The Pirate's Life

A Tale of Jolly Pillagers and their Swashbuckling Adventures Across the Seven Seas!

By Rusty S.

~

 Scabtooth is a son of a bitch. For all the riddles, puzzles, questions, and doubts of this world that plague my mind, there is one thing that I know for certain: one absolute that I can rely upon. Scabtooth is a son of a bitch. The most brutish malicious malevolent mean-hearted scalawag of a buccaneer to ever sail the seven seas. His heart pumps ice water through his veins, and is so black that death itself would be envious of the hue. He'd steal candy from a crippled baby or punch a homeless old lady in the kidneys to swipe her pills in the blink of an eye if it tickled his fancy. And laugh doing it. He'd slit his mother's throat for a nickel and piss on her grave for a dime. If he were a religious man, he'd cordially invite the gods to kiss his ass. He'd be thrown out of hell for bad behavior: if he hadn't raised so much of it on earth that there's none left in the otherworld. Aye, the roughest rogue to don an eyepatch, scimitar, and parakeet in a hundred years. A real bastard!

He's the best pirate captain I've ever worked under. But then again, he's the only pirate captain I've ever worked under. A shiver of fear runs down my spine when I see that looming, wedge-shaped form hover on the edge of the poop deck, staring off into the depths of the sea with his one burning, steady eye. Like a hawk looking patiently for prey to rend asunder. I often wonder what hideous madness goes through his mind as he stands there peering into the depths of the horizon for hours on end. But that's no question I'd ever ask him. No one aboard the ship approaches Captain Scabtooth at his staring-spot, as a matter of health.

But fear is ok in this pirate's book. The pirate's life may be laced with fear and danger: but it brings forth a bounty of adventure and excitement unlike any other lot this dull little world has to offer! How could the dry crust of the Earth ever compare to the creaking planks of a freshly swabbed poop deck, or the ebon sails fluttering proudly in the fresh breeze of the sea? This ship is our escape. The men on land are shackled and fettered by stagnant traditions, the rule of law, and the stupidity of the herd. But aboard a pirates' vessel, you're restricted only by the limits of your strength and cleverness!

Aye, a good vessel it is. The poop deck underneath my feet is a pattern of sturdy, dull, dark brown planks. Freshly swabbed, as always. There's never been a day that Smiddly hasn't wiped it clean at least three times, usually more. How that jellyfish ever got to be the Captain's right hand man is beyond me. He stands off in the corner, clutching his mop nervously, sloshing it back and forth across the planks in small, timid strokes: his eyes on the floor. His face bears an expression that reeks of 3 lifetimes worth of tragedy, as if he's been terrorized by the world for so long that his only conceivable response to anything is to hide. He's 20 years old. I suppose I feel some sort of distant, vague sense of pity for him, even if I am a pirate. The Captain works him harder than all the other men combined.

With each swipe of the mop that Smiddly makes, his hunched form steps a little bit more backwards. I notice him moving dangerously close to the captain's staring spot. He doesn't. With a soft thud he lightly bumps into the Captain. The two slowly turn to face each other. "I'm so sorry my Captain," Smiddly instantly stutters in a soft, humble squeak. Scabtooth casually smites him in the face with the back of his hand: just as quickly, not so humbly or softly. "Don't interrupt me while I'm thinking," the Captain replies in a dry, dispassionate voice.

Scabtooth blinks dazedly as if awakening from a nap, "What time is it?"

"Four o'clock, sir," Smiddly stammers nervously as a smattering of blood trickles down from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh. Prepare my dinner then."

Smiddly's eyes suddenly shimmer with a gleam of happiness, "Yes sir!" The confidence in his tone begins to grow, "I'll make you a special feast to make up for my horrible mistake sir, I won't let you down my Captain! I'll make you some hamburgers and..."

Scabtooth's eyes grow wide in angered alert, "Some what?!"

"I'm sorry sir," is all Smiddly manages to release from his vocal cords, which are tightly gripped with fear - of the beatings that are now assured to him.

