Title: Maggascotchi
Author: savvyfullhouse's friends, I Seek World Domination and lakerlover
Genre: Humor
Rated: G/PG
Disclaimer: WE OWN POTC! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Made ya look...no, sadly, we own nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. *cries hysterically*
A/N: I Seek World Domination: My sister thought this up one night when at our Grandmother's house. We're both rewriting it now, adding some more stuff here and there. We would post this up under one of our own fanfiction.net screen names, but neither of us has one...*cries hysterically again*...so, our friend is letting us post it under hers. Thanx much Captain Sneeze-a-lot! All right, here ya go. Takes place after the movie. Funny. Scary. Read on.
*~*
Nobody really cared that much about Cotton's rambling parrot. That is, they didn't until he was eaten. The parrot, we mean.
Thanks to the gales that had blown the Black Pearl two weeks off course and Gibbs's compulsive drinking, supplies had been dwindling. After ravaging through all the brittle hard tack, it was only a matter of time before that parrot began to look more at home on a spick than on Cotton's shoulder.
The pile of florescent feathers strewn across the deck was discovered early Sunday morning, during the second watch. Actually, Cotton had found them earlier, but nobody understood his mime gestures that indicated "dead parrot." Finally, realization dawned on them, and Gibbs sputtered out the remainder of his rum.
"All hands on deck!" he rumbled, and once they had all gathered, weather- beaten and annoyed by the assembly, Gibbs thrust the feathers toward the group.
"This be needin' an explanation, says I," he demanded. "What kind of flea- bitten, high-sailin' crew turns on yer own?"
"I thought it was a parrot," muttered Anamaria.
"Wha' 'appened to it?" one of the sailors implored.
"I'll tell you wha' 'appened to it!" roared Gibbs. "Someone snatched it right off of poor Cotton's shoulders, plucked it with no regret, roasted it over an open fire and slapped on the A1 sauce!"
"A1 sauce?" questioned the dumfounded crew.
"Ay, it's that important," nodded Gibbs. Anamaria eyed him. "Wha' exactly are ya getting' at?"
"Someone," Gibbs began, slowly dragging out his words dramatically, "someone murdered Cotton's parrot!"
"GASP!" gasped the crew.
"'Tis one of ye," Gibbs continued, glaring skeptically at each one. "And cursed be the bloody pirate who—"
The familiar sound of Jack Sparrow's flamboyant sashay interrupted the threat.
"Wha' be all the commotion?" he said, his arms flapping wildly and in no apparent direction. Stumbling forward, a slight smirk on his tanned face, he added, "Ye wouldn't be plannin' another mutiny, eh?"
His laughter hung awkwardly in the dead silence, trailing off into a cough upon seeing the scattered feathers across the deck.
"What's on your face...?" someone asked.
"What's on me face?" repeated Jack. "Ah...nothing, just me ruggedly handsome features."
But by now, the whole crew had scurried over, cluttering around Jack and pointing accusing fingers at his mouth.
"That be A1 sauce!" accused Anamaria.
"N-no it's not!" stuttered Jack, defensively.
"Then wha' it be?"
"Worcester?" he replied, sheepishly.
"I see a feather in his mouth!!!!" shrieked another.
"Oh, that's good to know. I was wondering why I was having trouble breathing," Jack said.
"OFF WITH HIS HEAD!"
"NOOO!" cried Jack. "Then I won't be able to wear me hat! And it's such a lovely hat—"
Gibbs shoved through the rioting crowd and grabbed a hold of Jack's sleeve. "Sorry, Jack," he said, gravely, "but there be no excuse for feastin' on Cotton's parrot."
"Aw, you're only mad cuz I didn't share," Jack mused.
Gibbs directed Anamaria to steer off towards a hazy island on the distant horizon. Within three hours, as they neared the deserted coast, Jack realized with a sinking feeling precisely where they were—again.
"I really had hoped we were past all this," Jack said.
"Jack—Jack—had you not noticed, this be the island we made you governor of on our last little trip."
Marching out onto the plank, Jack moped before diving off. "You take all the fun out of being marooned. It's the same thing, over and over and over again. Would it kill you to throw me to the sharks just once? Or use some other grotesquely unique form of torture?"
"That's an option?" asked Anamaria hopefully.
Jack paused, considering. "I'll be takin' the island, thank you," he muttered, then remembered, "Wha' about me one shot?"
Gibbs paused. "I be thinkin' we leave that up to Cotton."
No response.
"The poor man's so devastated 'bout the bird, can't even manage to answer," Gibbs shook his head sadly, clicking his tongue.
"He may never speak again, and it's all your fault, Jack!" snapped Anamaria.
Jack stared at them incredulously. "The man had his tongue cut out!" he exclaimed.
"Now don't be makin' excuses for yer rash actions," growled Gibbs. "Off the plank with ye!"
