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I disclaim all. Disney owns this universe. I merely play in it.
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Taller by a Yard -by BlackJackSilver
Marty unrolls himself out of a piece of canvas that has been serving as his bed, since he spent the last of his swag two nights ago. He digs about in the sand until he finds his hammer, sticks it in his pocket, then stretches, stretches, stretches up to his full height of three feet. Marty hides the canvas in some bushes, and strolls into beautiful downtown Tortuga, with the sun setting behind him.
Marty is so hungry that he almost doesn't ask the toothless white haired sailor sitting in the middle of the street sobbing for a drink from his bottle. Well, Marty's almost that hungry.
"Here now, wha's all this, then, old mate? Why are ya blubbering so? Don't suppose you'd be willin ta share that bottle, and tell yer mate Marty all yer troubles?"
"Some- somebody stole my chicken!" says the old man, hugging his bottle to him like he's willing to defend it with his life, which, Marty reckons, the old man probably is.
"That's too bad, old mate. You can't keep nothin fer yerself in Tortuga. Here, I don't 'spose you'd want to share that bottle, and tell me all about yer chicken?"
"I'll give ya this bloody bottle- if ya kin get me chicken back!"
Well, that is the best offer Marty has heard in several days- still. Marty studies the old man. His red rimmed eyes can not focus. He is listing starboard even though he's sitting down. Marty could just wait here for a bit, until the old man passes out. Then Marty could help the old man out, by drinking the rest of his rum for him. More rum now would do the old seadog more harm than good, considering the state he's in. Then again, it would be just Marty's luck if the old man drank all of his rum and still didn't pass out.
Marty tugs at his beard a bit. He was never good at sorting out moral dilemmas. Just then, off in the distance, as if a sign from on high, Marty hears what sounds like a chicken, that, or a particularly noisy strumpet getting strangled.
"Stay right here, old mate. Be right back with yer chicken."
Marty runs around the corner in the direction of the squawking. He comes upon two drunken chicken-nappers sitting on crates. One is holding the chicken trying not to get pecked. The other is sharpening a long wicked knife.
"Oy," says Marty. "What do you two think yer doin with my chicken?"
"What chicken?" says the one holding the chicken.
"Ain't yer chicken, shorty, or if it were, it ain't no more. We stoled it fair and square, see?" says the one with the knife, who seems to think it sharp enough now, seeing as how he is no longer sharpening it, but is pointing it at Marty.
Marty isn't looking at the man with the knife, though. Instead he seems rather fascinated by something under the man with the knife. "Did you drop that doubloon?" Marty says pointing more or less under the crate on which the man with the knife is sitting.
"Yes! What doubloon?"
"Right there, " Marty says, inching closer. The man has lowered his knife now, and is doubled over, trying to look underneath himself.
"Where? I don't see it."
"Right there," says Marty, smashing his hammer down on the first man's toe, grabbing the knife out of his hand, at the same time.
"Oh, I'll be buggered," says Marty, "that weren't a doubloon. It were yer toenail!"
Marty turns the knife toward the man holding the chicken, "Give me my chicken; or I runs yer knee through!" The man scowls but hands Marty the chicken. Marty tucks the chicken under his knife arm, hits the second man in the knee with his hammer, and runs.
Marty cuts down a few back alleys, then circles back around to where the old man with the rum is sitting. Marty can't help but notice that much of Marty's rum is no longer in the bottle.
"Here you go, old mate. I'll take my bottle now!"
"No ya won't, ya runty scallywag! That's not my chicken!"
"There he is!" Marty hears from behind him, "You better run, you little devil!"
Marty risks a glance over his shoulder. Good thing both of the chicken-nappers are still limping. Holding the chicken, the knife, and the hammer, Marty runs around the corner, ducks into the first door he finds, and climbs onto a stool at the bar (not easy to do when you are three feet tall, and carrying a chicken, a knife, and a hammer.) Next to him, is a grey haired man Marty doesn't know. The man keeps tossing looks in Marty direction. Finally, the man says,
"I objects to the present company!"
"I don't much like chickens either, mate. This one's got lice or something. Look, me whole arm's gone red and blotchy. Barkeep! I wanna trade this chicken fer rum!"
The barkeep looks up for perhaps half a second and then goes back to his work of ignoring Marty.
"It's no' the chicken I objects to! The chicken can stay," says the grey haired man. "I don't like pixies!"
"That's done it! You dunno who I am, d'ya?"
"Who are ya then? King of the bleedin' Pixies?"
"I'm Captain Mad Jack Sparrow, mate, scourge of the Royal Navy, terror on the high seas, as dangerous with a knife," Marty stabs the bar, "or a hammer," Marty waves it a little, "or even a chicken, as I am with a sword! You leavin', matey; or maybe you want to find out how I come by my reputation?"
"No offense, Cap'n. I heard you were short; I just didn't realize..." The man puts some coins down and leaves quickly. Marty pockets the coins, since he is still being ignored. He pulls his knife out of the bar, hops off the stool and heads for the door, still carrying the hammer and the chicken.
