Avast Ye!
Chapter 2
By Queen Smithy
Summary: Richie and his crew try to cope with life on dry land, and Sam finds a bloke with a handy deserted, sandy island, complete with pre- assembled 'X'. . .
Dedication: To the aptly named Kloob Isotope, because it'll get people thinking.
Feedback: I can't heeear you!
***
The pirates huddled together in fear. The gangplank creaked dangerously under them. Harvey Peters was muttering quietly to himself, and his eyes were wide. Off-Centre was standing on his own in a suspicious puddle, chewing his nails nervously. Richie let out a sudden whimper and clung to Sam's arm.
"Ow! Get off me, will you?" Sam tried to yank his arm away, but Richie just tightened his grip. "I don't see what your all so afraid of!" the ponytailed one snapped, "a great big bunch of pirates like you! Richie, you're seven feet tall and built like a mountain! There's nothing in the *world* that'd even think about hurting you. Get OFF me!"
Richie (who, in fact, was scared of two things and one of them was Sam's temper) reluctantly let go of his friend's arm. Sam tried to rub some life back into the limb, and Richie's knees started knocking together.
"It's so . . . *dry*. . ." whispered Philip Trent, who's mouth had been hanging open for the past five minutes. Richie moaned loudly and ran back onto the ship, Sam hot at his heels.
"Come back, you great lump!" the cabin boy scolded the pirate captain. "What sort of an example do you think you're setting your crew, eh? STOP RIGHT THERE!"
Richie skidded to a halt, and turned to stare sheepishly at Sam. ". . . 'orry. . ." he offered.
Sam planted his hands on his hips and turned his glare up to maximum. Richie withered. He trudged back the way they had come, towards the huddle of trembling pirates. Before he reached them, something black and white danced across the deck and leaped onto Richie's shoulder. "Pieces of four!" it announced. Richie gave it a tickle. Then he addressed the crew.
"Right, you 'orrible lot," he croaked. "We're gonna do it. We're going. . . On dry land."
Off-Centre let out a small gasp, then fainted.
Richie's face fell. "What do I do now?"
Sam pulled a collapsible step-ladder out of his coat pocket and clambered up it until he could whisper in Richie's ear. Richie nodded, then walked purposefully over to Off-Centre and kicked him sharply. "Get up!" he screeched. "NOW, you miserable little rat, or I'll see to it you're keelhauled every day for the next MONTH!"
"Nicely done," said Sam, folding up his stepladder again.
***
It took a while to persuade the pirates that dry land was okay to walk on. They were used to their old faith in wood. If there was wood underfoot, you were fine. Water underfoot was bad. Sharks was even worse. But earth. . . this was something new. Sam had been with them for a few years and discovered that even his knees buckled slightly when he set foot on the unfamiliarly stable terrain.
"Alrigh', lads," said Richie, who had been ashore more often than the others. Sam had been quite relieved to discover that, once Richie had taken that first step, the second, third, and all subsequent steps proved to be little problem. "What do we want to do first?"
Peters, Philip Trent and Off-Centre were holding each other up, but all three of them barked at the same time, "Ale!" Richie beamed at them.
"Thass my boys," he said proudly.
"How much money did you bring, Rich?" asked Brackish the bosun. Sam had been very impressed with Brackish. This lean-faced pirate had taken a deep breath and stepped confidently out onto the cobbles of London. He hadn't even whimpered.
Richie peered into his money pouch. "Five nineteens and a five gold pieces," he said.
"One hundred," said Sam promptly.
"Yea. Tha'."
It hadn't taken Sam long to get used to Richie's counting method. The big pirate could count to nineteen, using his fingers and toes. The first time Brackish had explained this to him, Sam had been horrified. "How'd Rich loose a finger?" he'd asked. Once Brackish had finished laughing at him, he explained that Richie still had all his fingers, he just needed his left index finger to point at the others with. If you cut this finger off, he wouldn't be able to count at all. Sam had gone away and thoroughly revised his nineteen times tables. He dreaded to think what happened to Richie's counting technique once he got past three hundred and sixty one.
"Okay," said Richie, "let's go an' get sloshed!"
As they worked their way towards the nearest tavern, something alighted upon Sam's shoulder. "Pieces of two," it told him.
"Bugger off, Gul," Sam murmured, trying to dislodge the creature from his shoulder.
"Bugger off, Gul! Bugger off, Gul!" Chirruped the thing, which was black with white stripes and a huge, bushy tail. It beamed at Sam, then pulled at the string which held Sam's hair back. It snapped, and Gul stuffed it into his mouth.
