Chapter Eleven - Irritating
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean belongs to Disney.
"So, you're gonna help us break into your house?" Bobby questioned.
A rather confused Bobby glared in the rear-view mirror at the pirate who managed to talk his way into the backseat of their parked car. Depp is insane. That could be the only explanation, he thought.
"Not exactly, mate," replied Jack Sparrow.
"You're gonna let us break into your house?" pitched in Carl, who nervously smoked his sixth cigarette.
Jack leaned back against the leather interior, confident as ever. "That's where you're wrong, lads. 'Tis not my house - therefore my professional authorisation of consensual permission to allow you to ransack, pillage and plunder this innocent edifice is considerably unfounded upon matters such as these."
Carl glanced at Bobby, a confused look on his face.
"Yeah…" Bobby replied, not comprehending a word of what he'd just said. "Or you could just give us your cash now."
"Now that is a good suggestion to be sure, but unfortunately, I'm not in possession of said cash - which is why I'd be most grateful for you two gentlemen to accompany me to this humble abode - wherever it may be - to retrieve the cash in question."
"…And the drugs. Don't forget the drugs," added Carl, barely containing his excitement. They were gonna be drug lords and millionaires!
Annoyed at Carl's enthusiasm, Bobby slapped him upside the head harder than he intended to, yet not caring too much about it.
"Ow! You bitch!" Carl spat, rubbing his aching head. "What was that for?"
"We call the shots around here! Not him!" Bobby yelled, his face fuming red.
"Sorry," was all Carl could say. "But I'm likin' his idea. I think it--"
Bobby clenched the steering wheel. "You don't even understand his goddamn idea!"
"Yeah, I do! He wants to rob his house!" Carl protested.
Jack interrupted, "For the last time, it's not me bloody house!"
"Shut the hell up!" Bobby and Carl yelled in unison, glaring over their seats at the pirate.
At the crack of dawn, Bobby restlessly got out of the car and slammed the door shut, awakening Carl in the process. He decided a bit of fresh air would do him some good - especially since the car reeked of a thousand dead fish with a sprinkle of body odour.
"What are you doin' Bobby?" Carl sleepily asked.
"Gettin' the hell away from him. He smells like shit," Bobby pointed at the sleeping pirate sprawled across the backseat.
Carl glanced over at Jack. "I thought he smelt like fish."
Bobby rolled his eyes and leaned against the side of the car as he retrieved a cigarette from his pocket.
"You think I don't know that?" Bobby responded casually.
"I gotta give it to him, Bob. He's makin' me hungry."
"For Pete's sake, Carl! We're stuck in this hellhole with a filthy, stinkin', good for nothin' piece of shit, and all you can think about is your goddamn stomach? You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"
"Sorry, Bobby," Carl mumbled. "…But do ya think could we stop off and get some grub?"
Bobby lit his cigarette and took a long drag, eyeing his companion. He didn't want to admit it, but he too was feeling his stomach involuntarily grumbling. In an attempt to keep up his staunch demeanour, Bobby coughed to cover up the unwanted sound of his hunger.
"Dammit, alright! We'll get you a friggin' Happy Meal!" Bobby yelled.
Carls eyes lit up. "With the lil' toy?"
Bobby rolled his eyes.
The bright morning light shone through the kitchen window, forcing itself upon Patrick's face. Blinded, he opened his pained eyes. His head pounded ten times worse than any hangover he'd ever had in his whole life - which in his opinion was an understatement. Slowly rising to his feet, he looked around. What was he doing in the kitchen?
"Huh," he uttered, scratching his head. He couldn't see any bottles or anything that indicated why he was out cold on the floor. Although he did remember having an odd dream… Elizabeth Swann in Vincent's house? Yeah right.
Strolling towards the answering machine, Patrick decided to check out the messages.
"Hey, Pat. It's Vince here. Just letting you know I'm coming home tonight - around about… uh… six thirty. By the way, what's the state of my house like? If you've trashed it, you'll be paying for the repairs. How's Elizabeth? I hope you've been looking after her. Oh and uh, let her know she won't have to put up with you 'cause I'm returning, okay? Well, I'm almost out of money on my cell… Gotta go."
