Since times immemorial (if only because everyone involved had no long-term memory to speak of), the Buggy Pirates had observed a sacred tradition. On the season premiere of the World Government-sponsored cooking show, Bake for Your Life, they would gather in the Buggy Lounge, around a table that had been piled high with snacks for the occasion, and wager on the first contestant to be terminated. Enormous amounts of rum would be swilled, tempers would run high and explosives would not infrequently go off, sometimes carrying the roof of the tent with them. All in all, the premiere party was a beloved institution that provided the Buggy Pirates with yet another reason to worship their leader.
The next premiere party, sadly, would have to be cancelled. Buggy's new executives, Sir Crocodile and Mihawk Dracule, had made it a habit to retire every evening into the Buggy Lounge, oblivious, or perhaps indifferent, to the distress they would cause. Buggy was bawling.
"It's not fair," he said between sobs. "First they put everyone on a diet of water and gruel, then they ban the indoor use of explosives, and now they cancel the premiere party? If things keep going like this, I'm going to be dealing with a mutiny. Why, oh why, do these things keep happening to me?"
Alvida and Cabaji were taking turns patting him on the back. "There, there, boss," Cabaji said. "Can't we host the party in a different tent?"
"None of them's big enough for everyone."
"We'll record the show and view it next morning. It will be just as good."
"It's not…the…SAME," Buggy wailed, despondent. There was a world of difference between seeing an inept cook walking the plank live, and catching a recording or a rerun of it the next day.
Alvida was gazing at him in silence, lips pursed. "It might be time to try something else," she said.
Buggy looked up at her through eyes blurry with tears and smeared eyeliner. "Like what?"
"You could put your foot down. Stick up for yourself. Remind your underlings who's the boss."
Buggy and Cabaji froze. Richie and Mohji, who had been dozing off in a corner of the tent, sat up with a gasp. Even Galdino, who had been pretending not to pay attention to Buggy's tantrum, looked up from his magazine with a raised eyebrow.
"Remind Crocodile and Mihawk who's the boss," Buggy said, stressing the names to show Alvida how absurd she sounded.
She seemed unfazed. "Yeah. Refresh my memory, Buggy. Who's the leader of the Cross Guild?"
"Well, me, technically, but-"
"So that makes them your subordinates, yes?"
"I don't think you grasp the complexity of the situation."
"Leadership is like magic, Buggy," Alvida said, crouching to gaze at him at eye level. "It's all in there." She tapped her temple with a finger. "If enough people believe in your leadership, then you become the leader, end of the story."
Awed by this philosophical insight, the Buggy Pirates exchanged wide-eyed looks, except for Galdino, who seemed skeptical.
Buggy sniffed and wiped his eyes and nose with his sleeve. "Okay, but…"
"No buts. Right now, everyone in the world believes you to be the leader of the Cross Guild, except for three people."
"Mihawk and Crocodile," Buggy guessed.
Alvida nodded curtly. "And who else?"
"Uh. Galdino?" Buggy glanced at said individual, who snorted and returned to his magazine.
"All right, maybe four people." Alvida straightened her back and gestured impatiently at him. "You, Buggy! You're the fourth!"
"Ahhh." Buggy nodded eagerly.
"What you need to do right now is convince yourself that you are the leader. That you deserve this. That you can do it. Walk in there with your back straight, maintain strong eye contact, and tell those two assholes that they need to vacate the premises before the show. Don't ask them. Tell them."
"Fake it til you make it."
"You got it!" Alvida beamed.
"Oh, boy. There's no way this could possibly go wrong," Galdino said in a singsong voice, without looking up.
A sliver of doubt wormed its way into Buggy's heart. "I'll do it," he said. "But hey, Alvida? Why don't you come with me, for moral support."
Soon after his arrival at the Cross Guild's new headquarters, Mihawk had toured the premises to look for the most comfortable armchair in which he might spend his evenings after a hard day of boredom. He'd found what he was looking for in the "Buggy Lounge," the most spacious and luxurious tent on the island. The lounge had been the place where Buggy and his friends had gathered before the founding of the Guild, but surely, Buggy would not mind if his new executives appropriated it for themselves.
Executives, indeed, since Crocodile had long established his own claim on the lounge. He'd entered the tent on the evening of Mihawk's arrival, carrying a ledger under his arm, and looked astonished at finding Mihawk settled comfortably in his new armchair with a newspaper. In the end, Crocodile had decided not to say anything, and neither had Mihawk.
On the following evening, Mihawk had considered finding a different tent in which to unwind. He had finally resolved to return to the lounge. By renouncing his place, he might have given the incorrect impression that he was acknowledging Crocodile as his superior, while he was the rightful leader of the Cross Guild. Instead, he had left his sword at the entrance of the newly-dubbed Executives' Lounge, next to the coat rack. A gesture of goodwill, but also a threat. I don't need more than a bottle opener to destroy you.
On the next day, Crocodile, whether in response to the goodwill or the threat, had taken off his hook and left it next to Mihawk's sword before entering the Lounge. He'd rolled his sleeves to display the stump of his left wrist and looked at Mihawk with open defiance. A bottle opener? Please. I don't even need two hands.
Mihawk had considered taking offence. He'd decided not to. His armchair might get damaged in the scuffle.
Since then, the two executives of the Cross Guild had shared the lounge, sitting not so much together as within the same space. Once in a while, Mihawk would look up from his newspaper to find Crocodile staring at him with an eyebrow raised, as if to say, You're still here? And Mihawk would stare back with the faint surprise of someone who finds a piece of furniture in a different location than where he remembers leaving it.
An uneasy peace had settled over the Executives' Lounge, which only the Guild's charismatic leader could break.
"Are you sure about this?" Buggy asked.
Alvida had been looking towards the exit, as if she were trying to calculate the distance that separated her from it. She started and looked guiltily at Buggy. "Of course."