Marty crosses the street, turns down an alley, and enters the nearest doorway. He climbs onto a stool at the bar, next to a grey haired man he doesn't know. Marty can't help but notice that the man has turned on his stool and is staring right at him. Common sense tells Marty to ignore the man, and to use his newly acquired wealth to order rum. What the hell, though? Plenty of rum in Tortuga, and places to drink it. Marty hasn't started a decent barfight for days now. So Marty says, "Am I something special, mate? Or do all short men make you want to get down on all fours?"
Much to Marty's surprise, the man says,
"Well, yes, on both counts. What I want to know is, how do we use the chicken?"
"-She likes to watch. Tonight's no good for us, though. Chicken's got a headache. Best I get her home, really."
"I do hope she's feelin' better soon. Maybe next time, then, ey!"
Marty leaves the same way he came in, well, almost.
Marty cuts down another alley, turns right and enters the first door. He climbs up on a barstool. Marty can't help but notice that once again he is seated next to a grey haired man he doesn't know. He is not shocked when the man glances at him.
"Wha's me little lad doing sittin at the bar with a chicken? Shouldn't you be asleep by now, son?"
"Who are you callin' yer little lad, ya big blind bastard?"
This earns Marty a good hard look. The man looks from his bald head to his twisted beard down to his boots and back up again. "Fer a wee feller, you got a big mouth."
"Fer a tall feller, you're short on brains."
The taller man stands and wobbles a bit. It is clear to Marty that this man has been doing as much drinking as he wishes he himself had been doing this evening. "You saying you think I'm a half-wit, half-pint?"
Marty tosses the chicken into the man's face, leaps onto the bar, with knife in one hand and hammer in the other, like he means business, which, at this point, he most definitely does. "I'm sayin I know yer a half-wit. Now, I suspect, you'll be tryin ta prove it to the rest of the Tortuga!"
The man gapes at him a moment, his anger fading as quickly as it had flared. Soon he smiles at Marty. Now the grey haired man starts to laugh. It is not that shallow tinny 'before I kill you' kind of laughter, either. Marty has heard plenty of that to know the difference. No, this is the big hearty genuine laugh you share with a mate. "Ya might have half the size of yer typical pirate, mate, but I reckon you got twice the courage of most. Here, sit down and lemme buy ya a drink. While yer drinking it, you can listen to an offer."
Well, already that's the best offer Marty has heard in months!
The man says his name is Gibbs. Turns out, he is recruiting for none other than Captain Mad Jack Sparrow. Well now, there's an odd coincidence. Sparrow recently, and nearly single handedly (to hear Gibbs tell it, anyway) commandeered a Royal Navy ship, and now needs the men to crew it. "One thing, though Marty," says Gibbs, "before you sign on, it's only right to warn ya. Captain Jack Sparrow's clever as the devil, but mad as they come. He told me himself that he's got it in his head to go after the Black Pearl. Used ta be her captain, ya see, fore his mutinous first mate Barbossa marooned him for dead. Crew don't mean nothing to him since that mutiny. Crew or no, he'd sell every last one of us to Old Hob to get his ship back.
Now, as you probably know, the Black Pearl's cursed. Bad luck to chase a cursed ship, I say. Worse than that, Barbossa's her captain still, and cursed or no, he's a plenty nasty piece o' work, that one. Eat yer heart as soon as look atcha, he would.
Not only that, Marty, the whole of the bloody Royal Navy is crisscrossing these waters in search of their Interceptor. I was in the Navy once, impressed so long I didn't know no other life. That was fore Captain Sparrow taught my captain a thing or two about flying the Union Jack, but that's another story. You mark my words: if they think they can't take us, the Navy'll sink us. Still, better ya drown or let the Navy have their way with ya, than get captured by old Bloodbath Barbossa. Worse ways to die than swimmin or dancing the rope jig is all I'm sayin.
Signing on with us, ud mean certain death, either from the curse, in battle, by the noose, or worse. If yer lucky, and don't get kilt, which I highly doubt, yul likely lose an eye or a leg or yer mind, at very least, fore this voyage ends. Even if yer truly charmed and don't lose nothing, you'll not gain from it neither. It's a fool's errand, ya see. No good can come of it.
-But!
If yer bored and want ta feel the sea under ya, I'd be mighty proud ta serve with ya on board the Interceptor!"
Marty takes a swig of rum and rolls it on his tongue. He's heard some bloody sorry recruiting speeches. He has had some mighty sad offers in his time. This, without doubt, puts even the worst of those to shame. Then again, he's just spent all evening risking life and limb for a taste of rum, or was it really for a mangy chicken?
"Yeah, I'll do it. Consider yer whole crew three feet taller."
"That's the spirit! Just one more thing, Marty. Ya can't be taking that flea-bit chicken on board. Bad enough we've got a mute with a drunken parrot."
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