Holy shit! It was real!
Patrick stood in shock for a moment as the events of last night came flooding back to him. His brother's machine is gone, Elizabeth is gone, the house resembled a bombsite - yet Patrick couldn't quite figure out how that had happened. Hell, Vincent is not going to be happy
Patrick shrugged then opened the fridge and took out an empty milk carton. Glaring at the inconvenience, he gripped the carton in a vice-like fashion and made his way to the trashcan situated in the garage outside.
"Must've been one hell of a party," Patrick jokingly said to himself as he stepped over the corpse sleeping peacefully in the doorway. For some reason, he had no idea how the unwanted guest wound up lying on the front porch.
The garage door was locked, much to Patrick's amusement. Of course such a thing would only happen to him on days like this. Days where nothing seemed to make sense. He clutched the cardboard in his hand and dumped it thoughtlessly on the concrete. Vincent will clean it up, he thought. Right now he couldn't give a rat's arse in a pie warmer.
Her feet ached terribly. She felt as though she had walked a thousand miles through busy streets, quiet alleyways, urban avenues and parks to no avail. Surely, the sights and sounds of this beautiful city were amazing, but now wasn't the time for sightseeing.
Elizabeth pondered. Perhaps she'd been looking in the wrong place. She should have at least come across Will or even Jack by now. There was no way Jack could have gone far, especially since he can barely walk in a straight line at times.
Elizabeth then thought of an idea. There must be at least one person who knows something in this fast moving, non-stop crowd.
"Excuse me!" Elizabeth called out to a random woman on the busy streets of New York. "I'm wondering if you have seen Will Turner? The blacksmith?"
"Get a life, lady!" the woman yelled out, not even bothering to stop.
How rude, Elizabeth thought to herself. People around here certainly need to learn a few manners. She most definitely wasn't in Port Royal anymore. It was all so strange. It was hopeless.
Elizabeth snapped out of it as a man casually went about his business. He didn't seem to be in too much of a hurry. It could be promising, she thought.
"Excuse me, sir. Do you know where I can find William Turner?"
"Is this a joke, miss--?"
"Miss Swann. And no of course not! Please, if you know anything…" Elizabeth couldn't deal with being ignored again.
The stranger raised an eyebrow. "You looking for Jack Sparrow too?" Just another whack-job in New York - no doubt about it, he thought.
"Yes, I am," Elizabeth replied. She couldn't believe her luck!
"Keep going straight. You'll see the place. Huge white building, big windows," the man said as he pointed further down the main street.
"Thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me!" Elizabeth could barely stop herself from hugging the stranger. She will be with Will at last!
The stranger eyed her up and down. Her outfit was a disaster, he chuckled to himself. This was one crazy woman.
"Just a word of advice. Get some therapy," he added. And with that, the man continued on his merry way.
Elizabeth smiled. She didn't need Jack's help after all.
"Welcome to McDonalds. May I take your order?" screeched the drive-thru speaker.
Bobby's arm hung out the car window casually as he leaned towards the red box. Before he managed to get a word in, Jack tapped him repeatedly on the shoulder. Short-tempered nerves could barely contain an outburst as Bobby reluctantly faced the source of irritation.
"'Tis rather invigorating that there are in fact people fortunate enough to take orders from pirates," Jack said, trying to get across a very important point in his opinion. It was an argument Jack refused to lose.
"Shut up," Bobby spat as he brushed the pirate's hand away.
"Is there a problem, sir?" The aggravating speaker voice deserved a fist shoved into it.
"No problems here, pal. I'll grab a Big Mac Combo and uh… a Happy Meal," Bobby smirked at Carl over in the passenger seat.
"Is that the lot?"
"Pst, Bobby, what 'bout him?" Carl whispered.
Bobby glared at Jack, who had discovered the seatbelts and was consequently clicking and un-clicking the strange objects.
"Ye know, these irons are not good at all. One could easily escape," Jack informed.
Bobby rolled his eyes. "…Make that two Happy Meals."