There was no possible doubt that Mihawk and Crocodile were at home. Their coats dangled from the coat rack, along with Crocodile's hook, while Mihawk's enormous sword was propped against a nearby chair. Buggy wiped the sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. "Let's get this over with." He pulled the tent curtains apart and marched into the Lounge, head tilted back proudly and fists resting at his waist, in a conqueror's pose.
Mihawk and Crocodile glanced up from their books. Buggy had severed his body in half to give himself a few extra inches, which allowed him to tower over both executives. The height advantage was less reassuring than he would have liked.
"Yes?" Mihawk said, glacial.
"This had better be important," Crocodile added, setting a bookmark in place and closing his book.
Buggy raised his hands to his hat, meaning to take it off and use it to make himself look extra pathetic as he pleaded for his life. Fake it til you make it, he reminded himself, forcing himself to cross his arms instead. "It's been brought to my attention that, er, that you…"
"Wasn't there a public execution scheduled for seven?" Mihawk asked Crocodile, ignoring Buggy.
"That's tomorrow."
"Ah. I'll update my calendar."
"Listen when I'm speaking to you!" Buggy thundered.
The two executives gaped at him. Mihawk's glass of wine tilted and dribbled a small stream of red liquid onto the ground. Crocodile's cigar fell onto his trousers, which began to smoke. Neither seemed to notice.
Buggy registered his henchmen's discomfiture with satisfaction. Alvida had been right, after all. "I'm tired of the way I'm being treated around here. I'm your boss, and you'd better start acting like it. As of now, you're going to stop pushing me around. You're going to give my men their rum and snacks back. And you're going to vacate this tent by next Friday so that we can watch the season premiere of Bake for Your Life." Pleased with his commanding tone, he looked over his shoulder, where Alvida was peeking through the curtains. She gave him a thumb's up sign and vanished.
In the meantime, Mihawk and Crocodile had recovered from the shock. "Why don't you do the honours," Crocodile said, irritably twisting his thumb against the burning hole in his trousers.
"I do believe it's your turn," Mihawk replied, dabbing at his wine glass with a handkerchief.
"No, no, I insist. I love watching you work."
Unhappy with the direction the conversation was taking, Buggy took a step back and struck a wall of sand.
The Buggy Pirates watched in respectful silence as their captain flew out of the lounge, drew a graceful arc in the sky and vanished from sight. A few doffed their hats upon hearing the distant crash.
"The problem isn't your lack of leadership," Alvida said. "It's that leadership, on its own, is worthless if there is no strength behind it."
Buggy sat at the table of the cramped tent where he'd set up his new headquarters, a bottle of bathtub gin in one hand and a handkerchief in the other, while Mohji and Cabaji applied an assortment of tinctures and plasters to his many bruises and abrasions. "Enough from you," he said wearily.
"So soon, really? I didn't take you for such a quitter."
"I don't have the strength to take them on, so it's a moot point."
"I didn't say it had to be your strength." Alvida handed him a flyer.
Bumfuzzle & Gasp, Bounty Hunting Agency
We specialize in dealing with insubordinate henchmen.
Call us!
"I don't know, Alvida." Buggy turned the flyer over and stared at the number that was written on it in bright, promising yellow. "Maybe I just need to accept that this is just how things are going to be from now on. Maybe happiness is like leadership, you know? All in there." He tapped his forehead.
"You don't need to make a decision now. Why don't we pay them a visit, go over your options?" Alvida winked at him. "My cousin works for them. I'm sure she'll cut you a good deal."
Bumfuzzle & Gasp was located two days of sailing away from Buggy Town, in an underground bunker concealed by the jungles of Somerpawa Island. Hands crossed behind his back, Buggy examined the motivational posters that decorated the waiting area.
Nothing is impossible
If you have a wealthy relative.
Even kingdoms may fall
Before the power of teamwork and our tanks.
Bumfuzzle & Gasp Leadership Seminars. Awaken the leader in you.
On the last poster, a small, bespectacled man sat on a throne, wearing a smug smile. A crowd of minions, most of which looked as though they had been recently manhandled, knelt at his feet and gazed up at him in adoration.
A highly inspiring and motivational image unfolded in Buggy's imagination. Himself, clad in his Emperor's regalia and sitting in the armchair that Mihawk had so rudely taken from him. Mihawk and Crocodile standing at his side with heads hanging in shame, bearing black eyes, split lips, arms in splints and other signs of the well-deserved drubbing the agency had just given them. "Cigar, sir?" (Crocodile, lighting it for Buggy.) "How about a glass of wine?" (Mihawk, using his own shirt to wipe up the spill.) Then the executives would go back to fanning Buggy with palm fronds, while the Buggy Pirates fought to lick their leader's boots. At least, wearied of the attention, Buggy would hold up a benevolent hand. "Rejoice, my minions. Tonight, we shall watch the Bake for Your Life season premiere in the Buggy Lounge!"
Something stirred deep within Buggy, halfway between longing and indigestion: the call of leadership. He unconsciously straightened his back and tilted his chin. For the first time since he'd been proclaimed head of the Cross Guild, he could believe that he had it in him to rule an empire.
"Ahem."
Buggy started. A young, freckled man with a clipboard stared impatiently at him. "Mr. Buggy, Emperor of the Sea?"
"That's me."
"Come this way, please."
"Alvida!" hissed Buggy.
"Already?" With a sigh, the woman dropped her fashion magazine and followed.
A woman who looked like an identical replica of Alvida, albeit one that had been compressed to fit into a horizontal barrel, stood up to greet them as they entered her office. "Coz! How nice to see you." She and Alvida air-kissed each other's cheeks.
