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Author Topic: Diary of a Bastard Buccaneer  (Read 2584 times)
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FirstAmongstDaves
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« on: August 23, 2012, 01:12:23 PM »

Day one of diary

At the wreck. Corpses. Few pirates. As desolate as Aphetto Kabal's sex life. No, not that bad: there are signs of life and not everything is rotting. Unlike Aphetto Kabal's sex life.

In the trader's hut. The trader is still an arse. Who keeps a pet at a shipwreck? I pat the dog with the same enthusiasm with which I would pat a chorizo sausage.

Some pickled dill has posted a sign about joining a pirate's league. Foolishness. The best of us are dead, the remainder stumbling through the jungle or pretending to rule the some of the shabbier locals. The spectres of my shipmates sneer with me. They are legion.

Out of nowhere, Gridflay , gnarled piece of tattooed gristle, hits me in the nose, welcomes me back to the shipwreck in his nonsense language, and runs away.

Ah, Griddles. He's not a bad egg for an incontinent savage with storm-strong halitosis and an insatiable bloodlust. I decide to punch him back, but I lose him. Instead I find a native called Ryan Smegfield. Something like that.

This particular native preys on pirates like ClickClick preys on goats, but with less foreplay and more machete action. I pull out my pistols. This is the first time I have used them. Twenty bullets at point blank range. Bits of native go flying into the water. I finish him with a dagger. I condemn the scurvy dog to whichever hell goes with his religion. I mutter a prayer to my long dead shipmate Rozen, who always wanted a brace of pistols.
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Raffles
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« Reply #1 on: August 24, 2012, 04:12:39 PM »

My attention was caught by the plural form of "pistol" and I remembered what good pals Daves and I are, and how we always share everything.
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Raan'dul
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« Reply #2 on: August 24, 2012, 06:39:03 PM »

Raffles, you are just jealous because Daves and I have more pistols than you.

GH
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Raffles
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« Reply #3 on: August 24, 2012, 11:11:00 PM »

Ah, but less chums, Hunt. And in the end, aren't they the true riches?

...

No. No, they aren't. Which is why I horde gold.
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Katie Calhoun
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« Reply #4 on: August 25, 2012, 06:50:44 AM »

Katie looks at Raffles and rolls her eyes thinking that chums are worth more then any pistol but still wishes she had a couple more pistols stashed  in her belt.
« Last Edit: August 25, 2012, 06:53:08 AM by Katie Calhoun » Logged


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FirstAmongstDaves
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« Reply #5 on: August 28, 2012, 04:04:21 AM »

I have ten pistols, my good man, purchased over a long period of time and at considerable price. Nine are jammed into a bandolier over my shoulder. The tenth, carefully filed down with a chisel, is hidden in my rear crevace in the unfortunate event I am ever searched by authorities. No god-fearing mortal would ever look there.

Day four of diary. Because days two and three was boring, not because I cannot count.

An apparition appeared before me. It was a cabin boy with the girly name of Kate. No doubt the poor lad had been sullied on the ship and took on a female name as a consequence of muddled gender aspirations. In any event, the confused cupbearer assisted me to kill off two native marauders. These people have the unsual ability of sleeping in deep water with a piece of straw between their front teeth. How they block their nostrils I do not know. When I sleep in deep water, I at least lounge on an inflated goat udder.

There was a pirate called "pirate eater" lurking in shallow water. I let him be. Any man who eats pirates for a living is too desperate for me. I know where they have been.

Then, I hear the call. Raffles, my old shipmate, who had been busy playing god with the ants of Raktam but has forgotten his magnifying glass, sends out word that York is to be harvested. It is as if he procures a bowl of icecream, pours hot chocolate sauce all over it, adds some sliced strawberries, and then pours the gooey mass over the arched, taunt, lithe, naked body of Mother of Armadox.

I cannot resist, and run madly, wildly, happily through the jungle, south and away from the wreck.
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