"Me shot—" begged Jack, teetering at the edge of the plank.
"Me bird—" Cotton would have retorted if he could have talked.
"Me ship now!" grinned Gibbs, giving the plank a stamp of his foot, and sending Jack toppling into the ocean waves below. "All hands back to work! Ye will call me Captain Gibbs from this momentous point in history onward!!!"
Scowling, Jack saw no other choice but to begin his long swim towards shore.
Nobody saw Cotton who, feeling slightly bad for his misfortunate ex- captain, tossed a pistol with one shot overboard for Jack—All right, all right, that was a sentimental lie. I'll try again.
Everybody gathered around as Cotton, who was still fuming over the death of his beloved bird, chucked a pistol with one shot at Jack's head.
"Nice shot!" cheered Anamaria.
*~*
"Nice shot!" cheered Lieutenant Gillette.
Norrington strutted over to the wall and plucked some darts from the picture of Will's face, which was now punctured with holes. "I need another round, Gillette," he muttered, rubbing his temples.
"Sir, in all respect, I do not believe this is good for your health," Gillette treaded lightly, observing the pulsing vein in the Commodore's forehead.
WHISK!! A dart landed on Will's nose.
"I mean," Gillette continued apprehensively, "perhaps it's time you...move on?"
WHISK!! A second dart struck Will's Colgate smile.
"After all," said Gillette, twiddling his fingers, "their wedding is tomorrow."
WWWHHIISSSKKK! A bombardment of darts were hurled ferociously at the photo.
"I know, Gillette, don't you think I know? In precisely eighteen hours, twenty seven minutes, and thirty two seconds, Elizabeth will marry that GQ- cover blacksmith and be lost to me forever!"
Embarrassed, Gillette glanced around the Port Royal bar room, desperately hoping that no one had overheard or recognized them. He was relieved to find that others were preoccupied with a fight, and had paid little attention to the two British navy officers hidden in the shadowy back corner.
As Norrington hastily gathered up his overused darts for more shots, Gillette tried to comment optimistically,
"It probably would have never worked out anyway, really. I mean, she's so young and beautiful and you're—"
"Don't forget I have darts, Gillette."
"—you're...mature beyond her years, sir." Gillette tugged at his uniform, sweltering in the smoke-filled pub. "It is rather uncomfortable in here, isn't it, sir? One feels almost like Jack Sparrow, hee-hee—funny thought, is it not?"
"Jack Sparrow," sneered Norrington, wishing that he had the pirate's picture to paste up alongside Will's. "What have I told you about mentioning THAT NAME?!"
"Apparently nothing that I remember, sir," blubbered Gillette, cringing.
"I swear, you're like the annoying little brother that I never had," grumbled Norrington.
"And I bet we were separated at birth, too, yes?" Gillette attempted to joke, but retreated in silence when the Commodore gave him the Death Glare (which was usually reserved for the one and only Will, The-One-Who-Stole-My- Girlfriend).
"My God," droned Norrington, catching sight of the setting sun, "I only have eighteen hours, twenty three minutes, and fifty-five seconds before—" and he dissolved into hysterical tears.
Gillette stood up on cue. "I'll go get some more drinks."
*~*
"I'll go get some more drinks, miss," the maid cooed, gathering up the empty wine glasses and disappearing into the kitchen.
Elizabeth sank lower into her seat, wishing she could vanish. The dining room of the Governor's mansion was swarming with British officials (who came solely for the food), family members (who popped out of nowhere when they heard about the food), and would-be-friends (if the Swanns had any who weren't just in it for the food). The priest for the wedding ceremony the next day sat at the table as well (but we'll give him the benefit of the doubt). The large group had pestered the bride- and groom-to-be for nearly twenty-four unbearable hours, showering them with useless gifts (insulated toothbrushes...?) and overused good-luck wishes that lost all sincerity by the second course.
"It was so nice of your father to throw us this Good Luck Dinner. Aren't you having a good time, Elizabeth?" whispered Will from beside her, finishing off his slice of lemon meringue. "You look pale. And your eyebrow looks slightly irritated."
"I'm fine. And so is my eyebrow," Elizabeth said shortly.
"Well, if you're sure. Hey, are you going to eat that?" Will said, helping himself to his fiancée's slice of dessert.
Elizabeth pursed her lips, watching as he unappetizingly devoured it in two- and-a-half bites. "Will, aren't you worried at all?"
"Mffbhh-whbmf?"
"About the wedding tomorrow?"
"Mffdkdb."
"Well, just because you aren't doesn't mean that other people aren't."
"Mkkd."
"You're so narrow-minded, Will. All you know is black-smithing, black- smithing, black-smithing. It's like, Hey, I can pound this scorching-hot piece of metal and make it look like something recognizable, and then I can use it to pound something else!"
"Mff."