Scabtooth draws back his arm and rams his fist firmly into Smiddly's nose. "A pirate doesn't eat hamburgers!" Smiddly falls to the floor in a crumpled, sobbing heap. Scabtooth stands over him, looking down with a grizzled, contemptuous glare. He swiftly throws a firm kick into the fallen pirate's ribs. "A pirate doesn't even know what a hamburger is!" The Captain raises his boot and crashes it down on Smiddly's shoulder blade, twisting and grinding it slowly against the floor with his foot for added effect. "How am I supposed to be a pirate Captain if my crew won't even act like proper pirates!?" Scabtooth places his boot on his right-hand-man's throat. "Make no further mention of anything that goes against the of the way of the pirate."

Smiddly chokes under the boot's pressure, "Yes, my Captain! I don't even know what a hamburger is! I've gone all addlebrained and said nonsense! I'm sorry sir! I'll never say something so stupid again!"

Scabtooth releases his foot and silently walks off. Smiddly scrambles to his feet and follows the Captain.

Watching those two interact in their usual manner always gives me a strange, uneasy feeling. I quickly make my way to the stairs, in hopes to avoid speaking with either one of them. The stairs rest in a dark square hole in the middle of the main deck, leading into the belly of the ship. It's always a little surprising to enter the lower level of the ship, as transitioning from the bright light of the sun into the dull, flickering glow of candles is hard on the eyes. But aye, the darkness of this place suits its purpose just fine. This is the heart of the pirate life. This is where the crew eats their hearty pirate feasts and drinks their pirate ale. This is where the bloody, swashbuckling pirate brawls break out. A place of good times, it is.

Upon entering, an enormously crisp, mammoth, wet belch ripples through the air. Orf is the only pirate on this ship that would emit such a foul sound. A sure sign that he's stuffing his face and drowning himself in ale. But then again, the only times Orf isn't forcing something down his gaping pie hole or liquor-sopping his brain is when he's chasing anything that happens to be wearing a skirt. I've always found that aspect of him curious, considering the bloke must weigh at least 300 pounds, pure fat, and has a bald head that could blind you if the sun hit it just right. My eye catches him engrossed in his latest feeding frenzy, gnashing and gnawing an especially large ham leg with his browned, fetid teeth.

I don't care much to look at him. Or smell him. Pirates may be infamous for their uncleanliness, but Orf goes far above and beyond the call of duty. His bloated potbelly hangs out over his woefully stretched and strained shirt: its white hue tastefully decorated with food-grime of 4 weeks past. That beast probably can't remember the last time he's seen his feet, which coincidentally are covered with jungles of hair and fungus. Still, to his merit, he does have considerable skill wielding his weapon of choice: a plank with a rusted nail protruding out of it.

"Yo ho ho, yo ho ho!" Orf bellows in an ogrish grunt of a melody, as bits of meat and ale dribble from his mouth and find themselves entrapped in his beard.

My eyes desperately avert to the opposite end of the room in an attempt to clean themselves of the horrid, blubbery images they have just witnessed - and find themselves on Tilt. He sits on a wooden crate in the corner of the hall, leaning back. His skinny form is lazily slouched: his eyes are wide, distant, unblinking. He holds an empty wine bottle in one hand. A knife in the other. His hands move slowly, intently, scratching the glass with the knife. Tilt repeats the motions, over and over, each scratch causing the glass to emit a high pitched squeal. The noise is enough to drive a man mad.

Tilt blinks his eyes. He lets forth a loud growl of rage, and thrusts the knife forcefully into the wine bottle, shattering it. The knife and fragments of glass fly onto the floor. His eyes flutter in a rapid succession of blinks as he storms out of the hall and into his quarters. Within a few moments, manic and unbridled howls of laughter erupt from his room. One needs to be wary of Tilt. As violent as the Captain may be, he does at least have an element of predictability to him. Tilt does not.

I hustle far away from the vicinity of Orf and Tilt for the sake of my stomach and sanity, and enter into the depths of the foodstuffs storage area, in search of grog and grub. The pirate pantry holds the classic meal choices of the corsair: stinky fish, stinky rum, and stale bread. Everything better must have been devoured by Orf. I shoo some of the flies out of the way to grab what I need, and quickly gulp down the foul food mixture. The taste is excruciating, but a pirate has got to have his strength. You can't swashbuckle on an empty stomach.