"Hungry?" Sam asked. Gul nodded vigorously. "Let's go and find some pie, then."
Richie spun round and glared at Sam. "You can't have pies, they make you poofly," he said firmly.
Sam sighed. "For the last time, pies have nothing to do with being poofly!"
"Do."
"Don't."
"Do."
"They don't!"
"Anyway, what're yeh doing with my parrot on your shoulder? Yer not a pirate."
Gul made chattering noises and began to stuff Sam's hair into his mouth. Sam rolled his eyes. "Rich, I'm pretty sure Gul isn't a parrot."
"O'course he's a parrot. What else could he be?"
". . . A skunk?"
"Nah, don't be stupid. Skunks is black and white and fluffy and have huge great hairy tails."
"Yeah," said Sam. "How silly of me. We're going to find something to eat, see you later."
***
The pirates found a pub. It was small and grubby, but it sold alcohol and that was the main thing. Rich, master of the art of quaffing, had already slurped through three tankards of ale and was starting to grin far too much for someone who's going to have to steer the ship home tonight. Peters and Trent were singing sea shanties at the tops of their lungs, and the rest of the crew were pestering the regular customers with questions like "so this dry land stuff. . . does it stay dry in winter? What if it rains? Is it still dry land then?"
"See?" said Richie to Brackish and Off-Centre. "This ain't so bad." He slurped his ale. "'Snot quite rum, but it's certainly somethin'!"
"Yeah," said Brackish doubtfully, peering into his own mug. "There's certainly somethin' swimming about in mine. . ."
"Lemme see." Richie snatched Brackish's mug and threw the contents down his throat. Then he chewed thoughtfully. "Ah," he said. "Cockroach. I'm gonna complain. I didn't get one of those."
"Get me another drink, too," said Brackish sulkily. He normally would have thumped someone who'd drunk his ale, but you didn't thump Richie unless you were *really* confident that your guardian angel would immediately swoop down from Heaven and carry you safely away. Richie's punch was like being hit by a piano swinging on a rope. There was no avoiding it, it was going to kill you, and it was as single minded as a sledgehammer.
"Yarr," said Richie.
The innkeeper put down the glass he had been drying and turned to his wife.
"It's been a while since we had sailors here."
"Yes, dear," said his wife. "I don't think they're sailors though, dear."
The innkeeper frowned. "What are they, then?"
"Pirates. That big one with the huge nose just said 'yarr'."
"Ahoy, mateys," said Richie, leaning heavily on the bar. "Or however you land-dwelling types greet each other. . ." He beamed at the innkeeper and his wife. He tipped his hat. "Ahoy, wench."
"Don't you talk to my wife like that," snapped the innkeeper. "What's your problem?"
Richie scratched his ear. "I didn't get a cockroach in my ale," he said. "And my friend over there seem to 'ave finished his rather quick like, so I reckons it weren't a whole pint."
"Are you accusing me of cheating my customers?" Growled the innkeeper.
Richie did the mental equations. "Yup!" he said proudly.
The bar fell silent. The regulars, who had experience with the innkeeper, knew it wasn't a good idea to annoy him. The pirates, who had experience with Richie, knew it wasn't a good idea to annoy *him*. Now everyone was extremely anxious to find out what happened next.
"Get out," growled the innkeeper.
Richie scowled, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. "But -" he began. Brackish grabbed him by the arm, and Trent appeared on his other side.
"Time to go, cap'n!" said the first mate mock-cheerfully, forcing a grin.
"But I didn't get my cockroach!" Richie wailed.
"Let's go and find Sam. . .Wasn't he looking for food? Mmm, I'm starving now. . . Bet there's plenty of nice crunchy cockroaches in the local delicatessen. . . "
"HEY!" yelled a voice from the crowd. "My brother owns that deli!"
About three seconds later, someone threw the first stool.
***
"What the hell is this? A cockroach burger?" Sam stared at his sandwich in disgust.
The big greasy man behind the counter, who's name would turn out to be Dave, grunted. "FRESH cockroach," he growled.
Sam mumbled something to himself and began to pick the sandwich apart. Gul scampered down his arm and pattered along the counter, pausing only to steal a tomato from the next man along.
"Oi!" the man yelled. "Come back here, rat!"
Gul skidded to a halt at the end of the counter and stared defiance at the man. He held the tomato up in one paw, offering it out to the man, who reached towards it. Gul tossed it into the air and caught it in his mouth. He swallowed it whole.
The man turned to glare at Sam. "Is that your rat?" he snarled.
"Nope. And it's not a rat."
"What the hell is it, then?"
"A parrot."
