Jack's boots caused the dock to creek loudly with every step. Jack accompanies the creak of rotting wood well; he too was drunken to falling apart.

"That's a lie. That's a lie. That's a lie, lie, lie!"

The rum swashed merrily in it's bottle as it sang it's liquid melody to accompany Jack's shanty.

"This ram and I got drunk, sir, as drunk as drunk can be, and when we sobered up, sir, we were far away out at sea. That's a lie. That's a lie. That's a lie, lie, lie."

Mister Gibbs was deep inland, searching for a medicine man who might be able to restore the Pearl to her former, not bottle sized glory. Voodu or woman. Or Obeah. Anything would be fine really. With Mr. Gibbs gone, Jack Sparrow was left without a thing to do. Drinking and merriment were always good time fillers. Unless the Governor of Jamaica personally wanted to hang you. The Rum was spicy.

"This wonderful old ram, sir, was graceful as a kid; He swallowed the captain's spyglass along with ship from rudder to jib. That's a lie. That's a lie. That's a lie, lie, lie."

A lonely dock was as good a place as any for imbibing in the intoxicating forgetfulness of drink. Even better than many. It was near water.

"The night was very rough, sir, the wind like oyster peel; he made for me schooner of whale skin and taught me trick at the wheel. That's a lie. That's a lie. That's a lie, lie."

A creaked rope behind him.

Jack was drunk, but not unguarded. Creaking meant weight. Weight meant gun. Gun meant bad. Jack just needed something clever to say.

"I'll be havin me pearl back, Jack."

The sound of shot. The blindness of shock. The fortunate lack of pain as of yet. A moment for healthy denial. Jack had finally registered something clever to say. Then nothing.