A Spaniard and a Pirate Walked Into a Bar…

By Joss Taylor Olson (under the pen name Zellarius Burvenia)

Writing sample

It was late afternoon in Florin City, and Inigo Montoya felt that the immense weight on his shoulders increased exponentially with the descent of the Florinese sun. Thanks to the man in black, Vizzini was dead, Fezzik was missing, and Inigo was presently alone in the world.

He sighed, heavy-hearted, and cursed his inadequacy yet again. "Would that I could have bested him. If not for me, Fezzik would be here." The Turkish giant was Inigo's best friend, and never left his side unless they were separated by fate or by enemy action.

Today was one of those times.

Inigo remembered Vizzini's advice at moments like this: Go back to the beginning. If his memory served him better than his sword had lately, the beginning was a drunken stupor. Yes, it was coming back to him...he was outside El Hombre Verde, the best tavern in Andorra. Having failed for twenty years to find the six-fingered man who had murdered his father, he had spent this unhappy anniversary drinking the pain away. Inigo had been chatting up a particularly shapely manure wagon when a Sicilian named Vizzini approached him with a proposition involving ransom and the current Princess of Sardinia. With a final farewell to his beloved wagon ("I never loved you anyway! You smell like my grandfather on Saturdays."), he had followed Vizzini into his new life of daring and crime, and occasional frolics with Swiss maidens in the foothills of the Alps.

When he thought of those Swiss maidens...

But now was not the time to dwell on such things. Now was the time to get to the nearest purveyor of alcoholic drinks. The goal: Inability to leave until the following morning. Inigo strolled through Florin City's narrow streets, dodging peasants with livestock here and soldiers bound for the castle there, looking for some building that fit these requirements. Some searching brought Inigo somewhere that he wasn't sure existed. Wasn't there an alley there a second ago?

For now, Inigo found himself facing a small two-story tavern, tucked neatly between the Bank of the Templars (Florin City Branch) and Meral and Lycinder's All Nation Footwear (No Mongols Need Apply). It was a small, unassuming building of dark red brick, with "The Factory Room" inscribed in a large cursive arch over the black oak door.

"What the hell is a factory?" thought Inigo. He stood in the street a moment longer, sizing the place up, and shrugged. Drunk was drunk. Inigo strode up to the door, entered the tavern and took a first look around.

And quite a look it was. The moment the door closed, Inigo was struck by the sheer size of the place. For starters, the two-story exterior was no indicator of the interior layout; the Factory Room had four stories packed with tables and chairs, as well as a multi-tiered bar serving every level. Doors of all colors and materials lined the walls at intervals of fifty feet. Wrought iron spiral staircases connected the floors at the same intervals, and the room extended back for an indeterminate distance - though Inigo was sure it couldn't possibly have fit into the city block he had found it in.

"Hell, it might not even fit in the city," he noted. But at this moment, his thirst hijacked his train of thought, sending him to the open bar across the way.

As Inigo made his way to the bar, he noticed that the Factory Room's patrons were...unorthodox, to say the least. A man in red and gold armor was entertaining a table full of stunning women to Inigo's left, and Inigo saw an extremely tall, grinning man with a massive, bristly mustache and a gray, rumpled suit entering through one of the doors. Raucous polka music filled the space behind him until the door closed. It was distinctly possible, Inigo thought, that they weren't from anywhere he knew.

Inigo shook his head, approaching the bar and wondering at the place's selection of drinks. Bewilderingly exotic, no doubt. "One glass of the finest wine in Spain," he said to the barkeep, fully intending to test the range of this place's diversity.

"Spain? Believe me when I say you'd be better off guzzling dishwater, mate."

Inigo whirled to find the source of the voice; he found that it came from a rough-looking fellow to his left, two seats down and resting his feet on the seat separating them. "What did you say to me?"

Inigo was normally a calm, agreeable sort, but he had two hot buttons that anyone who knew him was careful not to push. The first was the six-fingered man - the killer of Inigo's father.

The second was insulting Spanish wine. It was this nerve that the stranger was inadvertently attacking as he answered Inigo's question.

"Nothing personal mate; I merely intended to postulate that asking for the finest wine in Spain is like asking for the finest whore in a barnyard. Either way, you end up with a foul taste in your mouth." The man spoke with a distinctly British drawl, and wore his hair in several braids that hung to his shoulders. A scraggly goatee framed a mouth of gold and brown teeth. The stranger also wore a sword and a musket in a massive belt, and a gray tweed vest over a silk shirt with billowing sleeves. A leather three-cornered hat hid his eyes, rounding off his roguish appearance. Inigo knew of only two types of people who dressed this way: Lunatics and pirates.

