as they called her). While swaddled in her dubious dugs he’d had a revelation, or so he claimed before he was dragged away by the watchmen for public bare-buttockry.
Gaargh, breaking him out tested me patience. So fierce was Tim’s rejection of all possible aid that he screamed and wailed that we were trying to ruin his life. I wanted to strangle the little monster. So I did. Once he awoke he demanded that we travel to the Lowing Grounds. Tis a magical place where the beasts of the ocean meet to breed and eat each other. He’d convinced himself that mermaids danced between the humping brutes and he’d got a flutter in his heart for a fishy lass.
The journey was fraught with danger – nearly all of it from Tim’s terrifying blend of laziness and manic activity. One night I found him and the simpler mates discharging their pistols at the moon. I confiscated their weapons and bade ‘em button their flies. On another, he spent an hour bellowing about mushrooms before collapsing in a sweating heap. Strange lad.
At last we reached the fabled lands of humpery. Young Tim, drunk on rum he’d filched from me cabin reeled vomiting from starboard to larboard till I grew weary of his whining and pitched him overboard. His curious expulsions, thrashing and the octupine dreads that infested his skull drifted like a submarine temptress beneath the waves. Naturally, he was besieged with horny beasts, from felch-fish to giant shagging squid. We fired cannon and flintlock into their ranks, for though this was a hammock of his own hanging sometimes a man needs to be tipped out of it. However our loads were no match for the marine man-maulers. The boy was surely lost to the frothing waters of lust, so we began to divvy up what little of worth Timmy had.
A shimmer of rainbow scales and undersea bosom raced through the waves, striking the salacious sharks back into the depths with fierce scowls and flourishes of her ebon locks. A ravishing mermaid erupted from the ocean in a fountain of spray and fishy gore. In her arms lay the bleeding idiot child, battered and newly bald, grinning like a man with his brains removed. Her prize clasped to her breasts and her lady-gills a-quiver she too grinned triumphantly and plunged once more into the deeps.
We resumed our selection of his private tat: Billy No Mates had his tobacco tin, Hamish McMuffin took his debts and I was saddled with a painting he’d made with glue and a sock. Ye see, though the mermaid was a creature of great mystery and beauty – this one especially (she’d no deformity or gruesome appendages as Tim’s luck would normally dictate), having saved him she’d take him down to her undersea boudoir to ravish him in her piscean way…and then drown him, that he might be hers for evermore.
Twas both an ending, and a new beginning for our mad mate Timothy Seasbuttock. He found love (to our enormous surprise) in the arms of a fearsome warrior merwench, Susie Saltheart. Kindly raise ye glasses and toast me black hearted pirate brother whose black heart turned pink and fluffy for his beautiful marine miss.

The Cloistered Entertainment

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I was rousted from my slumbering bower by a titanic shrieking. The previous evening I’d taken to bed amidst the trees following an indulgence of absinthe and laudanum. The tree I presume, must have presented the best vantage when surveying the territory for tigers and other beasts which might offer untimely wounding. That said I could not imagine how I’d mastered it; the tree rose up above a less towering but still imposing wall of stone which held within it gardens, paths, dwellings and doubtless the source of the banshee wailing. My clothes, or lack thereof I could not account for. Nor the brassiere and manacles which encircled my slender, yet manly waist.

The act of discovering my near-nudity was sufficient to tumble me hand over toe from branch to leaf and finally to earth with a thump. Praise be the analgesia of opiate drowsing. So I was able to gain footing despite the probable bruising, sprain and fracturation I’d likely endured. From my limb tangle I arose in the presence of ladies. Or at least I thought them ladies, their convent attire did their figures little credit, and their hullaballoo was more vulture than vestal virgin.

Nonetheless I do prefer to shave and dress before greeting clergy, for they are wild and bewildering folk, prone to unnatural abstinence and raving. I realised it would be difficult to make a good impression in my state of undress, and made the concession of shrouding my excitable young gentleman in the capacious hollow of the ladies’ mallow-garb which otherwise batted him. This did little to soothe my morning amour but did serve to shield most of the dapper chap from the greedy eyes of the clucking nuns into whose tree I’d trespassed. They had dimmed their clamour somewhat and ringed me with an air of expectation. I was powerfully aware of my inopportune priapism. There seemed only one way to distract the spiritual harpy maidens.

