Ye ocelot bounded out of the bush, seized me fine tricorn brim and dashed off into the grass. Ye first time twas endearing but the cursed half-deer half-aggravating vermin had been playing this game for days.
Though I’d attempted to blast the thing’s skull from off its neck I’d so far fallen short. Oftentimes I’d fallen in a river. At length the brute’d return it and prance gaily about. Gaargh, how I long to eat the creature.
A tale of me best mate, No Hands Mick. Gaargh, his name’s not for nothing, rather it aptly describes the absence o’ those fancy paws that elevate we men over the cunning beasts that continually plot our downfall. Aye – fear ye bears and ye fish for they mean us ill. Mayhap they’ve tails but tis ye crochet-enablin’ fingers and thumbs that let us bob on the waves, but Mick’s fisty mishaps began on land.
Gaargh, I awoke from a night o’ disturbin’ dreams. We’d been swiggin’ vodka for a change, since takin’ it off Danish merchants just after dawn. Me final memory o’ that
The Grim Bastard has suffered a fatal blow amidships. She’s like to meet Mr Jones on the ocean floor, unless the varied beasts of the deep tear her asunder. And
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