The man snorted. "That's no parrot! Don't you talk to me about sodding parrots. . .I've met enough pirates, I know a parrot when I see one."
"Yes, well," said Sam. "You'd think the pirates would know them too. But no one thought to show them a picture of a parrot, did they?" He tried to see things from a Richie point of view. "Small thing which sits on your shoulder and repeats whatever you say. Parrot. Well, that's what Gul does. Therefore he's a parrot."
"Parrot," said Gul, scampering back onto Sam's shoulder again.
"Where'd you get it?" asked the stranger, suddenly interested.
"None of your business," said Sam shortly. He was in no mood for small talk. The stranger, however, was.
"You seem to know lots about pirates."
"I don't want to talk about pirates."
"Ha!" the man stuck out a hand. "My name's Jim."
"Ha!" said Sam. "My name's Sam. But you wouldn't think it."
"So do you know any pirates?"
"What if I do?"
"I'm in the desert island business," said Jim. "Except it's going a bit slow at the moment. There's just no demand for deserted islands with pre- arranged X-marks-the-spot and stupidly dense jungle any more." Jim sighed and stared into his glass. "What we do is, offer premium sites for the burial of pirate treasure hoards, for a small but significant percentage, guarunteed un-findable for one hundred years. . ."
"Hold on," Sam interrupted. "Pre-arranged X-marks-the-spot? What's that?"
"Oh, it's so people can find the treasure in the future. No point in burying it if it isn't going to be found, is there? We even provide the map. But there's no business any more. . . I've no idea why." He looked incredibly glum, and Sam couldn't stop himself patting the island-rental man on the shoulder.
"I think I might be able to help you here," he said. . .
To be continued. . . ?
***
WIF: Totally forgot to mention in the first chapter that Harvey Peters and Philip Trent belong to Yum Yum Yogurt's Fisherboy Freelance cartoon. He kindly let me borrow them because I'm too lazy to make up my own crew. "The Fisherboy" can be found at
Richie Moon and Sam Sweeney are creations of Dace and Smithy inc. and are © so you can't use them without our permission. For those of you nuts enough to *want* this permission, contact Smithy161@aol.com or Novek_Dace@hotmail.com but expect no sympathy if Sam and Richie ruin your lives.
Gulerod is my literature muse, and you wouldn't want to borrow him anyway. He's a skunk, for Christ's sake.
Chapter 2
By Queen Smithy
Summary: Richie and his crew try to cope with life on dry land, and Sam finds a bloke with a handy deserted, sandy island, complete with pre- assembled 'X'. . .
Dedication: To the aptly named Kloob Isotope, because it'll get people thinking.
Feedback: I can't heeear you!
***
The pirates huddled together in fear. The gangplank creaked dangerously under them. Harvey Peters was muttering quietly to himself, and his eyes were wide. Off-Centre was standing on his own in a suspicious puddle, chewing his nails nervously. Richie let out a sudden whimper and clung to Sam's arm.
"Ow! Get off me, will you?" Sam tried to yank his arm away, but Richie just tightened his grip. "I don't see what your all so afraid of!" the ponytailed one snapped, "a great big bunch of pirates like you! Richie, you're seven feet tall and built like a mountain! There's nothing in the *world* that'd even think about hurting you. Get OFF me!"
Richie (who, in fact, was scared of two things and one of them was Sam's temper) reluctantly let go of his friend's arm. Sam tried to rub some life back into the limb, and Richie's knees started knocking together.
"It's so . . . *dry*. . ." whispered Philip Trent, who's mouth had been hanging open for the past five minutes. Richie moaned loudly and ran back onto the ship, Sam hot at his heels.
"Come back, you great lump!" the cabin boy scolded the pirate captain. "What sort of an example do you think you're setting your crew, eh? STOP RIGHT THERE!"
Richie skidded to a halt, and turned to stare sheepishly at Sam. ". . . 'orry. . ." he offered.
Sam planted his hands on his hips and turned his glare up to maximum. Richie withered. He trudged back the way they had come, towards the huddle of trembling pirates. Before he reached them, something black and white danced across the deck and leaped onto Richie's shoulder. "Pieces of four!" it announced. Richie gave it a tickle. Then he addressed the crew.
"Right, you 'orrible lot," he croaked. "We're gonna do it. We're going. . . On dry land."
Off-Centre let out a small gasp, then fainted.
Richie's face fell. "What do I do now?"
Sam pulled a collapsible step-ladder out of his coat pocket and clambered up it until he could whisper in Richie's ear. Richie nodded, then walked purposefully over to Off-Centre and kicked him sharply. "Get up!" he screeched. "NOW, you miserable little rat, or I'll see to it you're keelhauled every day for the next MONTH!"