“Behold,” I cried – my eyes red-rimmed and wide, “I have come unto ye like an owl.” They seemed ill at ease with my pronouncement; their pursed lips of confusion begged for elaboration. “Yea, an owl. For I fly by the light of the moon with wisdom and a taste for mice my weapons. And lo, my head doth revolve at least part-way round.” I was beginning to get through to them. “Does a mouse flee from its winged foe by instinct, or fear of a love unnatural twixt them? And so, fear not my feathered fronds for you have minds and a will of sorts. My feathers are but motes in the skies of chance; this is the beak of a man and to ye I have come.”

It is within the realm of possibility that I had not made myself entirely clear for their ecclesiastical squawks resumed. Such is the nature of revelation. The penguine women clustered about me. Their monochrome garb menaced the polychromatic joy of my hazed morning mind-fever. I had descended too swiftly, and the fruits of my concussion and hangover were overwhelming me. I plunged into darkness as they grew near.

I awoke a second time enchained within the convent. This was either a very bad, or a very good thing. I was grateful that I at least bore still the ladylump-lifter for they’d spread-eagled me despite my claims of owl-hood. The room was spare, much as I’d expected but the handsomely erect cruciform gentleman on the wall was a surprise. I distinguished a chanting from the rattling of my chains (myself of course, striking for freedom). The fervour was with the nuns, though not for their Lord. They had had a dry spell for visitors, or so the crone crouching by the cot croaked into my ear.

It was to be a day of short shocks and surprises; I’d not even noticed her presence till she hissed into my aural canal. Her tone and visage quite competed to deflate my rousing charm against the uncloaked ascetics eager to reject their vows. And yet I could not but endure her ear-tonguing whispers. Nor could I refuse the monastical parade that carouseled through my room all  day and night. It probably would have been impolite. I was fed and watered, that I might prolong their licentious festival. And also soothed with balms, ointments, unguents and creams when rasped too far.

Eventually they wearied of me, though by then I’d fallen into the gap between the twin stools of delirium and epiphany from their monastic moaning and cloistral coitus. My final waking was to being unshackled, clothed and supported in hobbling to the convent wall. There I was eased up a ladder and with a gentle shove thrust over the wall’s edge.

I’d been rudely treated, of that I had no doubt. Due to my periods of exhausted slumber I’d never be sure of the depths of the nuns’ depravity. However, the Papal Bull issued a month later which declared them ‘Satan’s Sweetmeats’ certainly implied that it had been a fine evening.

I’d recently amassed a considerable fortune in the underground city of Nottingham. Their love of the gambling and remedial grasp of counting had quite undone them. I took their pennies and left them to the vile stench of their troglodytic tanneries. On an impulse I snapped up the ailing convent and established the first Grande Maison of Infamy. The ex-nuns’ gratitude has never abated; they kept their beds, and kept them warm. For there are those who seek out such rude treatment.

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.

 

Alphabetic Dialogues 11 ~ Your Daughter, Sir

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Franklyn de Gashe fresh returned from adventures with android zombies in the past has crashed a party and fallen in love. It is not appropriate to his station, nonethless he is a persistent man. At length he consults with the father of his newfound love Emily, in the drawing room of her father’s house Greypairs, the seat of the Duke of Welmschably. It is not a comfortable conversation.