The priest leaned over between the two. "My dear," he said to Elizabeth, "I believe your fiancée might be choking."
"SURPRISE!!!" came a raucous shout. Elizabeth looked up and, to her horror, found the entire army of cooks escorting out a baked atrocity. It barely made it out of the kitchen, with its dozen layers of alternating German chocolate, French vanilla, and marble (which was indigenous to no country anyone could point to). Swirls of gaudy pink frosting added unnecessary effects ("and calories," thought Elizabeth, groaning, recalling her corset), but—worst of all—a miniature blacksmith hammer and parasol were jabbed in at the very top.
"What is that?" Elizabeth could barely get out without fainting from humiliation.
Governor Swann stood up proudly, heedlessly clinking glasses together (forget the fact that they were imported from China, his daughter was nearly passing out, and his future son-in-law's face was turning purple).
"Attention!" he sang out, jubilantly, although everyone had either quieted down or left after dessert. "I would like to present an early wedding cake to my beautiful daughter and her charming fiancée."
"Choking fiancée," inserted the priest.
"And that too!" smiled Governor Swann, raising his glass for a toast. "My dear Elizabeth, the cooks worked for weeks on designing this for your special day. Isn't it lovely? I personally asked them to put the accessories on top, just for you. I know how proud of your little blacksmith you are."
"It looks like someone stabbed the cake," Elizabeth hissed, dejectedly, just as some extraneous icing glopped onto her father's wig. The Governor apparently didn't notice.
"Mkdd," Will managed.
"That's exactly what I said," nodded Governor Swann. "But they insisted on chocolate anyway. Now, who wants a slice?"
The wedding cake gave a sudden lurch, but went unnoticed, because just then, Will collapsed to the floor.
"Son, I was just kidding. We're saving it for the reception tomorrow," chuckled Governor Swann. "Will? Will?"
"He can't breathe," Elizabeth explained unemotionally.
"Isn't that your line?" asked the priest quietly.
"Yeah, well, I got sick of choking every episode," Elizabeth shot back, rising out of her seat and disappearing out the front door. "Call me if anything important comes up."
While the priest tried to revive Will and Governor bustled around in a state of panic (both from seeing his wig pink and realizing his future son- in-law was choking), Elizabeth wandered around outside until she found herself meandering towards the dock.
Gazing out across the turquoise ocean, stained with the rays of a setting auburn sun, she couldn't help but consider tomorrow. Will, her gorgeous—though somewhat simple-minded (to put it nicely)—fiancée, who would, for the rest of his life, be hacking away at metal. Grimacing, she recalled the stench of that donkey in the shop, wondering if Will would eventually reek too. This called for drastic measures.
"What would Jack Sparrow do?" Elizabeth questioned aloud...
She pictured Jack, his dreadlocks arranged into a tight bun on the top of his head, stuffed into a pearly-white wedding gown and walking down the aisle with Will.
"My effects!" Jack called, twisting back to look over his shoulder at Governor Swann as Will dragged him along.
"Now, my dear, do you really think these are lady-like?" the governor replied, distastefully setting aside the confiscated hat and pistol. "Now go get married like the nice little lady that I know you are."
Still complaining about how they made him take off his hat because the stupid veil wouldn't fit overtop, he turned to Will.
"Ye do know I'm only in this for the rum, savvy?" Jack hissed through his gold and silver teeth. "Honestly. And is this dress supposed to itch like that?"
"You're not Elizabeth!" said a very confused—and concerned—Will.
"And you're not Will!" gasped Jack.
"Yes, I am."
"No, you're not. Ye 'appen to be some figment of Elizabeth's imagination, brought into existence by the extreme paranoia and stress that she is under at the moment. This scene is actually a creative writing technique used to break up certain boring portions of a narrative."
"That explains how I got here," said Will. "Last thing I knew, I was choking." He peered at Sparrow through squinted eyes. "So, are you a fig Newton too?"
Jack blinked. "Will, I'm not even goin' to answer that."
"That was pointless," Elizabeth concluded at the end of her daydream (the authors of this story likewise appologize for that random piece that just kind of inserted itself out of nowhere, cluttered up space, and ultimately did nothing constructive for this story). Sighing, she mused that even marrying Jack Sparrow would be better than becoming Mrs. Turner—at least Jack had an exciting life. Strange, yes, but exciting.
Slightly panicked and discontented, she wandered back to the mansion in hopes of getting some sleep—anything to stop imaging what horrendous things that wedding could dredge up.
"We've saved Will!" announced the priest, who hadn't been this animated since they changed the Communion wine. "Your fiancée will be in fine shape for tomorrow, Mrs. Turner."
Elizabeth bristled at the name. It sounded like a generic food brand. Mrs. Turner's Lemon Meringue Pie—so good, you'll choke on your disbelief!