Inigo advanced on him, looming over the lounging man with a grim expression on his face. His attempt at intimidation was lost on the stranger, who himself was lost in his frothing mug of rum.

"It would be wise to apologize, strange man," Inigo warned, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Do you know who I am?"

The stranger finished his drink, slamming the empty mug down on the bar. "Can't say I do. But I know who you're not." He adjusted his hat, angling it so he could meet Inigo's eyes. He was wearing eyeshadow, Inigo noted. Perhaps he was an actor. "All actors wear makeup, don't they?"

"You are not the captain of a fine sailing vessel anchored right outside this establishment. Ergo, you lack the ability to leave this establishment, scurry back on board, and command the crew to open fire on the building for even considering the possibility of serving such swill as you seem to prefer."

Inigo took a step back, shocked at the man's abrasiveness and at his mastery of the English language (despite smelling like he'd already been in the bar for several hours). The man held his gaze a moment longer, chuckled, and threw some coins onto the bar for another drink.

Inigo assessed the situation in his head. "He's stinking drunk...yet he seems to hold his alcohol pretty well. Judging by his age, probably around 30…and the wear on his hands and sword...Challenging him could be risky, even for a master such as me." Inigo studied him for several moments, weighing the pros and cons of the situation - he was, after all, still sober. The man noticed this, smirked, and turned to the bartender.

"A pint o' something French, love? I want to see two of you."

French.

Blasphemy.

Without another second's hesitation, Inigo drew his sword, leveling it at the man's throat. "Insolent Englishman, my name is Inigo Montoya. I hail from the village of Arabella, high in the hills above Toledo. When I was ten years old a six-fingered man slew my father Domingo Montoya in cold blood. For twenty years I have pursued him, that I might avenge my father. To stand a chance against him I did nothing but study the ways of the sword for all my life. For forty-four thousand hours I squeezed rocks to strengthen my hands, learned to run and skip and dodge like the wind, that my speed and strength would be unmatched. For a hundred thousand hours I learned all I could of swordplay - the technique, the history, under any master I could find. Venice, Bruges, Budapest - I have seen all these and many more, ever hungry for betterment. I have risen beyond even the skill of Bastia, the Wizard of Corsica, once the greatest fencer the world has ever known. I have done all this, only to come within inches of the six-fingered man, and lose him again. Worse yet, I was bested by a mysterious man in black – a nobody! Because of this my friend lies dead under the earth. I have lost my honor, my nemesis, and my greatest friend in the entire world. All that is left to me is my drink, and I will not hear it slandered. My name is Inigo Montoya. You ridiculed my culture. Prepare to die."

The pirate froze, his hand hovering inches from his mug of unholy French ale. Time seemed to slow down; the room had gone deadly silent at Inigo's challenge, and it seemed that everyone had their eyes on the two, waiting to see what happened next. Seconds passed like minutes, and Inigo was considering clubbing the man with his sword's hilt, stealing his money, and leaving it at-

CLANG.

In a flash of movement uncharacteristic of someone so inebriated, the stranger leaped to his feet and knocked Inigo's sword aside with his mug.

KONK. SPLASH.

Inigo cursed at the top of his lungs. His enemy had hit him full in the face with the mug before splashing the contents in his face. As he frantically wiped at his burning eyes, the strange man drew a sword of his own.

"Can't say I've ever heard of you, and I'd much appreciate if you didn't feel the same way about me. For who in this wide, glorious, luscious world..." (He leered at the bartender on "luscious") "...has not heard of Captain Jack Sparrow? En garde, Wendigo, or whatever your name is."

Inigo glared daggers at him, and lunged. He threw a chair at him, but missed deliberately to get Sparrow to dodge. As the pirate recovered, Inigo drove forward, aiming a strike directly at his heart. But his anger threw his aim off, and Jack parried and stepped backward, unharmed.

"Look at you! You fight worse sober than I do drunk." Jack looked around, and a thirty-foot stack of barrels caught his eye. "Let's get some drink in you, shall we?" He dashed over to the barrels, and struck one of the taps with the hilt of his sword. It bounced off ineffectually, rebounding into his face. Jack now had a hilt-shaped mark on his chin. The bar erupted into laughter, and Jack looked around in indignant annoyance.

"I meant to do that, you pillocks!" he yelled, opting to twist the handles on the barrel taps this time, though with more force than seemed necessary. Various alcoholic liquids gushed out and onto the floor, quickly spreading and turning the dueling ground into the drunkest lake of all time.