FdG “Gallantly, I stalked her across the ballroom”
DoW “Have you a different definition of gallantry, sir?”
FdG “I implore you to be silent while I recount my adventure, else you are like to misunderstand me”
DoW “Just get on with it”
FdG “Knife in hand I slipped past the champagne-touting waiters, and behind the chaise”
DoW “Let’s see, stalking and armed. This is how you come to my party?”
FdG “My dear fellow, one ought not to invite a chap if he can’t attend in comfort”
DoW “No – that’s not the same as arriving without a tie”
FdG “Oh, you and your rules. My dear duke, have you never wanted to feel free?”
DoW “Perhaps you’d consider loosening my bonds that I might embrace liberty myself.”
FdG “Quell your passions man, you’re among friends here.”
[a call from without] “Rally the guards!”
DoW “Spare me and my family and I’ll make you a wealthy man”
FdG “That’s the difference between you and she my good man. While you cower and bribe, she draped herself upon the chaise, surrounded by admirers as I approached, knifely.”
DoW “Unless you release me I shall call for my manservants.”
FdG “Very well. An honest ploy. And yet I doubt they’ll hear you”
DoW “Why you devil. You monster.”
FdG “eXhibiting a great deal of your daughter’s passion now Dukey. I like it”
DoW “Zounds man, if you’ve harmed her-”
FdG “And what if I have?”
DoW “By the good lord I’ll hunt you down if you’ve laid a finger on her”
FdG “Calm yourself. The knife was a gift.”
DoW “Doubtless your stalking was merely a dance step of sorts”
“Every move I make is a kind of dance. With death, with fate. With a lady”
DoW “FRANKLYN!”
FdG “Good lord, I’d no idea it was inheriting your lungs that made her chest so proud.”
DoW “Have you quite finished”
FdG “I have not, I’d planned to recount in full the joys of your daughter”
DoW “Joys!”
FdG “‘kerchief to wipe away your tears?”
DoW “Let me free and I’ll show you where you can put your handkerchief”
FdG “My my, perhaps I’ll have to gag you to prevent your spoiling of my tale”
DoW “No nummmph, nng, nmmuumph”
FdG “Oh, now you are tiresomely inarticulate.”
DoW “Pfah! You’re a monster de Gashe”
FdG “Query: would you commonly insult a man who’s tied you up and expressed his love for your first-born?”
DoW “Relinquish your claims to love sir, for you are a but an uncommonly debauched man and your pretense does you no favours”
FdG “So, you doubt the purity of my love for your daughter’s pale yet musuclar thighs, the bruising of her lips upon mine, the naughty twinkling in her starry eyes, the soft envelopes of her?”
DoW “Talk not of her lady parts lest I call you out in a duel”
FdG “Understand me now Dukey, after I despatched her watchers she and I eloped to a room of finery, gilded about the walls and strewn about with comfort…”
DoW “Vileness! You bedded her in her grandmother’s chamber?!”
FdG “Well there was a bony thing in the bed, but I thought it an odd doll or somesuch”
DoW “Xandria, my beloved mother”
FdG “You might find her somewhat flattened by our passions”
DoW “Zealously we shall hunt you down and make you pay”
FdG “And that’s why I offer to your charming and uninhibited daughter my hand in marriage”
DoW “Believe me when I say I’d rather endure her shame than have you as a son”
FdG “Calm now father, you’re becoming quite purple”
DoW “Don’t patronise me you scoundrel”
FdG “Everyone needs time to think things through, I’m sure you’ll reach the same conclusion about Emily that I have”
DoW “For the last time de Gashe, your insult to my family’s honour will not go unavenged”
FdG “Gallantly then, I shall now go and stalk your second, less attractive daughter.”

Franklyn de Gashe ~ The Theatrical Entertainment

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Space convulsed. Flames of black snaked around me as I warped in and out of existence before being squeezed out of the temporal effluvium. I stuffed the time hamster back into its velvet pouch. The poor thing was shaking and clearly needed the sunflower seeds I tapped its face with. I’d been hard at work before the peelers had disturbed the Duke and I, prompting my chrono-rodential translation into this musty hole. My escape through the rodent’s portal had been as rough as ever. My cuffs were quite disarrayed although the time hole had apparently scraped clean my jacket and taken the bloodstains from my favourite strangling gloves. I’d just have to re-sanguinate them.

With the feel of the hamster stuffing its cheeks against my liver I mustered an interest in our surroundings. The stench of failure squatted in the air like a fetid whore in the gutter. The room, dark; dimly lit by dangling brass orbs. The floor boarded and scuffed, obscured by a vulgar rug depicting nothing but the weaver’s limited imagination. The chairs had been wisely bolted to the floor (how I loathe the habit of guests rearranging furniture), the table in the centre bore manacles, straps and a curious patchwork pigmentation. Promising. I’d marbled a slab or two myself. I was reminded of the lair of the Mire people on whom I’d preyed whilst dwelling amongst the shark giraffes in the Afric valleys. Of course their torturous habits were as nothing to the agony of their conversation, which marked them as victims for any philanthropically inclined assassin.

The damp aggravated my asthma so I prepared a pipe of ‘Victor Shartbritches’ Finest Health Shag’ which happily displaced both the lung clag and my general dismay. Pipe in teeth I browsed the ground floor which had been curiously carpeted with a littering of springs, bolts and metallic detritus. The pantry was a tumble of limbs and assorted torso bits; hardly appetising. The kitchen sink was stacked with skull caps and liquefying brain matter. There were no vittles to fill my growling belly. I did find tea, which I enhanced with the phials and vials of tonics I carry constantly. I resumed my rifling revived and twitchy.