"Buggy dear, this is my cousin, Vidalia Gasp, co-owner of this agency. And Vidalia, this is…"
"Oh, I know, you told me last night. Your highness, what an honour. We have gotten one or two clients who enjoy a fair bit of renown, but I don't think we've ever had an Emperor of the Sea before." Vidalia took the hand that Buggy had extended to her and, unsure whether to shake or kiss it, did both.
"When you get to my level," Buggy said, "you learn to tell the difference between what's important and what's not." He paused to make sure he remembered the word Alvida had taught him. "To delegate."
Vidalia nodded as she invited them to take a seat. "Understandable. I'm given to understand that you're hoping to use our services to repress a small mutiny?"
"Oh, mutiny, mutiny, that's a strong word. I have a couple of henchmen who need an attitude readjustment, that's all." Buggy fished around in his coat and brought out the picture of Mihawk and Crocodile that he'd drawn in crayon when Alvida, for whatever reason, had nixed the idea of bringing bounty posters. The art style was not exactly photorealistic ("naive" was how Galdino had put it), but there was no mistaking the giant sword, the hook, the dramatic coats, and, most of all, the permanent angry scowls of Buggy's two tormentors.
Vidalia studied the picture with a frown. "I'm sorry, is that Mihawk Dracule, the World's Strongest Swordsman? And Sir Crocodile, the ex-Warlord who caused the Alabasta civil war incident? I thought they were your faithful lieutenants. In any case, they might be a tad above our pay grade." She tapped on the fine print of Buggy's brochure, which read: *No world-class level threats (bounties of 500,000 beris and above).
"Then what's the use of you?" Buggy said angrily.
Alvida piped in, laying a soothing hand on his shoulder. "There seems to be a misunderstanding," she said with a laugh. "The truth is that Crocodile and Mihawk are currently on a business trip. We don't want our rivals to attack Buggy Town while they're away, so we've hired Alligator and Falcone, a couple of stage impersonators, to stand in for them."
Catching onto the plan, Buggy nodded eagerly. "The power got to their heads, though. They now claim to be the real Mihawk and Crocodile, and they've got most of my men buying it. I'd take care of the situation myself, but I'm on a business trip too. Gotta delegate."
"Of course, this is all very confidential," Alvida said.
Vidalia nodded briskly. "Understood. Do you want the targets terminated? Death does wonders at fixing attitude problems, or so I've been told."
Buggy hesitated. The image of Crocodile and Mihawk fanning him with palm fronds popped back up in his mind. "That seems a bit much. A good thrashing ought to do it. Just let them know it's from me."
"Of course. Complex or simple beating? The complex variety sometimes requires hospitalization."
"Complex. Oh, and if you could make a recording for me to watch later, that would be great. Something with a lot of flashy sound and visual effects."
Vidalia nodded briskly as she took notes. "I'll draft a package for you. I'm given to understand that you'll be paying by cheque?"
Alvida nodded and whipped out her chequebook, in which she'd spent the night learning to forge Crocodile's signature for that purpose. Crocodile would not be happy to learn that he'd sponsored his own beating, of course, but he might be brought to feel differently about the situation post-attitude readjustment.
Vidalia's smile grew a touch wider. She handed both pirates a brochure. "While you're here, can I also interest you in one of our team-building exercises? We offer everything from small island invasions to themed genocide parties."
Buggy saw himself launching an assault on some foreign shore, Crocodile and Mihawk at his sides, an army of tanks led by the Buggy Cannon not far behind. As the unfortunate town on which they'd landed went up in flames, a pair of hands would come down and clap Buggy on the shoulders. "Well-done, boss." He'd look up into the stern faces of his executives, which would both light up with a smile. "Perhaps some other time," he said, suddenly wistful.
Over the last few days, a melancholy mood had come over Mihawk. He sometimes found himself pausing halfway through slicing some vegetables, eyes staring off in the distance, juice spreading over his fingers. Then some shout or detonation would startle him (why was this place always so goddamned noisy?) and he'd be pulled back into a funk that even his favourite wine could not cure.
To tell the truth, the mood had come over him when Buggy had said the words Bake for Your Life. Even though Mihawk had said nothing at the time, he knew that show. He'd been forced to sit through the previous seasons, not that long ago.
The irritating little pink-haired woman, of course, was the one who had put him to it. "Please, dear Mihawk, give it a chance. It's about baking, your favourite thing in the world." (Mihawk had mildly objected that he liked to cook, not bake.) "That's the same thing, isn't it? Ugh, you're so difficult. I'm just trying to help us bond over shared interests. There's hardly anything we ever do together, but of course, you have to be like this, no fun allowed around here, no, it's all about seasonal vegetables and scowling at the news." And so on, and so forth.
In the end, Mihawk had given in, just to put a stop to Perona's wheedling. He'd taken his newspaper with him in the living room, hoping to return to it discreetly once she became absorbed in the show. Zoro had been ordered to come with them, because if Mihawk had to suffer through two hours of rubbish, then so would his apprentice.
His resistance had not even lasted through the first hour. By then, he'd been making observations about the baking techniques on display, which Zoro and Perona had greeted with wide-eyed respect. For the first time since Mihawk's protégés had moved into his castle, they had felt less like strangers forced to interact with each other by virtue of sharing a living space, and more like - well, not quite a family, but something like it.
"I believe I've got a cake recipe stored away somewhere," Mihawk had said once the orchestra had launched into the ending theme. Perona had turned to him, hands clasped to her chest, hardly believing her luck.
In the end, they had made cupcakes. It had been the first time Zoro and Perona showed any interest in kitchen work. Mihawk still thought back fondly on that day sometimes. That was odd, wasn't it? His two guests had been constant nuisances, but he'd never been bored in their company. Many other things, yes. But not bored.
When was the last time he hadn't been bored?
Crocodile was late on Friday, struggling to untangle some logistical issue that he'd briefly mentioned over supper. "Don't wait for me."
