No playlist this time, we're having a break.

So, we're right on the brink of the very exciting Desert Island Chapter, which will be well worth the wait!

Please keep reviewing, I don't feel like writing otherwise.

11

They gave me wine that tasted fine, but it went right to my head
Then they threw their clothes away, and carried me to bed
When I awoke next morning I had an aching head
My clothes and all my money, and my lady friends had left
Lord, I don't miss the money, as some other sailors might
But I wish I could remember if I had some fun that night!

"If any of you as much as thinks the word parley, I'll have your guts for garters!"
Pintel was having a right old time of it.

Jack would have found this pesky, pot-bellied, overly-aspirational little man altogether very amusing. But given the situation, he did not feel inclined to chuckle, guffaw, or in any other way express his recreational indulgence.

The one thing that could have regained him his ship was either already drowned, or about to be blown up into very small, useless parts, or both.

The only satisfaction he could derive from this awfully sticky situation was the fact that Barbossa and his damned crew of treacherous miscreants would never be rid of the curse now.
He silently blessed Cortes, for so benevolently bestowing such a wickedly brilliant curse upon that bleeding treasure.

Well. It was a benevolent act from where Jack was standing.
And at the moment, he was standing in a place with no visible escape route and not many other prospects neither, so old Cortes was all he had.

He blinked in sudden reaction as the Interceptor made a very loud noise, and soared up into the air in great wooden chunks and clouds of smoke, at a safe distance.

Tell a lie. A safe distance, unless you were William Turner.

Elizabeth, saucy wench as always, took this opportunity to launch herself at Barbossa in hopes of arresting him - much good that would do - beating him pointlessly with her small fists.

"You've got to stop it! Stop it!" she cried, her words barely audible for their sheer volume.
He caught her wrists, pressing his yellowed nails into her skin with a smug grin on his ugly gitty face.
"Welcome back, Miss!" he replied in mock courtesy, "You took advantage of our hospitality last time. It holds fair now that you return the favor."

With that, he flung her gracelessly into the open, waiting arms of his gathered seamen. They howled with feverish glee, groping at her dress, her hips, her breasts, her loose hair.

That's odd.
Jack looked in bewilderment at the sword that was pointed rather threateningly at his throat.
It was only as he pulled up sharp from his rushed attack, seeing the crew's suspicious eyes all on him, that he realised what he was doing.
In the middle of a heroic act of self-sacrifice to save the girl.
Of course, the sight of an actual weapon had brought him out of this unthinking action. He wouldn't actually risk his neck to save her dignity.

But the sight of their hands still on her made his blood simmer.
No, not boil. Just simmer. But it was still a form of mildly raging heat.

Their brown fingers shouldn't be all over her pure white skin, her golden locks.
It just wasn't allowed.
The entire ship, including his own crew, were looking at him now with curiosity, as he stood firm against the blade that rested on his throat, transfixed in half-perplexity, half-stubbornness.

They thought he was being... protective of her. For his own sake.
He wasn't a protective chap 'cept over one thing, and everybody knew it.
He wasn't protecting her. He was just - preserving her.
Preserving? What the bloody hell did that mean, anyway?

"Barbossa!" echoed a shout from behind him.

"William!" Elizabeth returned, voice rising with relief and renewed hope.

The whelp grabbed the nearest pistol, cocked it, and aimed it at Barbossa.
"She goes free." he stated.

Oh boy.
This couldn't in any possible way turn out positive for any of them.
William. What a buffoon.

"I always liked you." Jack assured the pirate who was holding him in a vice-like grip.
The ruffian just grunted in a negative manner.
A manner which meant he was going to walk the plank, whether he liked it or not.

William wasn't just a buffoon. He was a gutless yellow-bellied slimy conniving thick-skulled codswalloping blaggard brute.

And he had sentenced them to a very likely death.