I received no gentlemanly warning before I was hurled across the drawing room to demolish a bookcase and vase with the force of my en-lobment. With a grin I drew my twin gutting blades from their ingenious homes in my sleeves. Across the room, hunched in a mockery of manhood was a fabulous fellow, who whilst largely comprising a grisly mass of ill-stitched meat owned a gleaming skull and glass piston limbs which belied his organic naissance. The thing’s arms pumped hard, winding strength for further blows. I pressed my advantage, pirouetting through the air in a whirlwind of flashing blades, gashing the concertinaed bellows in his shoulders and hip. I landed some feet away, leisurely tooting on my medicine which I retained in my toothy embrace.

The automaton cocked its clockwork head as I lectured it on the proper treatment of guests. But at length I concluded that it was either dumb or damaged, for it offered neither retort nor explanation for its behaviour. A tedious affair. I sipped my tea and regarded it over my crossed knees. The house was clearly abandoned and this tin headed ogre left as a guard dog. I took up a screwdriver and playfully tinkered at the robot’s skull. The convulsive twitching gave it the semblance of pain but it wasn’t until I’d triggered a speaker function that I was prepared to regard it useful. At first I could scarcely tease it through jabbing and soft words to sing me a nursery rhyme. In time though he mastered Baa Baa Black Sheep and we moved on to Daisy. The metallic gnarl of his voice grated against my delicate aesthetics but I persevered.

By the third day he could declaim Shakespeare; I cast him in the role of Juliet. I hauled him upstairs and balanced him across the banister while I beseeched him from below. My eyes fairly fizzled as I eagerly constructed a rude stage at the foot of the staircase and dragged out the brass orbs to be our footlights. Having need of further players I plundered the cadaver cast-offs in the cupboards, and while brewing yet more tinctured tea, copied the mechanisms that operated my Juliet with the cutlery and sinew I found strewn about the kitchen. Soon I had a fine cast with whom to enact Shakespeare’s tragic romance in full.

Despite the corpsey plenitude there was something missing. My tea-induced frenzy abated, the mists of glory de-clouding my eyes. Before me stood my animated zombie players and Juliet, all powered by the field of concocted fire I’d electrified the stage with. With a flick of my toe act one would commence, lead of course with the fabulous “Two houses” speech of which we’re all so fond. I was about to engage the whole affair when I realised that I could not watch this art alone – I was the director, twas only fitting that I have an audience fit to receive it.

The gloom was seizing me – what use these decrepit actors and my machinations if I’d no audience to gasp and lavish their praise upon me? It was then that the doorbell rang. A quandary dear sirs: when one has supplanted the perhaps proper denizen, how should one answer their bell? It tickled my conscience for all of a moment before flinging the door open, puppeting the corpse of my Benvolio (whose gaping face I fancied likely fit the bill of the bell-owner) through the gap. It seems my attempts at make-up were in vain. Perhaps I’d made him too orange (to compensate for the stage luminance), perhaps it was his skeletal throat or my rude stitching. Perhaps both, for with a gasp and eyeball stretching the poor milk wench fainted away on the step. I cast Benvolio to one side and drew her in, settling her in a chair with bonds and cushion.

 Over the next three days I drank tea, ground my teeth and made adjustments to the animatronic controls of my cadaverous troupe. At regular intervals some other spectator would knock on the door with concern for the last to join my dainty auditoria. And so I achieved three ranks of restless eyewitnesses to my creative opus.

 It was precisely six days since I’d emerged in this creatively fertile time when I ordered the curtains open before my wide-eyed audience. They looked thrilled, and were hungry for theatre, and a meal. The careless former owner had made no allowance for the belly needs of is guests and I’d been able only to nurture their spirits with the backstage excitement of a play in progress. There were a number I had to slap awake lest they miss the third act, but most sat rigidly to attention, the sweat of anticipation dribbling down their faces. I was proud of my puppet players, from little Benvolio to Nursie (whom I’d constructed largely with an armchair), they played their parts while I provided their voices from falsetto to tenor; except for the scenes with my beloved Juliet. The wig I’d pasted onto his shiny pate quite deceived me and I truly believed our love would last forever, despite our families’ rancour.

 Alas, my spectacle was cut short by a hammering at the door. Though we tried to ignore it (my audience gamely blocking it out by the stamp of their feet) it was more than I (or any other artiste) could endure. Deeply affronted I hurled the door wide and bellowed for peace in the faces of the constables crowding the door. They fell back in surprise and I slammed the door once more. Their tiresome noise resumed at once. Is there to be no calm for a theatre director?