As seven o'clock approached, Mihawk looked up more and more frequently from his crossword puzzle to throw side glances at the projector snail. After all, what was the harm in it? He stood up and strolled over to the snail, which was dozing on the tea table between Crocodile's chair and his own.
Mihawk attempted to nudge the snail into activity. It bit his finger. He took a cracker from the box Crocodile had left on the table, for reasons that were now obvious, and extended it in offering. The creature accepted the cracker, though it still waved its eye-stalks threateningly when he reached for the programming keys. Mihawk stared at it, wondering if using Conqueror's Haki on a snail might be considered excessive.
"Let me know if anything comes up," said Crocodile's voice, muffled by the tent flaps. Mihawk returned to his armchair, dignified, and picked up his crossword puzzle.
Mumbled curses came from the other side of the lounge, as Crocodile struggled to remove his coat and his prosthetic. He burst into the room not long afterwards without so much as a "hello" and headed straight to the bar, where he poured himself a drink. Noticing Mihawk for the first time, he stood indecisive before a second empty glass, picking up the bottle and setting it back down repeatedly, his face the portrait of a man at war with his better nature. Mihawk watched his internal struggle with a detached scientific curiosity.
Defeated at last, Crocodile poured a second glass, which Mihawk accepted with a nod of thanks. "While you're up," he said mildly, "would you mind tuning the snail to the World Government channel? I'd like to watch the news."
Crocodile looked inclined to send him to hell, but Mihawk had outdone himself at supper. "Sure." He fished a cracker from the box and offered it to the snail, which accepted it and allowed him to dial the program. Mihawk, who was covertly watching Crocodile to learn his technique, was indignant. This was exactly what he'd done!
The first orchestral notes of Bake for Your Life's opening theme filled the air. Crocodile sat down in his armchair and picked up his book, though he soon looked up with raised eyebrows. "That's not the news."
The host, clad in a striped pink and white dress that made her look like a distant relative of Perona's, came onscreen to deliver her opening spiel. "It's not," Mihawk said happily. Then, to ward off suspicion, he added, "Ah, yes, I believe the clown said something about this. A new season of a baking show starting today."
"Do you want me to turn it off?"
"Don't worry about it. I'll do it myself." Mihawk watched the new contestants line up on the stage, filled with nostalgia. "You know, I've seen this program before. It's surprisingly educational."
Crocodile did not respond.
Mihawk sighed. "It's also a way for the World Government to free up some space when the prisons get too full. An alternative to the standard public execution, so to speak."
Crocodile showed, for the first time, a glimmer of interest. "There's executions in this?"
"Only at the end of each episode. The loser of the baking challenge has to walk the plank."
The glimmer of interest died out. "Hmph. Mindless drivel."
"I suppose it is," Mihawk said wistfully. He glanced at the projector snail, which bared its teeth at him in warning.
Arabella Spleenworth, bounty hunter, took a compact mirror and a tube of pink lipstick out of her pocket to freshen herself up. "We're an hour early," she observed.
Her companion, Warwick Jones, stood ankle-deep in the water next to their rowboat, dress shoes and chevron-patterned stockings in hand, deep in thought. "Do you know what day it is today, Spleenworth?" he asked.
"Friday?" she said, surprised that he did not remember. He'd always struck her as the type to spend his evenings writing in agendas, in the absence of more interesting hobbies.
"Yes, but which Friday?" As she scrambled to remember any public holiday she might have missed, he said patiently, "The Friday of the new Bake for Your Life season premiere."
Spleenworth staggered, unknown vistas opening before her. "You bake?"
"Of course," said Jones sternly. "I bake. I have always baked. In it is my entire life's dream to open a bakery one day. Shall this interfere with the professional regard in which you hold me, Spleenworth?"
"Jones," she whispered, taking a projector snail out of her pocket. "I have always wanted to open a bakery myself."
They stared at each other. "What, now?"
Spleenworth checked her dainty white leather watch. "Since we are early…what do you say if we move in on the targets now?"
"We might be back in time to watch the last hour of the show," Jones breathed.
"While watching the sun set…"
They flushed, suddenly unable to hold each other's gaze. "Let's do it," said Jones resolutely.
Buggy and Cabaji peered at the Buggy Lounge from behind the mess tent. Crocodile's lieutenant, Mr. 1, loomed before the entrance in his impeccable black suit, arms crossed and single eyebrow forbiddingly lowered. "You remember the plan, Cabaji?" Buggy asked. Alvida had gone over it with them a few times before sailing off for her girls' night out.
"Of course," said Cabaji, with an enthusiastic nod. Then he paused. "Let's go over it one more time, just in case."
Buggy sighed. "Crocodile and Mihawk are too strong for any bounty hunters to deal with, so we need to level the fighting ground. We're going to sneak in and steal Crocodile's hook and Mihawk's sword. They leave them on a coat rack before entering the lounge, so this should be child's play!"
"And how do we get past him?" Cabaji asked, pointing at Mr. 1.
Buggy tilted back his hat to scratch his head. Crocodile had previously given his sidekick evenings off after supper, but clearly, that was no longer the case. "We'll have to distract him. Ride up to him on your unicycle and challenge him to a duel. While he's murdering you, I'll sneak under the tent and grab the weapons."
"Do you have a plan that doesn't involve murder? Or at least, not mine."
"We could always set fire to something," Buggy said dubiously, looking around himself for a convenient target.
"Oh, hey, boss. Maybe that won't be necessary." Cabaji pulled on Buggy's sleeve to draw his attention. Mr. 1 had cocked his head to the side, as if he were listening for something. With a scowl, he pulled back the tent flaps and entered the Lounge.
"Do you think he heard us?" Buggy asked nervously.
Mr. 1 emerged from the Lounge a few moments later and stalked towards Buggy and Cabaji. With a squeak, they ducked out of sight. Crocodile's bodyguard, however, continued his single-minded journey forward without a glance in their direction.
