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A/N: Hello everyone! This is a one shot written for Rowena de Vandal's July 2008 1000 words or less challenge.
Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I don't own anything even remotely related to PotC. Disney, Johnny Depp, and Jerry Bruckhiemer have that luxury.
Enjoy!
Jack nudged her with his boot, not really expecting much to happen. It had gotten oddly loud inside his brain, thoughts traveling around the buzz from far too much to drink.
The best shot…
Careful not to spill the mug of rum he clutched in his unsteady left hand, he bent over her, not hearing a sound from her, not even a breath.
His brain became very, very quiet (though the buzzing stayed).
Her hand remained tightly grasping a worn pistol, the tiny fingers looking as though they'd been snapped. The kick from the shot has caused a rather sickening crunch, after all. Or had it simply been the shot finding its target?
'Course not, Jack reasoned. For it'd hit her, had it not?
Mr. Gibbs, acting as though there were some godforsaken trouble heading their way, grasped Jack's arm and yanked him away from the girl, though not before Jack was able to get a glimpse of her tits, barely covered due to how she'd fallen. Fair set, though the left looked to be a fair bit larger than the right.
"Best if we'd get goin', Cap'n," Gibbs muttered, trying to remain subtle. "Shan't be long before…oh, someone comes along."
Beckoning for Jack to follow, Mr. Gibbs began a mad trot of sorts toward the door, motioning for several other members of the crew to hightail it as fast as he. Jack, however, planted his boots firmly into the wooden planks and shouted.
"Mr. Gibbs!" he began, causing the older man to curse profusely under his breath and turn about. "Why exactly is it that everyone seems to be away on their merry way away when I have not yet acquired the spoils of my intellectual labors?"
"Cap'n?" asked Gibbs, incredulous and otherwise exasperated. Jack noted that a thick layer of sweat had broken out across his mate's forehead. Jack was perplexed as to why; he found the atmosphere of the tavern to be most comfortable. He also was perpetually aghast at the multitude of fuss over the girl. It was her own damn fault, and that certainly didn't take away from his achievement—he had his fourteenth rum of the night coming to him!
Completely forgetting about Gibbs, the crew, and even the girl, what with the all-consuming thought of drink on his brain, Jack retread his steps, arriving at the same barstool where he had spent the whole night. Without an ounce of trepidation, he reached over the lifeless body of the barroom wench (mismatched tits still in sight) and snatched the visually stunning bottle from the counter.
After the first swig (which, of course, was always the most satisfying) Jack looked down at the motionless female frame. A burst of clarity and the fidgety Gibbs reached him at the exact same time, and, due to the former, Jack clasped his hand about the shoulder of the latter.
"This young lady…" Jack said. "This fine example of the female species… Brash… uncommunicative…saturated with drink of all sorts…dead…"
"Cap'n, she were naught more'n a barmaid," an increasingly snappish Gibbs replied.
"Ah, but the barmaid certainly is a creature worthy of mourning," Jack wisened, wrapping his arm (the one gripping the nearly full bottle of rum) round his audience's shoulders and perhaps resting a tad bit of his weight upon him. "This lovely establishment is one I visit often," said Jack, "Once a day…eight times a week…and this particular barmaid made the journey quite worth the while, what with her exemplary state of womanhood and all.
And while some could think the shapely wench foolish, the shape certainly outweighed the fool…We'd such times together…enjoyable…pleasurable…marvelous…didactic..."
"Aye, she certainly were foolish, seein' as she's shot 'erself in the head." Gibbs shook his.
"Ahh, a story worth a recount!" Jack said, easing into it. 'It were quite recent…Very recent, coming to the thought, it has the distinct feel of moments ago…Though, of course, it were. Moments ago. In any case, the lass, to the kind request s of mine for a drink on the house, seeing as though you could water the barren desert with what I had so kindly bought'd already, claimed that she'd give the aforementioned drink to me under one condition."
Jack paused to take a swig of said drink.
"So anyhow, ol' what's-her-name--"
"Cap'n, I thought you came in here every day," Gibbs asked plaintively.
"Ahh, but names are certainly fickle, cruel creatures that are deserving of nothing aside from ignoration and disdain. But to get this drink, she says, she would have to miss a shot. Bein' of solid and sound mind, I chose what it was that she had to shoot.
Claiming to be the fairest shot this side of the Caribbean, she seemed not to think it were any trouble at all to shoot a hole clear through the neck of this here bottle.
Unfortunately," Jack continued, not making it sound unfortunate at all, "She hit that copper pot instead. Seems to have bounced off and hit her square in the face."
"Yes, Cap'n," Gibbs coaxed. "An' does—do—did this girl have any acquaintance around which we ought to tread lightly?"
Jack furrowed his brow. "Suppose her father; he's a rather large fellow…easily upset…"
"Aye, Cap, and ain't that your pistol she's grippin'?"
Jack looked down at the girl's hand. Indeed it was.
Grasping her mess of tightly curled hair, Jack shifted her weight away from his pistol and wrenched it out of her crumpled fingers. Standing and looking about worriedly, he began to saunter towards the door.
"Mr. Gibbs," he said lazily, "I do believe it is right time to take our leave."