"Nicely done," said Sam, folding up his stepladder again.
***
It took a while to persuade the pirates that dry land was okay to walk on. They were used to their old faith in wood. If there was wood underfoot, you were fine. Water underfoot was bad. Sharks was even worse. But earth. . . this was something new. Sam had been with them for a few years and discovered that even his knees buckled slightly when he set foot on the unfamiliarly stable terrain.
"Alrigh', lads," said Richie, who had been ashore more often than the others. Sam had been quite relieved to discover that, once Richie had taken that first step, the second, third, and all subsequent steps proved to be little problem. "What do we want to do first?"
Peters, Philip Trent and Off-Centre were holding each other up, but all three of them barked at the same time, "Ale!" Richie beamed at them.
"Thass my boys," he said proudly.
"How much money did you bring, Rich?" asked Brackish the bosun. Sam had been very impressed with Brackish. This lean-faced pirate had taken a deep breath and stepped confidently out onto the cobbles of London. He hadn't even whimpered.
Richie peered into his money pouch. "Five nineteens and a five gold pieces," he said.
"One hundred," said Sam promptly.
"Yea. Tha'."
It hadn't taken Sam long to get used to Richie's counting method. The big pirate could count to nineteen, using his fingers and toes. The first time Brackish had explained this to him, Sam had been horrified. "How'd Rich loose a finger?" he'd asked. Once Brackish had finished laughing at him, he explained that Richie still had all his fingers, he just needed his left index finger to point at the others with. If you cut this finger off, he wouldn't be able to count at all. Sam had gone away and thoroughly revised his nineteen times tables. He dreaded to think what happened to Richie's counting technique once he got past three hundred and sixty one.
"Okay," said Richie, "let's go an' get sloshed!"
As they worked their way towards the nearest tavern, something alighted upon Sam's shoulder. "Pieces of two," it told him.
"Bugger off, Gul," Sam murmured, trying to dislodge the creature from his shoulder.
"Bugger off, Gul! Bugger off, Gul!" Chirruped the thing, which was black with white stripes and a huge, bushy tail. It beamed at Sam, then pulled at the string which held Sam's hair back. It snapped, and Gul stuffed it into his mouth.
"Hungry?" Sam asked. Gul nodded vigorously. "Let's go and find some pie, then."
Richie spun round and glared at Sam. "You can't have pies, they make you poofly," he said firmly.
Sam sighed. "For the last time, pies have nothing to do with being poofly!"
"Do."
"Don't."
"Do."
"They don't!"
"Anyway, what're yeh doing with my parrot on your shoulder? Yer not a pirate."
Gul made chattering noises and began to stuff Sam's hair into his mouth. Sam rolled his eyes. "Rich, I'm pretty sure Gul isn't a parrot."
"O'course he's a parrot. What else could he be?"
". . . A skunk?"
"Nah, don't be stupid. Skunks is black and white and fluffy and have huge great hairy tails."
"Yeah," said Sam. "How silly of me. We're going to find something to eat, see you later."
***
The pirates found a pub. It was small and grubby, but it sold alcohol and that was the main thing. Rich, master of the art of quaffing, had already slurped through three tankards of ale and was starting to grin far too much for someone who's going to have to steer the ship home tonight. Peters and Trent were singing sea shanties at the tops of their lungs, and the rest of the crew were pestering the regular customers with questions like "so this dry land stuff. . . does it stay dry in winter? What if it rains? Is it still dry land then?"
"See?" said Richie to Brackish and Off-Centre. "This ain't so bad." He slurped his ale. "'Snot quite rum, but it's certainly somethin'!"
"Yeah," said Brackish doubtfully, peering into his own mug. "There's certainly somethin' swimming about in mine. . ."
"Lemme see." Richie snatched Brackish's mug and threw the contents down his throat. Then he chewed thoughtfully. "Ah," he said. "Cockroach. I'm gonna complain. I didn't get one of those."
"Get me another drink, too," said Brackish sulkily. He normally would have thumped someone who'd drunk his ale, but you didn't thump Richie unless you were *really* confident that your guardian angel would immediately swoop down from Heaven and carry you safely away. Richie's punch was like being hit by a piano swinging on a rope. There was no avoiding it, it was going to kill you, and it was as single minded as a sledgehammer.
"Yarr," said Richie.
The innkeeper put down the glass he had been drying and turned to his wife.
"It's been a while since we had sailors here."
"Yes, dear," said his wife. "I don't think they're sailors though, dear."
The innkeeper frowned. "What are they, then?"