Buggy and Cabaji stared at each other, hardly believing their luck. "Let's go, quick."
The sound of a familiar program greeted them as they lifted the tent flap. "They're watching Bake for Your Life," Buggy whispered, quaking with indignation. Yet another of his small pleasures was being robbed from him, snatched under his very nose by these interlopers. He simply could not wait to bring them to heel.
Mihawk had given up on turning off the projector snail. It was simply too far away. He had picked up his crossword puzzle again, though he only gave it a sparse attention. On-screen, the host was explaining the rules of the introductory cupcake challenge to the contestants while they fiddled with their striped prison aprons and eyed each other murderously.
The host rang the bell announcing the start of the challenge. With shouts of defiance, the contestants ran towards a table stacked with fine ingredients. Crocodile glanced at the screen, though he returned to his book precipitously once he felt Mihawk's eyes on him.
"You might enjoy this part," Mihawk said with a hint of condescension. "They sometimes fight to the death over the nicer cupcake decorations."
"This does not interest me in the least. Didn't you say you were going to turn it off?"
"I've changed my mind. The music pleases me. Why don't you turn it off, if it bothers you?"
"Knock knock," said a polite voice. The two executives stared at each other, horrified. Mr. 1 entered before either of them had a chance to turn off the transponder. "Sirs. Excuse me for the intrusion. I sense trouble brewing." He glanced at the screen, and a bemused expression appeared on his face.
Mihawk avoided looking in Crocodile's direction, and was certain he was doing the same. "That is concerning news. What makes you think that?"
"Nothing concrete, I'm afraid. But you, sir, have always told me to trust my instincts."
"You're right. It's worth investigating."
Mihawk sighed and clasped the arms of his chair, preparing to stand up. Crocodile continued. "Look into it, Mr. 1. If you find any sign of mischief, I expect you to handle the situation yourself. Report to us once you're done."
"Yes, sir." Mr. 1 nodded smartly and vanished.
"He's a very capable man," Crocodile said. Mihawk glanced at him, having detected a hint of a smile in his voice, though he seemed absorbed in his book again.
Buggy stretched a trembling hand towards Crocodile's prosthetic. Unable to wrap his fingers around the base of the hook, which was nearly as large as his head, he grabbed the leather sleeve instead and hugged it to his chest, blinking, unable to believe that the main instrument of his torment was finally within his reach.
Next to him, Cabaji was wiping tears at the sight of Mihawk's sword. "Incredible," he whispered reverently. "Yoru, legendary blade of the World's Strongest Swordsman."
"Get over it and help me put this on."Buggy slid the prosthetic sleeve over his left hand and admired himself as Cabaji fastened the harness. Once the bounty hunters had neutralized Crocodile, it would be nice and flashy if Buggy could smack him around with his own hook for a bit, give him a taste of his own medicine. "Great. Now grab that sword and let's go."
Cabaji closed his hand around Yoru's hilt. The sword released a pulse of malevolent energy, making both pirates' hair stand on end. "I can't wield it," Cabaji said, tears welling up in his eyes. "I am not worthy."
"You don't need to do any fancy acrobatics with it. Just tuck it under your clothes."
"It won't let me." Cabaji grabbed the hilt with both hands and dug his feet into the ground to pull the sword, which did not move an inch.
"Damn," Buggy said, stifling his mounting panic. "Try maybe carrying the chair that it's on?"
"I can't release it anymore!" Cabaji said, his voice rising. "It's like my hands are glued to it!"
Buggy clapped a hand over Cabaji's mouth and listened, though no sound came from the lounge, except for the sound of the television program. "Let's try loosening it up with some butter," he whispered, taking a half-melted stick of butter from his pocket.
As if to protest the indignity, Yoru produced another burst of dark energy and allowed itself to be lifted from the chair. Cabaji staggered under its weight. "I've done it," he said, eyes gleaming. "I have passed the trial."
They both froze as the sound of footsteps came from outside the tent, announcing Mr. 1's return.
After a brief tug-of-war over the jar of nonpareils, one of the contestants skewered another with a spatula, a feat that Mihawk would not have thought possible without extensive training.
"You were right," Crocodile observed. "This is very educational."
"Isn't it? Wait until -" Sensing a sudden, unfamiliar presence outside the lounge, Mihawk froze and listened.
"What's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing." Mihawk sank back into his chair. "The clown is outside with a friend of his."
"Probably trying to assassinate us again," Crocodile said, stifling a yawn.
"Mm." Mihawk returned to the screen, where a trio of cooks were now wrestling over the almond extract. Truly fascinating, the lengths to which a man might go when his meringue was on the line.
Already? Buggy and Cabaji looked at each other, horrified. Thinking quickly, Buggy grabbed Crocodile's coat and buttoned it on all the way up to the bridge of his nose with his right hand, which he severed from his wrist to facilitate the task. Picking up on Buggy's idea, Cabaji bundled himself in Mihawk's coat and hat.
"Who's in there?" Mr. 1 called out, pulling back the tent flap. Buggy and Cabaji strolled out, convincingly majestic, though Cabaji tottered a little under Yoru's weight.
"Apologies for disturbing you earlier, sirs. Looks like it was a false alarm." Mr. 1 became almost jovial. "Well, then. Shall we have cupcakes with dinner tomorrow?"
"Of course not. You know I despise all fun things," Buggy said in the haughtiest and most miserable voice he could manage. A pretty good impersonation of Crocodile, if he said so himself.
Mr. 1's smile faded. "All right, clown. If you go back and there and restore the coat and the hook right away, I won't tell the boss what you did." He paused. "Chances are he already knows."
No dice. "Get him, Cabaji!" Buggy shrieked to his swordsman, who had edged behind Mr. 1 during this exchange. With visible strain, Cabaji raised Yoru and brought it down. The sword swayed wildly to the side, uncooperative. Cabaji stumbled and hit the ground.