With my belly uncomfortably settled, and the foul musty stench of pirate stink beginning to become unbearable, I make my way back towards the upper decks of the ship. The edge of the prow is a good place to stand: you can gaze off into the limitless ocean scape with hardly a bit of ship beneath your feet. As I walk towards the prow, I discover two of my pirate comrades, Barthas and Cecil, are already there and incessantly pestering each other as usual.

Those two are exactly opposite in nature. Cecil never stops talking. The man is horridly addicted to the sound of his own voice. He'll talk to anyone, anywhere, any time, about anything. If there were no pirates aboard the ship, he'd probably talk to chairs and doors with wild abandon. It's been accepted as a general bit of wisdom for the crew members that the only surefire ways to end a conversation with Cecil are punching, threatening, and running away if you're fast enough.

Barthas, on the other hand, barely speaks at all. When he does it usually comes in the form of a short sarcasm-drenched insult. Barthas has a tongue so sharp I'm surprised he hasn't cut his own throat with it yet. His eyes are weary and cynical, like a man who hasn't been able to sleep for 2 days: but he sleeps more than anyone else aboard this ship.

Cecil's eyes are wide, alert, bouncing constantly about, taking in everything with glee, like a hyperactive child. His short, wide, stubby form has a relaxed, fluid manner, not unlike a sail that flutters about in the breeze. If Cecil is akin to a sail, then Barthas is like a pole of the mast: far more tall than wide, with a tense and unmoving bearing about him.

"Barthas! How are you my dear fellow pirate? I'm doing magnificently today! Yes, absolutely wonderful! Couldn't be better. The fresh air of the sea is so wonderful and the sun beams down on us with all her majesty! I'm filled with pep and vigor and ready to face some swashbuckling adventure! How are you doing this fine day Barthas? How are you doing?" bubbles Cecil.

Barthas rolls his eyes. "Much worse now," he mutters.

"Aw, don't be that way Barthas. We can't have you being that way. Look at the skies! Feel the air! Look around you! Life is beautiful! Yes, that's what I say when I feel a bit glum. ‘Life is beautiful!' is what I always say. Come on Barthas, say it with me, that will cheer you up! Say ‘Life is beautiful, my dear friend Cecil, and I'm glad to be alive!' Say just that! You'll feel great!"

"What a bunch of bilge," Barthas says drearily.

"I know! I know what will be just the thing. Lets sing some sea shanties Barthas, come on! Lets sing! We're pirates after all, so lets sing some sea shanties! It will be fun! We'll sing songs of the sea and odes to rum and cadences to the joy of pillaging! We can revel in the glory of being a pirate with the sounds of our voices! Lets sing some sea shanties Barthas!"

"Leave me alone you nauseating bucket of energy. Can't you see I'm busy moping over the meaninglessness of my existence?" Barthas sighs.

"Don't be that way now Barthas. We can't have you being glum! We're all supposed to be a merry band of brigands! I know! Lets do a pirate dance atop the poop deck! We'll have a jolly time! Yes, dancing lifts the spirits and puts the vigor back into your bones! Lets dance our troubles away! We can dance until our legs wear out! A merry pirate jig to celebrate life! Lets go dear friend Barthas, and dance!" Cecil grabs Barthas' shoulder and shakes him.

"No." Barthas swats Cecil's hand away.

"Come on now Barthas, we can't have you that way! We can't have you that way at all. No sir, you've got to cheer up! You can't just sit around in despair, not having any fun, you can't hope to be that way!"

"I can't hope for anything. Hope is stupid. And meaningless. Everything is stupid and meaningless. Especially you."

"Haven't you realized that being a pirate is no good unless..."

Barthas interrupted, " Haven't you realized you're just an empty shell of a man who's only joy consists of constantly affirming his trite existence through the presence of others and enacting meaningless motions that simulate happiness?"

Cecil's mouth falls into a slight frown. He shrugs his shoulders and wanders away towards the main deck, off to find some other pirate to bother most likely. As Barthas watches him leave, a slight hint of a smile creeps on his face.

