September 19th: Talk Like a Pirate Day
He's been blindfolded. And his arms have been wrenched around what he can feel is a ship's mast, his wrists bound tightly together with rope that bites into his skin. He isn't sure how long he's been sitting here, gritting his teeth together in an attempt to fight back the natural urge to shout at his captors. They've already threatened to gag him once already.
He's listening as carefully as possible. People are walking around him, although no one seems to be paying him much mind. He'd guess that there's probably someone sitting nearby to guard him, but nobody else stops or slows near him.
Until this exact moment. He lifts his head at the differing sound, the thud of heavier footsteps and a sort of jingling that grows louder until it stops right in front of him.
"Alfred F. Jones." The voice is authoritative and Alfred can guess without seeing that this must be the captain of the ship he's been spirited onto. "Prizefighter extraordinaire. What does the 'F' stand for?"
"Don't know, sir." He manages to keep his voice light. "My mama never told me."
The captain doesn't respond for a moment, then his whatever-it-was jingled again and there's the sound of clothing rustling before the voice came from much closer, "Do you know why I ordered my men to bring you aboard my ship, Alfred F. Jones?"
Nope, he honestly has no idea. And he's pretty pissed about it.
He suddenly feels something metal and extremely cold brush against his cheek, almost like a lover's caress. Then it's flicked back and the blindfold falls away from his eyes.
And he's half-blinded by the sun. He has to blink a few times to focus on the face in front of him.
The guy looks young for a pirate captain is the first thought that goes through his mind. And he knows that this guy is a pirate captain, because that's the only thing he could possibly be with that hat. Plus his crew had kind of kidnapped Alfred while he was walking from his last match of the night, so pirate it was. He looks like he's only in his early-twenties or so. With the biggest, blondest eyebrows that Alfred has ever seen in his life.
"No idea, sir," Alfred responds, still keeping his tone nonchalant. "Nobody thought to explain it to me before they tried grabbing me."
The only reason they'd succeeded in grabbing him was because one of them had cracked him across the back of the head with something hard, painful, and metallic. And that had been after he'd already taken out five guys, most of them armed.
"It is because I am a collector. And I collect only the best." His voice is kind of creepily soothing, if that makes any sense. He grins, though, and his grin pretty plainly states that this guy is insane. "And you, my dear Alfred F. Jones, managed to defeat my best fighter."
Alfred has no idea what he's talking about, but he's pretty sure that he's pretty much fucked.