Mr. 1 did not even bother side-stepping the blow. "That's enough."
Buggy rose to more than his full height and drew back the hook to strike. There was a detonation, and his hat flew off his head. He turned towards the direction of the sound, astonished.
A small woman clad in a powder blue pillbox hat and matching tweed outfit trotted towards him, holding a smoking lady's pistol in both hands. By her side, a man who looked like an accountant waved a briefcase in the air, as if to threaten a train driver who had left him behind. The bounty hunters.
"Halt, impostors!" said the woman. "Stay right where you are!"
"Weren't they supposed to get here at eight?" Cabaji shouted at Buggy over Mr. 1's head.
"I don't even know anymore!" Another bullet grazed past Buggy. He pulled the coat down to reveal his face. "Look, idiots, it's me! Buggy the Clown, Emperor of the Sea and your client! Your target is in that tent!"
"Shameless," the male bounty hunter said with a sad shake of the head. "First you impersonate an executive, then an emperor? We won't let you get away with this."
After his initial astonishment, Mr. 1 was smiling. "Thank goodness you're here," he told the bounty hunters as he retreated to his spot before the lounge entrance. "They're all yours. Just stay away from this tent, please. And take good care of the boss's coat and hook, or we'll have new ones made out of your hide!" he called out at Buggy.
"You handle Falcone, and I'll take care of Alligator," the female bounty hunter told her partner, patting him on the shoulder. The accountant split up into multiple copies of himself, all of which fished into their coat pockets and brought out ninja throwing stars made out of pencils and rubber bands.
Seeing that the tide had turned against them, the emperor and his swordsman made an expeditious retreat. "Let's split up!" Buggy shouted at Cabaji, who swung Yoru wildly as he ran, with a terrified expression that made Buggy think the movements were not entirely deliberate.
"Got it, boss!" Cabaji took a right turn towards the forest, no doubt hoping to lose his pursuer in the wilderness that still occupied most of Karai Bari Island. Wishing he'd had the idea first, Buggy took a left turn instead, attempting to take off Crocodile's coat as he ran.
The task was proving more difficult than expected. Buggy had shoved the hook into the left sleeve of the coat, where it was now stuck. In his efforts to free himself, he'd twisted the heavy fabric around him, immobilizing his other arm. His floating hand was still free, fortunately, though it struggled to undo the buttons while he leaped left and right to dodge the seastone bullets he'd requested (for a significant extra fee).
Voices came from the mess hall. Buggy dove under the tent sidewall and wriggled on the ground until he had squeezed most of his body inside. Liberated at last, his hook-clad hand popped out of a gap between two undone buttons, which had the effect of shoving the top of the coat further up on his face.
Buggy peered over the fur collar into the gaping faces of the Buggy Pirates, who sat frozen, mugs of bootleg alcohol raised halfway in the air. "Crocodile!" they shouted, deserting their wooden benches to rush for the exit.
"You idiots, it's me!" Buggy shouted, pulling down the collar.
"Crocodile skinned Buggy's face, and he's wearing it as a mask!" screamed someone. Panicking pirates slammed into the tent walls. Buffeted by repeated impacts, one of the poles that propped up the tent came down. The bounty hunter, who'd honed in on the noise, was shoved aside by the stampeding crowd and thrown into a mass of tangled fabric.
Blessing his luck for the distraction, Buggy crawled back outside and used Crocodile's lighter to set fire to the tent. He turned to flee towards the forest and slammed belly-first into Cabaji. The swordsman was covered in leaves and muck from the tip of Mihawk's hat to the toes of his boots, but seemed otherwise unharmed. "I think I lost the one who was chasing me," he said. "How's yours?"
"Work-in-progress. Let's go."
A bell clanged as the fire engine approached, without undue haste, since arson, accidental or otherwise, was a near-daily occurrence in Buggy Town. Buggy grabbed Cabaji's arm and ran towards his salvation, his comfort, his universal answer to all of his life's woes.
The Buggy Cannon 3000 and its stock of custom-made Buggy Balls.
"What you are witnessing here is called tempering," Mihawk explained. "A common mistake in inexperienced bakers is to melt the chocolate at too high of a temperature, which results in-" He interrupted himself as the sound of distant shouts reached him. "Do you hear that?"
"Ah, it's probably just Buggy's men, getting rowdy, as usual." Crocodile laughed humourlessly. "They drink bootleg alcohol with their evening meal every Friday, thinking I don't know about it."
"And that smell. Something's burning." Mihawk sighed and prepared to stand up. A firm pressure held him in place. He looked down and saw that Crocodile's right hand had closed around his left arm.
"Let it be," Crocodile said without a glance in his direction. The hand dissolved into sand and reintegrated its place at Crocodile's wrist. "I know that you're a lone wolf, used to taking care of everything by yourself, but that's not how things work around here. Perks of belonging to an organization. Sometimes, you can sit back and let other people do the work for you."
A bell rang repeatedly. "You see?" Crocodile said. "The firefighters are already at work. Now stop worrying so much. You were saying something about tempering?"
An image came unprompted to Mihawk's mind. A rack of cooling cupcakes. Himself, carefully releasing a new batch from the tray with a knife. Crocodile, bent over a platter of cakes with a piping bag, his patchworked gangster's mug scrunched up in concentration. It was so incongruous that he had to repress a laugh.
Crocodile was watching him closely. "Have I accidentally said something amusing?"
"I just lost my train of thought. Where was I? Ah, yes." Mihawk resumed his explanations.
Buggy and Cabaji stood back-to-back, surrounded. The male bounty hunter and his five copies had made flails out of their briefcases, which they whirled above their heads in a threatening manner. The mud that stained their once-flawless suit had sunk them into a cold and calculating rage. On the opposite side, the female bounty hunter had revealed the pistols hidden in her pillbox hat, her purse and her tweed jacket, all of which were aimed at the two pirates.