Will was lounging in the parlor, she was told, eating some dessert to get his strength back; you can go see him if you want. Elizabeth didn't bother to respond, quickly disappearing upstairs into her room.
The cake was there to greet her.
"What is that?" she muttered, disgusted, as the icing continued to melt off into a chunky pink pile on her newly shined floorboards.
The Governor poked his head into her room, the wig still stained. "Just thought you'd like it here by your side as a reminder of tomorrow!" he chirped, happily.
"How thoughtful." She glared at his poofy, dyed wig. "Father, you look like Christina Aguilera."
"Get some sleep; tomorrow's the big day!" Elizabeth waited until his footsteps faded out, and then she quickly shut the door, locking it with a click.
"Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow," she mocked. "That's all anybody talks about. But if I marry Will..." She shuddered. "Who knows what disasters could happen? After all, what kind of pair do we really make? I mean, I'm so young and beautiful, and he's so—so immature beyond my years! Give him a wad of metal and he's in heaven! My life will cease to matter! (Whoa, cease, it's that English vocabulary.) I might lose intelligence if I'm around him too much! No, I'm not over-exaggerating! Did you see that guy, Mr. Brown, in the blacksmith shop? Dulled from Will's company, I'm sure, and what if that happens to me? Gasp! Oh no—What will our kids look like??? They might come out with elf ears for all I know!" She glanced out the window. "And I only have fifteen hours, twelve minutes, and forty- nine seconds before—" and she dissolved into hysterical tears.
Elizabeth paced back and forth, desperately wishing for some divine intervention to break up the wedding tomorrow: a hurricane, a plague of locusts, a kidnapping, anything. She was debating whether or not she could ask the priest to concoct something to that effect when she heard a rustling outside of her window.
By six a.m on the morning of the wedding, all the occupants and employees of the mansion had burst into Elizabeth's bedroom chamber.
"YOUR DRESS, MISS!"
"YOUR HAIRPINS, MISS!"
"YOUR FLOWERS, MISS!"
"YOUR BREAKFAST, MISS!"
"YOU'RE GONE!" gasped Governor Swann.
The room was entirely empty, with no sign of Elizabeth at all. Immediately, everyone's chaotic scrambling snowballed into panicked chaotic scrambling.
"Look!" one of the maids cried. "On her pillow! There's a note!"
They huddled around the scrawled message, hastily written—with multiple spelling errors—and Governor Swann read it aloud:
SALE! 50-70% off all Sears' blenders!
"Uh, wrong side, Governor."
"Jolly good show!" cheered the Governor, and read:
'I'v taken elesabith because I'm in luv with wil and nobodee but mee wil marree wil and wonss I'v finishd with elesabith I'l bee bak to clam wat's min!!!!!!! (Don't wait up for me.)
Sincerely,
Captain Maggascotchi'
"Clam wats min?" repeated a maid.
"Who ordered Chinese?" asked the Governor, popping his head up.
"Claim what's mine," corrected the cook. "You're thinking of chow mein noodles!"
At that moment, the baked atrocity swooned forward and toppled to the ground, spraying everyone and everything within ten yards with cake crumbs and icing glop. Then everyone froze.
A hand emerged from the middle of the cake ruins, followed by an arm—and surprisingly (yes, we know you're shocked) the rest of a body. Once icing was smeared away from the figure's face, it was only too recognizable.
"GASP!" gasped the crowd.
The man stepped out of his cake-fort, his hiding place for the past forty- eight hours.
"I'm sure you'll all be happy to know that I'm not dead," Barbossa announced.
They stared, speechless. The chef punched the nearest cook, accusingly.
"I told you we didn't bake it long enough!"
*~*
A/N: I Seek World Domination: Just so you all know, Captain Maggascotchi is a girl...yeah...I'm really, really, really bored right now. Microsoft is doing something really weird...all my toolbars are gone, including the File, Edit, Tools, Help and all those other menus...HELP ME! My mom's gonna kill me! She almost did when our computer broke the first time and we couldn't get the internet...I was fanfic.net deprived...and now, I'm suffering from Yu Yu Hakusho withdrawals... WAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! All right...all better now... On B104, on Radio Star last week, there was this guy that made it through to the quarterfinals, and his name was Das It. He was this rapper guy, but it's sad...I couldn't tell if he was white or black by his voice...Anyway, his song is so funny! If you're actually listening to Radio Star like me (being the freak I love to be!) PLEASE vote for this guy online! Thanks much! Let's see...I'm really bored. This chapter wasn't revised all that much, so if there are any mistakes, we're sorry! Okay, I think this Author's Note is a little too long...oops...when I start talking—or typing—I can't stop for the life of me...sorry...anywhos, please review! It would mean the world! Thanks!
A/N: lakerlover: I was going to say something, but I think she covered it. And actually, I think these author notes are the most annoying things ever, so you won't have to hear from me for the rest of this story. Thanks.