"Pirates. That big one with the huge nose just said 'yarr'."
"Ahoy, mateys," said Richie, leaning heavily on the bar. "Or however you land-dwelling types greet each other. . ." He beamed at the innkeeper and his wife. He tipped his hat. "Ahoy, wench."
"Don't you talk to my wife like that," snapped the innkeeper. "What's your problem?"
Richie scratched his ear. "I didn't get a cockroach in my ale," he said. "And my friend over there seem to 'ave finished his rather quick like, so I reckons it weren't a whole pint."
"Are you accusing me of cheating my customers?" Growled the innkeeper.
Richie did the mental equations. "Yup!" he said proudly.
The bar fell silent. The regulars, who had experience with the innkeeper, knew it wasn't a good idea to annoy him. The pirates, who had experience with Richie, knew it wasn't a good idea to annoy *him*. Now everyone was extremely anxious to find out what happened next.
"Get out," growled the innkeeper.
Richie scowled, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. "But -" he began. Brackish grabbed him by the arm, and Trent appeared on his other side.
"Time to go, cap'n!" said the first mate mock-cheerfully, forcing a grin.
"But I didn't get my cockroach!" Richie wailed.
"Let's go and find Sam. . .Wasn't he looking for food? Mmm, I'm starving now. . . Bet there's plenty of nice crunchy cockroaches in the local delicatessen. . . "
"HEY!" yelled a voice from the crowd. "My brother owns that deli!"
About three seconds later, someone threw the first stool.
***
"What the hell is this? A cockroach burger?" Sam stared at his sandwich in disgust.
The big greasy man behind the counter, who's name would turn out to be Dave, grunted. "FRESH cockroach," he growled.
Sam mumbled something to himself and began to pick the sandwich apart. Gul scampered down his arm and pattered along the counter, pausing only to steal a tomato from the next man along.
"Oi!" the man yelled. "Come back here, rat!"
Gul skidded to a halt at the end of the counter and stared defiance at the man. He held the tomato up in one paw, offering it out to the man, who reached towards it. Gul tossed it into the air and caught it in his mouth. He swallowed it whole.
The man turned to glare at Sam. "Is that your rat?" he snarled.
"Nope. And it's not a rat."
"What the hell is it, then?"
"A parrot."
The man snorted. "That's no parrot! Don't you talk to me about sodding parrots. . .I've met enough pirates, I know a parrot when I see one."
"Yes, well," said Sam. "You'd think the pirates would know them too. But no one thought to show them a picture of a parrot, did they?" He tried to see things from a Richie point of view. "Small thing which sits on your shoulder and repeats whatever you say. Parrot. Well, that's what Gul does. Therefore he's a parrot."
"Parrot," said Gul, scampering back onto Sam's shoulder again.
"Where'd you get it?" asked the stranger, suddenly interested.
"None of your business," said Sam shortly. He was in no mood for small talk. The stranger, however, was.
"You seem to know lots about pirates."
"I don't want to talk about pirates."
"Ha!" the man stuck out a hand. "My name's Jim."
"Ha!" said Sam. "My name's Sam. But you wouldn't think it."
"So do you know any pirates?"
"What if I do?"
"I'm in the desert island business," said Jim. "Except it's going a bit slow at the moment. There's just no demand for deserted islands with pre- arranged X-marks-the-spot and stupidly dense jungle any more." Jim sighed and stared into his glass. "What we do is, offer premium sites for the burial of pirate treasure hoards, for a small but significant percentage, guarunteed un-findable for one hundred years. . ."
"Hold on," Sam interrupted. "Pre-arranged X-marks-the-spot? What's that?"
"Oh, it's so people can find the treasure in the future. No point in burying it if it isn't going to be found, is there? We even provide the map. But there's no business any more. . . I've no idea why." He looked incredibly glum, and Sam couldn't stop himself patting the island-rental man on the shoulder.
"I think I might be able to help you here," he said. . .
To be continued. . . ?
***
WIF: Totally forgot to mention in the first chapter that Harvey Peters and Philip Trent belong to Yum Yum Yogurt's Fisherboy Freelance cartoon. He kindly let me borrow them because I'm too lazy to make up my own crew. "The Fisherboy" can be found at
Richie Moon and Sam Sweeney are creations of Dace and Smithy inc. and are © so you can't use them without our permission. For those of you nuts enough to *want* this permission, contact Smithy161@aol.com or Novek_Dace@hotmail.com but expect no sympathy if Sam and Richie ruin your lives.
Gulerod is my literature muse, and you wouldn't want to borrow him anyway. He's a skunk, for Christ's sake.