Inigo brandished his sword, stalking across the room. "You're the craziest person I've ever met!" he shouted, wading through the alcohol, sword at the ready. "And that includes the Duke of Provence. Thought he was a spaniel, that one!" The duelists circled each other, each daring the other to make the first move. Jack twitched his sword arm, and Inigo took this as a cue to leap forward. Steel met steel, and the battle began in earnest.

A crowd had gathered around them by now - some cheering for Inigo, some for Jack, and some attempting to fill their tankards from the alcohol covering the floor. Inigo had a clear advantage - he was taller, and pressed his advantage aggressively, driving Jack up against the barrels. He drew back for a shot at Jack's shoulder, at which point Sparrow quickly knocked on a barrel near him. Finding it hollow, he ripped it from the stack and hurled it at Inigo. The Spaniard ducked, and the barrel sailed into the crowd, catching a spiky-haired blond soldier with a gigantic sword full in the face.

By the time Inigo recovered, Jack had scrambled on top of the barrels. Inigo started up after him, but stopped dead in his tracks when the pirate pulled his musket on him. He stared incredulously at the barrel, anger mounting. "That's cheating!" he protested.

"Pirate," Jack taunted. He whirled then, firing up at the ceiling. Something snapped high above them, and Inigo looked up to see a wrought iron chandelier spinning dangerously in place, hanging directly overhead on a fraying rope. He had approximately two seconds to decide on a course of action. He leaped to the ground; with a well-placed kick, the barrel at the bottom corner of the stack was knocked out of place.

Jack stared at him, brows furrowed in confusion, before a look of panic crossed his face. Whipping his head from side to side, he frantically searched for an exit as his barrel perch crumbled beneath him. Something clattered above him; he looked up, smiled, and jumped.

Inigo was stunned. By some miracle of luck, or timing, or both, Jack landed squarely on the falling chandelier, using it as a stepping stone to the ground. He hit the ground running, just barely managing to keep his balance. Jack caught himself on the bar, pushed himself to his feet and turned back to Inigo with a wry grin.

"Well played, Vertigo. We're right back where we started." He stumbled slightly, grabbing a nearby bar stool for support. Inigo regarded him with wonder as he stood and brushed himself off. Despite his shock, he managed a simple question: "Who are you?"

Jack glanced at him for a split second, currently engaged in straightening his hat. Satisfied, he balanced his sword on his shoulder and answered. "You may call me Captain Jack Sparrow, commander of the unsinkable and quite luxurious Black Pearl. I have known more women than the number of times you've sneezed, won and lost a hundred fortunes, and sailed to the end of the world and back. I've singlehandedly taken on all manner of beasties, including but not limited to the undead, a kraken, and its master, the Devil himself. My luck and my swordsmanship are so well known that men have surrendered to me without even having met me, which may explain that one island in the South Pacific where everyone walks on their knees. I am, in short, no one to be trifled with." He paused for breath. "I purchased this rather fine hat in Sicily, and this vest-"

"Enough! I will not be humbled by some fancypants sailor!" Inigo roared, drawing a knife and throwing it at Jack. Jack ducked, and the knife embedded itself in the wall behind him, severing a rope as it did so.

What happened next would be a fairly powerful memory for all involved, though reports varied as they always will.

The highest level of the Factory Room is not a floor, but rather a massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling by a complicated series of ropes and chains. So big is it that it is used as another dining area, with tables and chairs set up near open fireplaces that serve as giant candles for the giant fixtures. On that particular day, the Chandelier Level was undergoing an extensive overhaul of its suspension system; it was about halfway completed, with the ropes on Jack and Inigo's side rather worn down. The rope that had just been cut happened to be an anchor for that particular side; its severance unbalanced the complicated system of pulleys holding it all up. The whole thing wouldn't come down, but the Chandelier Level was now listing slightly to the south.

There was a massive creaking and avalanche-like noise that caused Jack and Inigo to look up. They saw the tilting giant chandelier, unbalanced and pouring furniture on the bar and patrons below. A table slid off of the chandelier, falling and crushing another table and scattering the patrons gathered around it. The crowd dispersed with a chorus of screams and curses, fighting to get to an exit as chairs rained down on them. A few stood their ground, blasting chairs apart with magic or smashing them with oversized weapons. The result was a maelstrom of splinters and flaming pieces of furniture just a few feet out from the bar, ruining just about everyone's day.

Jack Sparrow watched it happen, stunned, and finally got to his feet. His amazement quickly gave way to indignation. "Now look what you've gone and done!" he reprimanded Inigo, shouting both out of anger and to overcome the screams and crashes that filled the room. "You see? This is where wanton violence gets you. It's all fun and games until some lunatic Spaniard goes and breaks the pub."

"Oh, enough of your nonsense!" Inigo shot back. "I would remind you, Captain, that none of this would have happened had you only kept your bigotry in check!"