 We achieved act four before they pounded the door to pieces. I’d blocked the windows thoroughly to attain the darkness and suspension of disbelief my crowd deserved. Clearly I had no choice but to turn my thespians upon the interlopers. As the animated bodies attacked I realised I should have undertaken one of the histories, perhaps Henry V. “Once more, dear friends,” I cried as the tenuously twined torsos burst upon the bobbies, “unto the breach”. The rabble had no appreciation of the work and had the temerity to adopt expressions of anger, as if their interruption were not the travesty at hand. With a sigh I set the android to ‘kill’ and withdrew my time hamster from his pouch. I tickled him in that special way and he squealed forth the temporal orifice. With luck our next stop would be a more cultural realm.

Captain Pigheart’s Cetacean Adventure

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The deck of the Grim Bastard was awash with the bitter tears o’ the sea, her sails slashed with the fury of a scorned harlot.

Aye, and she had just cause to toss me vessel ‘tween her troughs, for once again in our drunken folly we’d spurned the hairless beasts spawned by her salty nether-fountain. Ye assortment o’ horrors fishy, be-toothed and tentacular what thronged in her deeps (venturin’ too oft also into her shallows) had besieged us as we sought naught but honest trade in the goods of others.

We sought to escape the ill luck that had pestered us by taking a cultural tour of the Baltic. Our first stop was the bustlin’ port town o’ Gloomåë Bøstardsen which, despite its glummy name, was the finest whore-filled harbour of opportunity and delicious vice on the coast of Finland. The normally suicidal folk o’ the Norselands’d found a place to spend ‘emselves in wench and wine before expirin’ in a sauna, thrashin’ one another with sticks.

We interrupted their genial knife-fighting to enquire about their famed whale pummellin’ contest. Me most morose crewmate, Shänkly Morbidsonsen revelled in the many grudges and humiliations he’d acquired as a child in this bleak land. Perhaps could regain his manhood with a spot o’ dolphin-slappin’. He slapped down his huge fists and enrolled the crew in this highlight of the Finnish calendar. All the sons o’ Bøstardsen’d signed up to beat the hell out of a cetacean punchin’ bag and show us upstart pirates who’d be dead in the snow the mornin’ after.

The contest was a terrifying display of drunken bravado and maudlin mammal mauling. Tis a curiously ill-defined sport, for ye object was to dash out as far as ye dared and punch the largest whale ye could reach. We waded out into the shallows and while ye big Fins punched through their tears and me lads met ‘em blow for blow.

The sea was as dark as the looming month-long night to come. For reasons unknown to the locals, the whale kin chose this bit of coast on which to prance and fornicate. Twas a poor choice, for there was surely some other enhumpinateable sand bank where folks were less prone to drunken punching and knife fights.

Me boys were acquitting themselves well, though there’d been some upsets – No Hands Mick’s prosthetic fists’d been banned so he could only batter ‘em with his stumps, bless him. Barry was found pluggin’ a dolphin in its blow hole – tis not the accepted form o’ punching hereabouts. He was gently dissuaded and spent the remainder of the contest wooing porpoises.

Now me lad Shänkly  had stunned a humpback whale with one blow and drawn the attentions of a great lass, by which I mean huge, who lay about the whales with a meanness born o’ young nights terrified by tales of the albino hippopotamuses dwelling in the forests. Surely tis an awful prospect and one that drives ye Fins to drink and incomprehensibly violent music. Gaargh, despite the gravity of the woman (for she drew waves and even the moon seemed larger) I could not help but compete with Shänkly  for his femininish prize, for such be me pride.

With the bravery of spiritual libation I swam out to deeper waters where ye larger sea moose cavorted. I must have stumbled upon one mid-thrust for it squealed and reared up. At first I thought it an impressive male, for its horn split the moon in two – then I realised twas from its head. In some state o’ startlement meself I lamped it in the face with all the strength I could muster. The horned beast tumbled backwards, snortling bubbles as it fell back into the sea.

I turned triumphant to the shore to the roar of me crewmates and a somewhat less heartening gasp o’ horror from the locals. The great barrel of a woman that Shänkly ’d his eyes upon (how could ye not for she eclipsed the landscape) bellowed at me, “ye fool ye’ve doomed us all”. In truth, the number of times I’ve heard that has quite diminished the worry it ought to incite. In addition she used an exotic range of vowels which reduced her intelligibility to whalesong. However on this occasion it was backed up by the frantic dash of Fins for the sanctity of their saunas, and by Shänkly  grabbing me by the collar and bellowin’ “ye’ve knocked out the narwhal princess! Tis time to be gone.”