Author: savvyfullhouse's friends, I Seek World Domination and lakerlover
Genre: Humor
Rated: G/PG
Disclaimer: WE OWN POTC! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Made ya look...no, sadly, we own nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. *cries hysterically*
A/N: I Seek World Domination: My sister thought this up one night when at our Grandmother's house. We're both rewriting it now, adding some more stuff here and there. We would post this up under one of our own fanfiction.net screen names, but neither of us has one...*cries hysterically again*...so, our friend is letting us post it under hers. Thanx much Captain Sneeze-a-lot! All right, here ya go. Takes place after the movie. Funny. Scary. Read on.
*~*
Nobody really cared that much about Cotton's rambling parrot. That is, they didn't until he was eaten. The parrot, we mean.
Thanks to the gales that had blown the Black Pearl two weeks off course and Gibbs's compulsive drinking, supplies had been dwindling. After ravaging through all the brittle hard tack, it was only a matter of time before that parrot began to look more at home on a spick than on Cotton's shoulder.
The pile of florescent feathers strewn across the deck was discovered early Sunday morning, during the second watch. Actually, Cotton had found them earlier, but nobody understood his mime gestures that indicated "dead parrot." Finally, realization dawned on them, and Gibbs sputtered out the remainder of his rum.
"All hands on deck!" he rumbled, and once they had all gathered, weather- beaten and annoyed by the assembly, Gibbs thrust the feathers toward the group.
"This be needin' an explanation, says I," he demanded. "What kind of flea- bitten, high-sailin' crew turns on yer own?"
"I thought it was a parrot," muttered Anamaria.
"Wha' 'appened to it?" one of the sailors implored.
"I'll tell you wha' 'appened to it!" roared Gibbs. "Someone snatched it right off of poor Cotton's shoulders, plucked it with no regret, roasted it over an open fire and slapped on the A1 sauce!"
"A1 sauce?" questioned the dumfounded crew.
"Ay, it's that important," nodded Gibbs. Anamaria eyed him. "Wha' exactly are ya getting' at?"
"Someone," Gibbs began, slowly dragging out his words dramatically, "someone murdered Cotton's parrot!"
"GASP!" gasped the crew.
"'Tis one of ye," Gibbs continued, glaring skeptically at each one. "And cursed be the bloody pirate who—"
The familiar sound of Jack Sparrow's flamboyant sashay interrupted the threat.
"Wha' be all the commotion?" he said, his arms flapping wildly and in no apparent direction. Stumbling forward, a slight smirk on his tanned face, he added, "Ye wouldn't be plannin' another mutiny, eh?"
His laughter hung awkwardly in the dead silence, trailing off into a cough upon seeing the scattered feathers across the deck.
"What's on your face...?" someone asked.
"What's on me face?" repeated Jack. "Ah...nothing, just me ruggedly handsome features."
But by now, the whole crew had scurried over, cluttering around Jack and pointing accusing fingers at his mouth.
"That be A1 sauce!" accused Anamaria.
"N-no it's not!" stuttered Jack, defensively.
"Then wha' it be?"
"Worcester?" he replied, sheepishly.
"I see a feather in his mouth!!!!" shrieked another.
"Oh, that's good to know. I was wondering why I was having trouble breathing," Jack said.
"OFF WITH HIS HEAD!"
"NOOO!" cried Jack. "Then I won't be able to wear me hat! And it's such a lovely hat—"
Gibbs shoved through the rioting crowd and grabbed a hold of Jack's sleeve. "Sorry, Jack," he said, gravely, "but there be no excuse for feastin' on Cotton's parrot."
"Aw, you're only mad cuz I didn't share," Jack mused.
Gibbs directed Anamaria to steer off towards a hazy island on the distant horizon. Within three hours, as they neared the deserted coast, Jack realized with a sinking feeling precisely where they were—again.
"I really had hoped we were past all this," Jack said.
"Jack—Jack—had you not noticed, this be the island we made you governor of on our last little trip."
Marching out onto the plank, Jack moped before diving off. "You take all the fun out of being marooned. It's the same thing, over and over and over again. Would it kill you to throw me to the sharks just once? Or use some other grotesquely unique form of torture?"
"That's an option?" asked Anamaria hopefully.
Jack paused, considering. "I'll be takin' the island, thank you," he muttered, then remembered, "Wha' about me one shot?"
Gibbs paused. "I be thinkin' we leave that up to Cotton."
No response.
"The poor man's so devastated 'bout the bird, can't even manage to answer," Gibbs shook his head sadly, clicking his tongue.
"He may never speak again, and it's all your fault, Jack!" snapped Anamaria.
Jack stared at them incredulously. "The man had his tongue cut out!" he exclaimed.
"Now don't be makin' excuses for yer rash actions," growled Gibbs. "Off the plank with ye!"
