When Bootstrap Bill was lobbed into the sea with rusty chains binding him to a devil cursed cannon, he was yelling to the eight winds all the curses he could think of. He remembered the splash and taste of pure, salty seawater kissing his lips tenderly for a fateful second, before devouring him hungrily, shoving itself with wild abandon into his mouth and wrapping eager arms around him, dragging him down to the deep bottom of the sea.
To his utmost surprise, he was actually thinking coherently at that moment, the moment when light starts to fade and you're starting to get a I'm-in-deep-shit-and-nobody-can-help-me-least-of-all-Captain-Jack-Sparrow feeling.
Ah gods, I'm drownin', damn, augh, I'M DROWNIN', I'M DROW- hey. Wait.
Then, he supposed, in retrospect, came the second stupider thought. Or maybe, a thought that simply proved how exceptionally well he was at holding his own when it came to unholy and unnatural suprises such as this.(Actuallly, it was his innermost and most private thoughts that anybody who had suffered through a night of drinking, alone with Jack, will never suffer from any real surprise again. And, no, he was certainly not going to tell what had happened to the whole world.)
Wait. I ain't drownin'.
Ah.
Oh dear.
And... It is finished.