Jack threw his hands in the air, scoffing. "Oh, yes, it's the same old story isn't it?'Oh, heavens, here come the bloodthirsty Englishmen to kill some innocent foreigners and take all their cream pies!'" he mocked, affecting a frightened, girlish lilt. "Does the year 1588 mean nothing to you, man? The Invincible Armada?"

Inigo stared at him blankly. "Sir," he began, in a tone calmed considerably by his perplexed state, "the year is 1479 where I come from."

Now it was Jack's turn to be perplexed. Inigo noticed that he did most of his expression through his eyebrows, one of which had seemingly seceded from his face and attempted a union with his hair. "Are you?" Jack's face darkened in contemplation, and Inigo idly noted that the sounds of panic seemed to be dying down. "Odd," Jack continued. "I thought there was something off about this place. Did I ever tell you about the man who asked me where to find the Ark of the Covenant?" Inigo was about to answer in the negative, but Jack's sudden look of horror stopped him cold; Inigo slowly turned, following his adversary's gaze.

Seemingly the entire customer base of the Factory Room was standing before them, the crowd ankle-deep in a sea of various potables littered with wooden debris. Some of it still burned. Expressions varied. One short, bearded man with an axe about half his size was turning progressively violent shades of purple; a regular-sized man in an electronics-store uniform had fixed both of them with a calm glare, and was smacking a well-worn cricket bat against the palm of his hand at regular intervals. These and countless other patrons formed what could only be properly referred to as an angry mob.

A tense silence had settled upon the Factory Room - Jack and Inigo trading uneasy glances, the mob waiting for them to make a move. Inigo, transfixed by the sight of his own doom, nearly shrieked like a little girl when Jack tapped him on the shoulder. He just barely managed to avoid making any sudden moves, turning to hear what the pirate had to say.

"Truce?" Sparrow offered.

Inigo sighed. It seemed reasonable, given their similar state of being: Almost Certainly Screwed. "If you've got a plan for fighting off at least a hundred furious drinkers," he replied.

Jack beamed. "Observance is a virtue, mate," he said, pointing to a glass case mounted on the back wall of the bar. Inigo slowly turned his head to see it.

IN CASE OF MURDEROUS CUSTOMERS, BREAK GLASS (YOU POOR DESPERATE SOUL), it read. A bright red button sat placidly behind the glass, emblazoned with white letters:

RELEASE THE SHE-BEARS.

"Release the what?" Inigo cried, before he could stop himself. His voice was quickly drowned out by the angry mob, for which the noise had been the go-ahead for violence. Calls for Jack and Inigo's blood, heads, and various other personal items filled the air as they rushed the bar, just before Jack smashed the glass with the butt of his gun.

The button was pressed. An alarm sounded. The mirror that made up the back wall of the bar slid away.

Two massive grizzly bears leaped past Jack and Inigo and over the bar, landing heavily on the floor before the charging mob. One leaped into the crowd, grabbing terrified patrons and tossing them aside like pretzels, while the other charged directly into them, catching the axe-wielding dwarf head-on. The mob broke ranks and scattered, some brave holdouts retreating and taking potshots at the bears; the rest fled to the edges of the bar, frantically scrambling for the doors they had entered through. Inigo looked at Jack, who tipped his hat to him and ducked under the bar. He was back with two bottles, one of which he stuffed in his vest. The other one he offered to Inigo.

It was labeled "Amontillado del Puerto de Santa María (1779)." Inigo's breath caught in his throat. Clearly Spanish. But was it the finest?

Jack seemed to read his mind when he answered. "From the future, mate. I can guarantee it'll be like nothing you've tasted before."

Inigo took the bottle, staring at it in awe. He looked back at Jack for a final time. "Thank you, Captain. It is truly an honor to have faced you in battle."

Sparrow laughed. "Same to you, mate. Here's to us," he said, saluting Inigo and turning to leave. Jack walked off, calmly forging a path through the chaos; after about fifty feet, he looked around and broke into a full sprint for an exit. Inigo watched him leave, and decided he should do the same. Sheathing his sword and cradling the bottle in both hands, he left the bar; seconds later, he left the Factory Room altogether.

The door closed behind him, cutting off the screams, roars, and crashes from the rest of Florin City. Inigo looked up and down the streets; apart from the time of day, nothing seemed to have changed. He looked behind him, and the Bank of the Templars and Meral and Lycinder's All Nation Footwear gazed unassumingly back at him. Inigo shook his head, blinked a few times, and then looked down at the bottle in his hand, a relic of future times.

He decided, for sanity's sake, that he should polish it off as quickly as possible.