The dying rays of the setting sun lit the scene with fire. End of the line.
"Been good knowing you, boss," Cabaji said, throwing down Mihawk's sword. "For what it's worth, I have no regrets. For one moment, I knew what it was like to be the World's Strongest Swordsman."
"Let us surrender with dignity," Buggy said, watching his severed hand crawl away with Crocodile's lighter, towards the direction of the Buggy Cannon. He squawked as the female bounty hunter approached and decked him.
"Wait, Spleenworth," said her partner, fishing a transponder with integrated recording dial out of his pocket. "The client asked for a recording with sound and visual effects."
"Ah, yes. Thank you, Jones." Spleenworth waited with hands folded demurely before her. Once the recording was set up, the two bounty hunters resumed whaling on Buggy and Cabaji, shouting "Bang!" and "Kapow!" whenever a blow struck. Every few moments, Spleenworth paused to grab handfuls of confetti from her purse, which she tossed over her prostrate victims while smiling into the transponder. Buggy's men had gathered to watch the show and cheer on the bounty hunters, still convinced, apparently, that they were beating on Mihawk and Crocodile.
Buggy's severed hand found the Buggy Cannon and scaled its surface, searching for the wick. A kick to the head made him see stars, and he almost released the lighter. Who would have thought that sensible office flats could pack such a punch? Gritting his teeth through a mouthful of confetti, he ensured that the cannon's mouth was set in the correct direction and lit the wick. "Flatten down!" he exhorted Cabaji, who did not need the encouragement.
With a ground-shattering detonation, a Buggy Ball tore through the tent and launched towards the sunset, passing so close to Buggy's head that he felt the heat at the back of his neck. The projectile snatched up Spleenworth and several of the Buggy Pirates, before continuing its path into a few tents, including -
Oh, no -
The one in which the Cross Guild stored their crates of gunpowder before they were shipped out.
The resulting explosion wiped out most of Buggy Town.
On the screen, the judges were being carried off in stretchers. The host appeared, looking flustered. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is unprecedented! No one's ever attempted to win the contest by poisoning the judges. Stand by as we determine how to proceed."
"If that woman doesn't win, I'm razing down Navy Headquarters." Crocodile paused. "Again."
"Have you ever considered learning the art of the strongly-worded letter?"
Before Crocodile could reply, the walls of the Executives' Lounge burst into flames. With a beep, the ceiling sprinklers activated and released a torrent of water upon the two executives. The projector snail emitted a bap of protest and shut down.
Speechless with indignation, Mihawk and Crocodile jumped to their feet. Ignoring the flames, which were dying anyway, Mihawk rushed to the snail and fished a cracker out of the box. "Here," he said, pushing the soggy cracker into the creature's face. It turned away, making a face. "Come on, now."
"You're being far too rough with it," Crocodile said, picking up a cracker of his own to demonstrate. The transponder twisted the other way.
"Technology," said Mihawk, soothed, but not by much.
"Ahem." Mr. 1 had appeared at the entrance, looking sheepish. "Apologies, sirs. I might have let the situation spiral slightly out of control. I can take it from here, if you'd like, but I thought you might prefer to do it yourself."
The executives stared at each other, their faces lighting up at the prospect of taking out their frustration on a most likely guilty and, in any case, eminently bulliable target.
The full moon cast a light almost as bright as the sun's on the flaming ruins of Buggy Town. Buggy and Cabaji picked themselves up on swaying legs and looked around themselves for their tormentors.
Spleenworth was nowhere to be seen, having apparently been blown into the stratosphere. Jones lay tangled in the smouldering remnants of the food storage tent. As Buggy approached, the bounty hunter feebly tried to open his briefcase with one hand. Buggy kicked it away. It would have been wise for him to clear up the misunderstanding, but he did not care. He got down on his knees and released a flurry of blows on the prostrate man.
"Hey, boss," said Cabaji's voice behind him. Buggy turned. Mr. 1 was pulling aside the flaps of the Buggy Lounge, giving way to the real Mihawk and Crocodile. The executives' hair and clothing were soaked through, releasing a steady trickle of water that puddled at their feet. They contemplated the mayhem with murderous expressions.
The Buggy Pirates gazed back and forth between the executives and their impersonators as understanding dawned, at last, upon their faces.
Buggy's first instinct was to crawl forward on his belly and beg for forgiveness. He hesitated, recalling the way his men had cheered when they'd seen him, in Crocodile's garb, getting his ass handed to him by the bounty hunters. "Men!" he said, painfully hauling himself onto Richie's back and waiving Crocodile's hook in the air. "Individually, we may be weak, but with the power of teamwork, we can take down kingdoms! Follow me to flashy victory, and you will never eat gruel or miss a single episode of Bake for Your Life again!"
Singed and battered by the explosion, but with spirits undaunted, the Buggy Pirates picked themselves up and launched themselves at Mihawk and Crocodile with a roar.
The eyes of the two executives widened almost imperceptibly as the pirates approached. Not in fear, exactly, but in some dismay at this rising tide of humanity which they had thought to lie crushed and submissive beneath their heels. Their consternation did not last long.
With a slight roll of the eyes, Mihawk took a butter knife out of his pocket and carved the air before him, shattering it into hundreds of shards that lacerated the pirates' chests and mowed their legs out from under them. Scorning to use his Logia powers, Crocodile grabbed a man by the throat and slammed him into the ground, the impact creating a shockwave before which the remaining pirates went flying like clay pigeons. The two executives made their way through the crowd, pausing here and there to deliver a punch or grind a heel in someone's throat, before halting at the spot where Buggy writhed, pinned beneath Richie's unconscious bulk.
"I swear there's a very reasonable explanation for all of this," Buggy said.