"Me shot—" begged Jack, teetering at the edge of the plank.
"Me bird—" Cotton would have retorted if he could have talked.
"Me ship now!" grinned Gibbs, giving the plank a stamp of his foot, and sending Jack toppling into the ocean waves below. "All hands back to work! Ye will call me Captain Gibbs from this momentous point in history onward!!!"
Scowling, Jack saw no other choice but to begin his long swim towards shore.
Nobody saw Cotton who, feeling slightly bad for his misfortunate ex- captain, tossed a pistol with one shot overboard for Jack—All right, all right, that was a sentimental lie. I'll try again.
Everybody gathered around as Cotton, who was still fuming over the death of his beloved bird, chucked a pistol with one shot at Jack's head.
"Nice shot!" cheered Anamaria.
*~*
"Nice shot!" cheered Lieutenant Gillette.
Norrington strutted over to the wall and plucked some darts from the picture of Will's face, which was now punctured with holes. "I need another round, Gillette," he muttered, rubbing his temples.
"Sir, in all respect, I do not believe this is good for your health," Gillette treaded lightly, observing the pulsing vein in the Commodore's forehead.
WHISK!! A dart landed on Will's nose.
"I mean," Gillette continued apprehensively, "perhaps it's time you...move on?"
WHISK!! A second dart struck Will's Colgate smile.
"After all," said Gillette, twiddling his fingers, "their wedding is tomorrow."
WWWHHIISSSKKK! A bombardment of darts were hurled ferociously at the photo.
"I know, Gillette, don't you think I know? In precisely eighteen hours, twenty seven minutes, and thirty two seconds, Elizabeth will marry that GQ- cover blacksmith and be lost to me forever!"
Embarrassed, Gillette glanced around the Port Royal bar room, desperately hoping that no one had overheard or recognized them. He was relieved to find that others were preoccupied with a fight, and had paid little attention to the two British navy officers hidden in the shadowy back corner.
As Norrington hastily gathered up his overused darts for more shots, Gillette tried to comment optimistically,
"It probably would have never worked out anyway, really. I mean, she's so young and beautiful and you're—"
"Don't forget I have darts, Gillette."
"—you're...mature beyond her years, sir." Gillette tugged at his uniform, sweltering in the smoke-filled pub. "It is rather uncomfortable in here, isn't it, sir? One feels almost like Jack Sparrow, hee-hee—funny thought, is it not?"
"Jack Sparrow," sneered Norrington, wishing that he had the pirate's picture to paste up alongside Will's. "What have I told you about mentioning THAT NAME?!"
"Apparently nothing that I remember, sir," blubbered Gillette, cringing.
"I swear, you're like the annoying little brother that I never had," grumbled Norrington.
"And I bet we were separated at birth, too, yes?" Gillette attempted to joke, but retreated in silence when the Commodore gave him the Death Glare (which was usually reserved for the one and only Will, The-One-Who-Stole-My- Girlfriend).
"My God," droned Norrington, catching sight of the setting sun, "I only have eighteen hours, twenty three minutes, and fifty-five seconds before—" and he dissolved into hysterical tears.
Gillette stood up on cue. "I'll go get some more drinks."
*~*
"I'll go get some more drinks, miss," the maid cooed, gathering up the empty wine glasses and disappearing into the kitchen.
Elizabeth sank lower into her seat, wishing she could vanish. The dining room of the Governor's mansion was swarming with British officials (who came solely for the food), family members (who popped out of nowhere when they heard about the food), and would-be-friends (if the Swanns had any who weren't just in it for the food). The priest for the wedding ceremony the next day sat at the table as well (but we'll give him the benefit of the doubt). The large group had pestered the bride- and groom-to-be for nearly twenty-four unbearable hours, showering them with useless gifts (insulated toothbrushes...?) and overused good-luck wishes that lost all sincerity by the second course.
"It was so nice of your father to throw us this Good Luck Dinner. Aren't you having a good time, Elizabeth?" whispered Will from beside her, finishing off his slice of lemon meringue. "You look pale. And your eyebrow looks slightly irritated."
"I'm fine. And so is my eyebrow," Elizabeth said shortly.
"Well, if you're sure. Hey, are you going to eat that?" Will said, helping himself to his fiancée's slice of dessert.
Elizabeth pursed her lips, watching as he unappetizingly devoured it in two- and-a-half bites. "Will, aren't you worried at all?"
"Mffbhh-whbmf?"
"About the wedding tomorrow?"
"Mffdkdb."
"Well, just because you aren't doesn't mean that other people aren't."
"Mkkd."
"You're so narrow-minded, Will. All you know is black-smithing, black- smithing, black-smithing. It's like, Hey, I can pound this scorching-hot piece of metal and make it look like something recognizable, and then I can use it to pound something else!"
"Mff."