This scene has happened so frequently it's become commonplace. I'll never understand for the life of me why those two spend so much time together, repeating this same mind-numbing routine every day, always reaching the same result, never learning from it or changing their tactics. I shake my head in confusion and decide to go to my quarters, in order to prepare for my pirate duties of the day.

As I move across the main deck, I notice Cid making repairs to a broken cannon on the starboard side. Cid is the crew's engineer: if something breaks, he fixes it. For all the Captain's commands and bullyings, it's always Cid that makes sure things are actually done successfully. The crew ignores him, but he's the only pirate aboard who truly keeps things running around here. Without Cid, by now the ship probably would've sunk several hundred times over into the

deepest depths of Briny Deep. Of all the pirates aboard this ship, Cid is the only one I can say I respect.

His stout form is bent over his repair work with an air of control. His stern eyes are fixed intensely on his project, oblivious to the world around him. The sun glimmers off his shaved head, almost as if he were molded of steel instead of flesh. His hands move with efficient, rigid, and purposeful precision, completely devoid of the unnecessary and useless.

After several minutes, he looks up from his work and realizes I am watching him.

"Ahoy," he says in a detached and sleepy manner.

"Ahoy," I say in return.

He nods in understanding, then returns his eyes to his work.

With my first conversation of the day completed, I continue on my path and climb down the stairs. I enter the dark, musky belly of the ship once more and move towards the hall of the pirate-rooms, and open the third door on the left: my quarters.

I often wonder where I, Olan, fit into this band of crazed corsairs. Officially, I'm the crew's navigator. I figure out where we are, and what's necessary to get the ship to where we want it. But I certainly don't fit in with the rest of the crew. It's not often you come across a brigand of the sea equipped with an education and a penchant for introspection, I suppose. I act as an observer and analyzer of pirate-kind aboard this ship more than anything else.

I get into the spirit of the swashbuckle with all I've got. I could wield a cutlass like a bloodthirsty berserker, wreak havoc like the most vicious of Vikings, and drink me rum with the best of the buccaneers, but there always seems to be some integral part of the pirate that eludes me, keeping me distant and separated from the rest.

It still feels strange to have joined a band of brigands in the first place, but I've never wavered in my decision to do so. Life on the land was dull, empty, so intensely boring. The people that surrounded me were not people at all. They were husks of flesh and bone - mere shadows of men that had long died inside. They had lost their souls and their will to shape and create their destinies: to truly live. Even the worst of the pirates, with their harsh violence, or their unpredictable madness, or their perpetual black cloud of melancholy seem far more alive than the landlubbers ever did.

I go about my charts and maps and begin my work, determining our current position and where we need to head.

~

The pirate meeting siren makes a shrill whine across the air. 8 o'clock. The time for the weekly corsair-council meeting has arrived. With a slow, begrudging trudge I exit my quarters and make my way to the main deck once again. The other pirates don't care for my plans and ideas. My voice means nothing in these meetings: which is why I never speak in them. All of the pirates have begun to gather in a circle, most of them quivering in anticipation and tensely eager to get their own way in the coming decision making.

Scabtooth stands at the head of the circle, looking over his crew contemptuously as if they were a pack of rabid, irrational animals. The Captain clears his throat, "Listen up ye scurvy dogs! It's corsair-council time. And that means we're gonna decide what to do for the rest of this week. Now ye all better listen to me, because if anyone speaks out of..."

Madness ensues. Everyone speaks at once.

"Lets burn things! Burn the cities of the world to the ground! Slay them all, take their stuff, and dance upon on their ashes! Lets make the world tremble at the mere mention of our names! Pillage! Pillage! Pillage! Fire! Fire! Fire! Destroy! Destroy! Destroy!," Tilt chatters almost incoherently, his eyes gleaming with a burst of mania.

"Feast! Drink! Women!," Orf bellows in a guttural grunt.

"Whatever the Captain wants," Smiddly says meekly.

"What does it matter? This is all so meaningless," Barthas bemoans.

"Lets dance a pirate jig and sing shanties of the sea! Aye! That's what we should do! Lets dance and sing, then dance and sing some more! Lets have a jolly fun time this week! That's what we need, some fun! And nothing makes fun for a pirate more than dancing jigs and singing sea shanties!," Cecil shouts enthusiastically.