Yet again, Mihawk found himself, as the only sane person in the room, forced to play the mediator between a disgruntled homicidal maniac and a clown.
Crocodile was pacing, his towering presence made only slightly less imposing by the towel he'd wrapped around his hair. "If I didn't know any better," he said meditatively, dragging his hook along the edge of the table on which he'd set Buggy's head, "I would think you were trying to sabotage us on purpose."
"Of course not, Crocodile, old friend." Buggy choked down tears. "There's nothing I want more than our success!"
"You certainly have an interesting way to show it. We're down twenty-one tents, one week's supply of food, all of our gunpowder-" Crocodile paused to recover his composure. "Not to mention, I'm curious to know where you found the funds to hire bounty hunters. I hope I won't have any unpleasant surprises when I check on my bank account tomorrow morning."
"Don't forget the harm done to our coats," Mihawk added, gesturing towards the rack, where they had been hung out to dry.
"For the tents, don't worry! We regularly blow up Buggy Town, so we always have plenty of spares. We keep 'em in the cave just east of town, near the cove. Along with the…" Buggy gulped, an interesting sight in someone who did not, at the moment, have a throat. "Bootleg alcohol. And my personal stash of explosives, which are worth at least as much as that gunpowder was. Premium stuff, my custom Buggy Ball mix."
"Huh. Did you know about that cave?" Crocodile asked Mihawk, who shook his head. "You've been hiding things from us, clown. Not a smart move."
"Let's get this over with," Mihawk said wearily, wrapping himself more tightly in his dressing-gown (an old-fashioned, frilly affair he would have preferred not to wear in public, but the soaking had caught him on laundry day). "I'll have someone check on the cave."
Buggy gasped. "And let me go?"
This was what Mihawk hated the most about the clown. He was so painfully, delusionally optimistic. "Of course not."
Buggy resumed his wailing, fraying Mihawk's already worn nerves. Crocodile raised his hook to silence him. "Wait, wait!" the clown said. "I know something that will make it up to you."
They paused.
"I can tell you where the bounty hunters' headquarters are located. It can only be accessed by invitation, but I have connections. They have seastone weapons, heavy artillery, tanks…"
Crocodile flashed his teeth in a predatory smile. "Why don't you draw us a map?"
"I was thinking I could go there with you. As a…team-building exercise."
"Too bad you won't cooperate," Crocodile said, looking as though he meant the opposite. "I suppose I'll have to torture the information out of you."
"Don't draw this out," Mihawk said, disgusted.
"What? He deserves it."
"I know, but I wish you wouldn't take such obvious glee in it. It's off-putting."
Buggy shrieked. "There's something else! There's something else!" When the blow did not come, he continued gamely. "I recorded the show you were watching in my personal tent. It's in a recording dial. Wait, wait, wait!"
"Let him have his last words," said Mihawk, mediating.
"I'm the only person here who knows how to use it. It's tricky if you've never done it before. Let me show you!"
Crocodile scratched his head and appeared to be considering the offer. "Do you know how to use a recording dial?" he asked Mihawk.
"I have heard of these devices. I have not had the occasion to use them exactly."
Crocodile hesitated, torn between the immediate satisfaction of torture and the opportunity to watch the ending to the show's first episode. "Well-played, clown," he said. "You've just bought yourself an hour's respite."
Mr. 1 had retrieved the dial. Buggy, who had been allowed to reconstitute his body for the occasion, sat on the couch, framed by Mihawk and Crocodile, who watched each of his movements eagerly. He looked down at the dial and hoped that he did, in fact, remember how to do this right.
"Replay the show now," Crocodile ordered. "Slowly. So that we can see what you're doing."
Buggy closed his eyes and remembered the happier days when his crew had gathered around him, cursing cheering and throwing handfuls of popcorn as he held up the projector with integrated dial that would provide the evening's entertainment. He pressed the dial's centre.
A journalist appeared on the screen, reading the names of wanted pirates off a list in a monotonous voice. "Don't worry!" Buggy said as Mihawk's and Crocodile's expression went from baffled to murderous. "I always start the recording early to make sure I don't miss anything. We can fast forward like this." He demonstrated the complex series of manipulations. "Then hit the centre again once you've found the spot where you left off."
"May I try?" Mihawk delicately plucked the dial from his hand.
Buggy squealed. "Don't hit that! You'll erase the whole thing!" Mihawk obeyed, crestfallen.
"This requires a certain level of technological expertise," Crocodile observed, picking up the dial. He repeated the sequence Buggy had shown them, with a long, thoughtful pause between each input. Nothing happened.
"You have to be quick, or it won't keep track." Buggy took the dial back and replicated the process.
"This is far too complicated." Losing interest in the device, the two executives watched the recording race on the screen. "There! Stop it there."
Buggy struck the centre. "And the winner of today's baking challenge is…"
"You went too far," Mihawk said. "We missed the interview with the judges."
"These newer models can rewind as well." Buggy looked up from his demonstration at his two executives, who wore an expression so unfamiliar that he did not recognize it right away.
"Well done, boss," Crocodile said. While laced with sarcasm, the words did not pack as much sting as usual.
Buggy sniffled as he watched the show with them, wondering how to broach the topic of his survival. "If you want," he said timidly, as the band launched into the closing theme, "I could record you. While you take over the bounty hunters' base. You know, that team-building exercise I mentioned?"
There was a long pause as the executives silently consulted each other over Buggy's head. "We'll consider it," Crocodile said gruffly.
On screen, the focus shifted to a kitchen set. A woman in a cheerful strawberry-patterned apron beamed at the audience. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I'm your host, Rachael Goodberry. I will now walk you through making tonight's prize-winning almond praline cupcakes from home, minus the arsenic, of course!"
Mihawk spoke up, sounding wistful. "Speaking of team-building exercises…"