The priest leaned over between the two. "My dear," he said to Elizabeth, "I believe your fiancée might be choking."
"SURPRISE!!!" came a raucous shout. Elizabeth looked up and, to her horror, found the entire army of cooks escorting out a baked atrocity. It barely made it out of the kitchen, with its dozen layers of alternating German chocolate, French vanilla, and marble (which was indigenous to no country anyone could point to). Swirls of gaudy pink frosting added unnecessary effects ("and calories," thought Elizabeth, groaning, recalling her corset), but—worst of all—a miniature blacksmith hammer and parasol were jabbed in at the very top.
"What is that?" Elizabeth could barely get out without fainting from humiliation.
Governor Swann stood up proudly, heedlessly clinking glasses together (forget the fact that they were imported from China, his daughter was nearly passing out, and his future son-in-law's face was turning purple).
"Attention!" he sang out, jubilantly, although everyone had either quieted down or left after dessert. "I would like to present an early wedding cake to my beautiful daughter and her charming fiancée."
"Choking fiancée," inserted the priest.
"And that too!" smiled Governor Swann, raising his glass for a toast. "My dear Elizabeth, the cooks worked for weeks on designing this for your special day. Isn't it lovely? I personally asked them to put the accessories on top, just for you. I know how proud of your little blacksmith you are."
"It looks like someone stabbed the cake," Elizabeth hissed, dejectedly, just as some extraneous icing glopped onto her father's wig. The Governor apparently didn't notice.
"Mkdd," Will managed.
"That's exactly what I said," nodded Governor Swann. "But they insisted on chocolate anyway. Now, who wants a slice?"
The wedding cake gave a sudden lurch, but went unnoticed, because just then, Will collapsed to the floor.
"Son, I was just kidding. We're saving it for the reception tomorrow," chuckled Governor Swann. "Will? Will?"
"He can't breathe," Elizabeth explained unemotionally.
"Isn't that your line?" asked the priest quietly.
"Yeah, well, I got sick of choking every episode," Elizabeth shot back, rising out of her seat and disappearing out the front door. "Call me if anything important comes up."
While the priest tried to revive Will and Governor bustled around in a state of panic (both from seeing his wig pink and realizing his future son- in-law was choking), Elizabeth wandered around outside until she found herself meandering towards the dock.
Gazing out across the turquoise ocean, stained with the rays of a setting auburn sun, she couldn't help but consider tomorrow. Will, her gorgeous—though somewhat simple-minded (to put it nicely)—fiancée, who would, for the rest of his life, be hacking away at metal. Grimacing, she recalled the stench of that donkey in the shop, wondering if Will would eventually reek too. This called for drastic measures.
"What would Jack Sparrow do?" Elizabeth questioned aloud...
She pictured Jack, his dreadlocks arranged into a tight bun on the top of his head, stuffed into a pearly-white wedding gown and walking down the aisle with Will.
"My effects!" Jack called, twisting back to look over his shoulder at Governor Swann as Will dragged him along.
"Now, my dear, do you really think these are lady-like?" the governor replied, distastefully setting aside the confiscated hat and pistol. "Now go get married like the nice little lady that I know you are."
Still complaining about how they made him take off his hat because the stupid veil wouldn't fit overtop, he turned to Will.
"Ye do know I'm only in this for the rum, savvy?" Jack hissed through his gold and silver teeth. "Honestly. And is this dress supposed to itch like that?"
"You're not Elizabeth!" said a very confused—and concerned—Will.
"And you're not Will!" gasped Jack.
"Yes, I am."
"No, you're not. Ye 'appen to be some figment of Elizabeth's imagination, brought into existence by the extreme paranoia and stress that she is under at the moment. This scene is actually a creative writing technique used to break up certain boring portions of a narrative."
"That explains how I got here," said Will. "Last thing I knew, I was choking." He peered at Sparrow through squinted eyes. "So, are you a fig Newton too?"
Jack blinked. "Will, I'm not even goin' to answer that."
"That was pointless," Elizabeth concluded at the end of her daydream (the authors of this story likewise appologize for that random piece that just kind of inserted itself out of nowhere, cluttered up space, and ultimately did nothing constructive for this story). Sighing, she mused that even marrying Jack Sparrow would be better than becoming Mrs. Turner—at least Jack had an exciting life. Strange, yes, but exciting.
Slightly panicked and discontented, she wandered back to the mansion in hopes of getting some sleep—anything to stop imaging what horrendous things that wedding could dredge up.
"We've saved Will!" announced the priest, who hadn't been this animated since they changed the Communion wine. "Your fiancée will be in fine shape for tomorrow, Mrs. Turner."
Elizabeth bristled at the name. It sounded like a generic food brand. Mrs. Turner's Lemon Meringue Pie—so good, you'll choke on your disbelief!
