In Response to "Drink":
Casanova Productions:
"Sailors ought never to go to church. They ought to go to hell, where it is much more comfortable."
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo had laughed and agreed with this quote, once, heard in passing from another Spanish Sailor. However, this comforting delusion had been ripped away from him.
Hell is where the air is filled with a noxious sulfuric scent; where the smoke claws at your throat as you struggle to breathe. It is where the cries of dying friends can scarcely be heard over the raging sea that consumes them, along with the wreckage they cling to. Hell is where Diablo stares cruelly down at you, surrounded by several of his demons- laughing.
A harsh kick in the ribs jolted Antonio back to reality. His exhausted and bloody body was tightly bound by thick ropes. His fair Spanish mouth was gagged by some horrible piece of cloth, soaked with what tasted of bile and blood. Around him stood the enemy – English pirates wearing an odd assortment of sophisticated and expensive looking clothes, ripped and torn innumerable times, all of them likely stolen.
In front of the lot stood Captain Arthur Kirkland, imposing in a pair of shiny black boots, grimy white pants, and an infinitely tattered English Admiral jacket, topping off the look with an eye patch over his right eye. He stood with a haughty imposing gait, as if he was Poseidon himself. A malicious grin spread across his face as he looked at his prisoner.
"So ye thought ye could bloody well fuck wit' me queen, eh?" He barked out in a harsh voice filled with the swagger of a seasoned pirate. "Thought yer bunch of lubbers ye call an armada was enough to take on the best bloody bunch a scurvy pirates'n th' world, did ye?"
Antonio doggedly glared at the blasted pirate with hate in his eyes. The Spanish had been expecting an easy victory. The plan had been to ride into the harbor on the tide and incapacitate the defending ships at anchor and from there to attack England. Instead, the damn English had sent blazing ships at them full of god-damned explosives! Before anyone knew what was happening, the English were on them, savaging Antonio's men. The fires on the sea were dying out now. The moans of the Spanish survivors were fading too.
"Well me hearties? What should we do with the scurvy bilge rat?" Arthur roared to his compatriots. Shouts of "Let'm starve in the brig!" and, "Keel'n Haul'm!" rang out amongst the pirates. Arthur grinned at the suggestions. "Why don't we make a good show of it?" Arthur suggested with a flourish of his arms. "Let'm walk the plank!"
The pirates cheered at this suggestion. Several men immediately appeared carrying multiple weights they attached to Antonio. Antonio allowed himself to be dragged to the plank set off the side of the ship, and stumbled onto it. He can scarcely feel the scimitars slicing into his back as he makes his way towards the edge.
Antonio feels nothing but apathy as the waves rush up to meet him. After all, he reasons, how can one die in Hell?