Maybe You Could Leave, Alex
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of PoC, but I own my plot and my characters.
Ever since Jack and Elizabeth had eloped to the Caiman Islands, William Turner had been in a foul mood. While they were sitting on beaches loaded with white sound, dumping martinis down each other's throats until they didn't know who they themselves were, and started pouring martinis down other, rather disturbed, strangers' throats, he, William Turner, was sitting at his particularly boring desk wondering what he could be doing instead of cutting the pages out of the libraries' romance novels (especially the ones involving pirates eloping with the so-called "damsel in distress") and putting loaded pistols in the resulting cavities. In some of the books, he simply added pages where all of the characters got AIDS and died.
Mr. Turner was mentally disturbed, and ought to have seen a psychologist, but Elizabeth was not there to tell him that.
Then again, Elizabeth might have recommended he see a very certain psychologist, by the name of Jack Sparrow, and with that, Will might have puked. Yes, Jack Sparrow was a psychologist. He had an office in London with mahogany paneling and a little brass plaque on the door that said, "Ph.D. in Psychology, Jack Sparrow." Beneath that, it said, "please knock."
Once in the office, there was a nice receptionist who, the majority of the time, was there to say, "I apologize, but Mr. Sparrow will not be back for a while, and the next open spot is in about three years," which was generally true, because Jack was generally not there.
In fact, he'd nearly had to throw his entire career in psychology (including the PhD) down the drain, because he'd burst in on a waiting client after a stressful week at sea in full pirate gear, shouting "Rum! Rum! I need… Rum!" Fortunately, however, the client merely never came back again.
At the office, Sparrow always kept a barrel or two of rum, and oftentimes, the toddler children would play on the barrels while their parents were getting therapy.
But Jack Sparrow was now in the Caiman Islands with Elizabeth, which didn't suit Mr. Turner too well at all.
"Dammit." Will slammed the novel he was presently working on shut, bored with the proceedings.
"Dude, you so need a job." A form emerged from the shadows, immediately walking over to the shades and pulling them up, exposing the sun.
"Help! Help! I'm blinded!" Turner flinched and dove under his desk without a second thought, then voicing his second opinion. "And who the hell are you?" It seemed the perfect position had been found under the desk, for William was sitting cross-legged, frowning at the newcomer. "I think I've met you before…"
"Uh, yeah, dude… I sell chicken – you know? In the market place? And what's your problem? Are you like, one of those creepy people with that weird disease? Oh, yeah, I'm Alex."
Will muttered under his breath, "stalker."
"Dude, I am so not a stalker. But seriously, why were you putting those guns in those books? That's what I call obsessive compulsive behavior." He looked around, scrunching up his nose at the layers of dust that covered everything but the desk. Will himself harbored one of the deeper layers of scudge.
"Would you particularly mind leaving?" Will complained, pulling one of the library books down to his level and opening the cover to reveal one of the nicer pistols he'd "donated" to the library.
"Dude, I am so not going to pull a stunt. Someone paid me to follow you, and dude, you are so totally pathetic – I had to help somehow." He held out two fingers, and William Turner shrunk further under the desk and gripped the gun harder. Was it some sort of gang symbol? Or worse – was Alex a magician? He shuddered at the thought.
"I'm warning you…"
"Dude, what are you? Like, old? This means peace. Gosh, what's wrong with you… you seriously need a job. Or a psychologist." Alex raised his eyebrows at Turner's obvious ignorance, and ignorance of the fact that he was ignorant.
Turner shrunk even further into the shelter of the desk. "Not a psychologist. Anything else."
Alex made a hand gesture as if to say "whatever" and stated, "Okay, whatever, just, dude, I have an opening. You could help me sell chicken."
Will felt faint. Since when was he a chicken-selling aficionado? Did he look like a chicken selling aficionado? And besides, he didn't need a job. He'd quit working as a blacksmith when his uncle had died and given all of his money to charity. This wouldn't have helped at all, but since, Will was charity, and his uncle was the donor, he got special privileges and a pension.
Charity was corrupt in these days. In fact, it's debatable that charity was or ever will be fair.
"I refuse to sell chicken." William squinted suspiciously, then glared at Alex, daring him to oppose.
"Okay, dude, lighten up. What can you do?" The tone he set suggested his dubiousness that Will could do anything well whatsoever.
"Er… uh…"
"C'mon, gosh, dude, I was only paid to watch you for an hour."
"I was a blacksmith five years ago…" Mr. Turner trailed off, hanging his head ashamedly, Alex staring at him. Oddly, though, the pistol's barrel was still pointed in Alex's general direction, and it was being gripped very tightly.
"Like, did you make, like, horse-shoes?" Alex's voice held obvious scorn.
"No, I roasted marshmallows."
"Seriously, dude, marshmallows ROCK."
"What the - ? Of course I didn't. I made swords. Like the one the 'Commodore' has, you know? I made that one."
Alex's mouth dropped open in awe. "Dude, are you, like, serious? 'Cause if you are, you are so, like, famous. What's your name?"
Mimicking Alex, William said, "I am so not famous, and the name's William – Turner, dude. And if you screw that up," he reverted to his traditional dialect, "I will hunt you down. Or pay someone to do it for me."
"Kay, chill." Alex went into a state of deep thought, if that was even possible for him.
"It would be nice if you would leave?" Will begged. "I was about to sit down to tea…"
"Cool, dude, thank you so much for the invitation. I was on the verge of star-ving." Alex pulled out a brass stopwatch painted tackily with a pink flower and flipped it open. "That so rocks; I can stay for, like, hours, dude!"