Will was lounging in the parlor, she was told, eating some dessert to get his strength back; you can go see him if you want. Elizabeth didn't bother to respond, quickly disappearing upstairs into her room.
The cake was there to greet her.
"What is that?" she muttered, disgusted, as the icing continued to melt off into a chunky pink pile on her newly shined floorboards.
The Governor poked his head into her room, the wig still stained. "Just thought you'd like it here by your side as a reminder of tomorrow!" he chirped, happily.
"How thoughtful." She glared at his poofy, dyed wig. "Father, you look like Christina Aguilera."
"Get some sleep; tomorrow's the big day!" Elizabeth waited until his footsteps faded out, and then she quickly shut the door, locking it with a click.
"Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow," she mocked. "That's all anybody talks about. But if I marry Will..." She shuddered. "Who knows what disasters could happen? After all, what kind of pair do we really make? I mean, I'm so young and beautiful, and he's so—so immature beyond my years! Give him a wad of metal and he's in heaven! My life will cease to matter! (Whoa, cease, it's that English vocabulary.) I might lose intelligence if I'm around him too much! No, I'm not over-exaggerating! Did you see that guy, Mr. Brown, in the blacksmith shop? Dulled from Will's company, I'm sure, and what if that happens to me? Gasp! Oh no—What will our kids look like??? They might come out with elf ears for all I know!" She glanced out the window. "And I only have fifteen hours, twelve minutes, and forty- nine seconds before—" and she dissolved into hysterical tears.
Elizabeth paced back and forth, desperately wishing for some divine intervention to break up the wedding tomorrow: a hurricane, a plague of locusts, a kidnapping, anything. She was debating whether or not she could ask the priest to concoct something to that effect when she heard a rustling outside of her window.
By six a.m on the morning of the wedding, all the occupants and employees of the mansion had burst into Elizabeth's bedroom chamber.
"YOUR DRESS, MISS!"
"YOUR HAIRPINS, MISS!"
"YOUR FLOWERS, MISS!"
"YOUR BREAKFAST, MISS!"
"YOU'RE GONE!" gasped Governor Swann.
The room was entirely empty, with no sign of Elizabeth at all. Immediately, everyone's chaotic scrambling snowballed into panicked chaotic scrambling.
"Look!" one of the maids cried. "On her pillow! There's a note!"
They huddled around the scrawled message, hastily written—with multiple spelling errors—and Governor Swann read it aloud:
SALE! 50-70% off all Sears' blenders!
"Uh, wrong side, Governor."
"Jolly good show!" cheered the Governor, and read:
'I'v taken elesabith because I'm in luv with wil and nobodee but mee wil marree wil and wonss I'v finishd with elesabith I'l bee bak to clam wat's min!!!!!!! (Don't wait up for me.)
Sincerely,
Captain Maggascotchi'
"Clam wats min?" repeated a maid.
"Who ordered Chinese?" asked the Governor, popping his head up.
"Claim what's mine," corrected the cook. "You're thinking of chow mein noodles!"
At that moment, the baked atrocity swooned forward and toppled to the ground, spraying everyone and everything within ten yards with cake crumbs and icing glop. Then everyone froze.
A hand emerged from the middle of the cake ruins, followed by an arm—and surprisingly (yes, we know you're shocked) the rest of a body. Once icing was smeared away from the figure's face, it was only too recognizable.
"GASP!" gasped the crowd.
The man stepped out of his cake-fort, his hiding place for the past forty- eight hours.
"I'm sure you'll all be happy to know that I'm not dead," Barbossa announced.
They stared, speechless. The chef punched the nearest cook, accusingly.
"I told you we didn't bake it long enough!"
*~*
A/N: I Seek World Domination: Just so you all know, Captain Maggascotchi is a girl...yeah...I'm really, really, really bored right now. Microsoft is doing something really weird...all my toolbars are gone, including the File, Edit, Tools, Help and all those other menus...HELP ME! My mom's gonna kill me! She almost did when our computer broke the first time and we couldn't get the internet...I was fanfic.net deprived...and now, I'm suffering from Yu Yu Hakusho withdrawals... WAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! All right...all better now... On B104, on Radio Star last week, there was this guy that made it through to the quarterfinals, and his name was Das It. He was this rapper guy, but it's sad...I couldn't tell if he was white or black by his voice...Anyway, his song is so funny! If you're actually listening to Radio Star like me (being the freak I love to be!) PLEASE vote for this guy online! Thanks much! Let's see...I'm really bored. This chapter wasn't revised all that much, so if there are any mistakes, we're sorry! Okay, I think this Author's Note is a little too long...oops...when I start talking—or typing—I can't stop for the life of me...sorry...anywhos, please review! It would mean the world! Thanks!
A/N: lakerlover: I was going to say something, but I think she covered it. And actually, I think these author notes are the most annoying things ever, so you won't have to hear from me for the rest of this story. Thanks.