PROLOGUE

The flimsy batwing doors swung wildly against the tavern walls, banging loudly as it careened back and forth on its rusty hinges. Although the bar was a chaotic scene of flipped tables, drunken sailors, and frantic waitresses, there were still enough people turning their heads to the commotion to garner a wide smile on his face.

He wasn't an ordinary pirate, that was for sure. After all, few could afford a blood-red coat of such high quality, have it lined with gold, and then have its sleeves torn off and fed to the barnacles. The pistol strapped to his belt, too, demonstrated his wealth; it had an ebony finish and was embellished with a strange, scarlet rune. The defining feature of his gun, however, was not the minute, arcane artifact attached to it. Instead, it was the silver carving of a femme fatale that made his weapon so well-known. In the dim, ochre light of the tavern, the imprint most certainly appeared to be a caricature of Miss Fortune, the infamous bounty hunter. No one dared to question him, however; the hilt of his cutlass, well-worn and marked beyond recognition, was adorned with a crest that confirmed his terrifying identity. The pirate flexing his large, solid muscles in front of bar was none other than the notorious Gangplank.

When the inhabitants of the tavern realized that the fiercest pirate of Bilgewater had come to bless their presence, they quickly raised their mugs and saluted him. A waitress rushed to his side and handed him a bottle of vodka, "On the house," she whispered seductively, and walked him over to the bar counter.

"Jon!" She snapped at the bartender before turning back to Gangplank. "Enjoy," her voice rolled over him like honey as she stroked his fine beard. Another sailor called to her then; indignant, she smiled sheepishly at the lord pirate before sauntering away.

"No woman can charm me," he chuckled under his breath. "But it don't mean I can't take a good looking," Gangplank muttered as his eyes followed the waitress's movements. "Bend over a lil' more, lass," he squinted. "Ye, that's it, that's it... Aw what in the seven seas be me eyes doing?" He asked himself. "Me gots a sweetheart called rum at home, and I ain't one to cheat on no one."

Indignant, he drank the whole bottle of vodka in a few gulps. Almost at once his body warmed up; the tendrils of the autumn breeze were loosening its grasp on him. Shivering in delight, he smashed the bottle against the counter and turned his head to the cowering bartender.

"The Bilgewater Special," Gangplank heartily laughed as he slammed down five golden Valors on the rotting bar counter. While the bartender brewed the obnoxious drink, the Saltwater Scourge turned around to face his audience.

"Gentlemen! Ye filthy landlubbers better prepare something special fer me!" He called to the motley crew of drunken sailors and rowdy washed-up has-beens. "Now call it out!"

"Drink the water! Drink the water! Drink the water!" They pounded on their tables, dirty plates and stained silverware clanging along to the hammering fists.

"Load her up!" Gangplank shouted, ripping the brew out of the frightened bartender's hands. As he tossed the banged-up pitcher of pewter into the crowd, its foul, acrid contents spilled onto the already sticky, yellowing floor. Arms and legs shot into the air in an attempt to catch the can, and a skirmish quickly erupted between two sailors on who had the rights to fill the mug first. While they argued, a third pirate snatched it away from the both of them and filled its bowels with a bottle of rather expensive rum. The two sailors quickly jumped on him; the pirate slid the concoction to his neighbor before being tackled down.

The next man was less generous; he smirked at Gangplank as he unloaded a cartridge of black gunpowder into the crimson red drink. The king pirate, however, was unconcerned. Black powder was nothing compared to the grog he had mixed within the Plague Jungles. Besides, he considered the smoky, spicy flavor to be a delicacy anyways. To demonstrate his gratitude, the Saltwater Scourge unloaded a bullet into his head. Even before the dead sailor slumped onto the table, his belongings were already pillaged and stolen.

"Ye gimme the powder to shoot," Gangplank grunted at his cutthroat companions. "I give ye the bullet. Now load some o'er his blood into me drink. I be havin' some o'er that iron deficiency, har har."

A sailor nodded at his command before slamming his dead comrade's noggin against the table. As a steady stream of blood gushed out of his head, the sailor held the pitcher under it until Gangplank flashed a thumbs-up sign at him. Sighing in relief, he passed it down to the next unfortunate man.

And so the dented pewter went, passing on and on between rough, callous hands until it once again came under the lord pirate's scrutiny.

The whole bar grew silent as every attendee focused his gaze on Gangplank. They held their breath in apprehension, fearing his response. There were rumors from the northern winds that sometimes, when the Special wasn't special enough, Gangplank would lay waste to the tavern and every drunken sailor inside.

Their hearts skipped a beat when the captain's nose twitched. Cold sweat gathered on their forearms and forehead as Gangplank's eyes flared. He sniffed the ersatz drink, glared down at its disgusting vile color, and at last turned to the people who had created such a foul beast. They sighed in relief upon seeing his ecstatic face. He liked it! Gangplank, satisfied with the sickly green results, spat into it before downing the whole thing in one, giant gulp. Almost at once, the tavern erupted in cheer and applause, partly to commemorate his bravery, partly to celebrate their survival.

"Yar, har har!" His thunderous voice boomed as he raised the empty cup high into the air. Gangplank's plaudits hence rose in intensity, and soon every sailor in the inn was either shaking his hands or patting him on his back. When the commotion finally died down, his mug was already filled to the brim with gleaming Valors.

"Thank you!" He hiccupped. "My fellow gracious, generous patrons!"

He poured the gold into his crimson red trench coat, and then hurled the pewter mug back at the bartender.

"Gimme my rum," he commanded. "On the double! I'm not done yet!"

As quickly as the bartender returned, he was sent back to make another one almost right away. Back and forth he went for quite a while, refilling and refilling, until Gangplank finally passed out from intoxication. By then, the early rays of dawn had already streaked across the sky, and those with even mildly respectable jobs returned to their homes.

Soon, only the hardest, roughest swashbucklers remained. When Gangplank awoke from his drunken stupor, he yelled for the bartender once more and demanded a pitcher of his Black Pearl Rum for each survivor. Within seconds, all of the burly pirates held a pitch-black drink in their hands.

"All on me!" Gangplank shouted at his companions.

"Huzzah!" They called out apprehensively. But there was no way out of it; they were going to have to drink the deadliest brew of the seven seas. Each raised his pitcher to toast, and each raised his eyebrows to pray to whatever abomination they believed in before downing the gooey, chewy mess. A few buckled and choked as the mixture of spices overpowered their senses. The ones who drank it all and held their weight were personally praised by Gangplank.

"Anyone who can survive a pitcher of my drink," he declared, "No doubt deserves a special place in hell!"

And with that, Gangplank stormed out of the dingy tavern, leaving the befuddled bartender alone with a stack of gold, broken furniture, and five extremely drunk men.