In haste we splashed towards the Good Ship Lollipop and her alluring rope ladders. From behind came the deep hoon of irate cetaceans. As they surged forwards their fresh wake drove us onward. We’d almost made the ropes when a forest of twisted horns rose out of the sea beside us – the narwhal court set to avenge the honour of their princess. Brave Shänkly tugged Barry free from the enamoured porpoise he rode and forced us up the ladders before turning back to the big spike-faced fish.

Gaargh, I almost leaped back to fight by his side, but the grim set to his face reminded me of me duty to the crew and me preference for survival. Shänkly took a mighty gobful o’ the vodka from his traditional flask and spat fire impressively but futilely, for the beasts were sodden; though he did surprise ‘em before fisting ‘em roughly. As we gained the deck he’d been joined by his lummox woman who rivalled some of them in size, though not, as it turned out in sharpness. The pair fought with courage till they were caught by the brutes, their horns punchin’ through ‘em till they became glum pin cushions pierced in the narwhals’ bloody needle-point.

We set sail. Behind us the leviathans were launching themselves out of the sea onto the beach, flattening the saunas which offered scant protection, and the birch flails still less. The narwhals pursued us but fell back as they grew weary of the impenetrability of our hull, where they dangled from their faces till we cut them loose. I’ll miss Shänkly. Though he was a melancholic fellow he did tell fine tales o’ them white hippos to scare the cabin lads. For my part I’ve a lovely new unicorn o’ the sea peg leg, and a new-found enemy in whale-kind. Twas a good night out. On then to the festival village of Guttering Honk and their notorious owl-gargling rituals.

Captain Pigheart 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 in the Valley of Seth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Pigheart’s Romantical Adventure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Pigheart’s Mermaid Adventure

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Gaargh, me britches’re stained with the love juice of an impudent mermaid. ‘Twas but four moons ago. We were sailin’ North beyond the dire straits, escapin’ from the British and their monkey-long reach. Aargh. ‘Twas night and the waves were murky, slappin’ the ship like an idle seaman.

There was but me an’ No-Hands Mick ‘pon the deck, swiggin’ the last of Admiral Kneehorn’s finest malt whiskey. I were about to toss the bottle overboard when we heard a sound. A chillin’ sound, of the sort you never wants to hear, the sort so terrifying it makes yer blood freeze and yer eyes pop out on icicles. Gaargh. Old Mick knew it right away – ‘twas the call of a young, and fertile mermaid.

We peered over the side and there, stranded on a tiny reef were a buxom merwench, wailing for gentlemanly assistance. Bein’ gentles what we are, we leaped to her aid. I jumped off the bows and missed the blessed reef. ‘Tis good that I did, for Mick did not and he broke both his legs, for the deck was high up, and the rocks down low. Gaargh, ‘twas my lucky night. The young merlass seemed surprised by Mick’s wailin’, so I swam to her and began a soft croonin’ to soothe ‘er, like so. Now this she liked, I tells ya, and she turned ‘er beauty upon me.

Me black heart nearly broke through me ribs ter reach ‘er first. Glad I was of the padlock on me ribcage, firmly affixed there not nine years before by the king of Tarsus, a fine, but somewhat jealous fellow with his wives – but that’s a tale for another time.

Ah, she were radiant fair, her long hair silver by the moonlight, her arms draped shyly over her bounteous bosoms. Aye, and the most splendidly scaled tail I ever did lay eyes upon, my own or another’s. ‘Er tail swished seductive-like, splashing poor Mick with salty water. ‘Twas love at first sight. She flopped towards me, ‘er fishy nethers draggin’ ‘cross the reef, and I to her, my arms in welcome, and me britches at half-mast. Aye, an’ she was an enthusiast for the old sea-dogs I tell ye, she were fine, an’ fishy.

We lay together in the pale moonlight till ‘twas nearly dawn and old Mick had finally passed out from the pain. I saw she meant to leave me, and I knew I could not but let her go. For that’s the way of the ocean. Me heart sank as she dived beneath the waves, ‘er saucy tail flapping away.

I followed her with me eyes, well- me eye, and at the very edge of me sight she turned and tossed ‘erself out the water an’ the rising sun caught her all up the scales an’ she glowed like a big golden fish – and then she were gone. I dragged No Hands Mick back onto the ship and we went on our way.

On a quiet, moony night I fancy I can catch a whiff of that fine mackerel scent in me nostrils and can almost feel her cold, slippery fins about me thighs. Gaarrgh, ‘tis hard to bring meself to wash these britches – ‘tis all I have left. She was half fish, but all woman.