"Shut up you! What good is dancing unless it's on the ashes of our enemies?!," Tilt snarls, pointing at Cecil.

"Feast! Women! Drink!," Orf bellows once again, with an insistent tone as if it were self evident.

"You've eaten enough for 8 lifetimes, you bloated sack of lard and alcohol," Barthas sneers bitingly. "And any woman you walked within 3 feet of would drop dead from your foul stink, if the mere sight of you hadn't frightened her to death already."

"Stop being idiots," Cid mutters in exasperation.

"I'll idiot you if ye don't watch it!," Tilt growls, raising his fists.

Scabtooth strikes Tilt soundly in the back of the head. "Shut up, the lot of ya!" The Captain booms. Frenzied anger burns in his eyes. "I won't have disorder on my ship!" He grabs a cat of nine tails from the floor, and snaps the whip against the deck, all nine ends of it strike with a deafening crack, bringing everyone's attention sharply to him. He shakes as if he is no longer in control of his own body, "You didn't follow my orders... you dared to not follow my orders! I can't stand it when people don't follow my orders! Now someone's going to have to pay! I'll make you learn to follow my orders!"

No sound hits the air except for the Captain's angry, rasping breaths. None of the pirates dare to speak, and none move except for Tilt, who rubs the back of his head with a grimace on his face. Fear shows itself in their eyes, in their stillness, in their silence. Being near Scabtooth during one of his control-bent rages is more dangerous than sticking your hand into a bucketful of snakes. Both might bite you, but the snake would be finished after that: for Scabtooth, it would only be the beginning. As the seconds turn into minutes, the Captain's breaths begin to die down into a hushed murmur, and the main deck is cloaked in dead silence.

A cell phone rings. The silence that once took the main deck is flooded over with a shrill series of electronic beeps.

The Captain's eyes are lowered to the ground, his body perfectly still. A vein bulges out from his forehead. "Who's cell phone is that," he utters in an quiet, expressionless tone, not even in the form of a question. All the pirates turn their eyes immediately to Smiddly. Then in a burst they all move as far away from him as possible.

The Captain's voice is calm, but trembles as if it is holding back some great force. "Pirates don't have cell phones. You know that Smiddly. Pirates don't even know what a cell phone is. Cell phones weren't invented until the late 1900's. Why would a pirate ever have a cell phone? How are we supposed to be pirates if you remind us that it's the year 2004? A pirate has no place in modern times. You know that Smiddly. Well Smiddly? Do you have anything to say?"

Smiddly stands alone, in the center of the main deck. He is still. His eyes are wide, vacant. The beeps of the cell phone still shriek from the insides of his pocket. The sound of a large gulp comes from his throat. He says nothing.

The Captain screams with rage, "You'll meet the rope's end for this, me bucko!" He bears his teeth in a grimace of rage, saliva drips from his mouth. He cracks the whip against the floor and lunges after his right-hand-man like a gigantic, angry hornet. Smiddly makes a high pitched squeal and dashes away from the Captain for his life.

Scabtooth lumbers after him like a rampaging juggernaut, snapping the whip menacingly against the ground with every other step that he takes. "You bilge-sucking worm! You'll dance with Jack Ketch and find your corpse at the bottom of Davy Jones' Locker when I'm finished with you!" He swings the cat of nine tails wildly above his head and slashes out ahead of him. Each time he hears the crack of the whip, Smiddly emits a frightened yaulp. He blathers apologies repeatedly with each step he takes. His bottom half is a blur of legs as he desperately tries to escape the monster of frenzy that runs after him. But how many places are there to run when you're in the middle of the sea?

The rest of the crew, hesitantly, begins to gather back into the center of the main deck, relieved to have avoided the Captain's wrath. Cid steps forward, "...Right. We've got to decide what to do this week, and those two are going to be busy for awhile. I'll run the meeting. Now, we'll go one at a time, and give our plan. Then we'll vote. Understood?" I am relieved to finally hear some sensibility: I nod and smile. The rest of the crew nods begrudgingly.

"Tilt. What do you propose we do," Cid asks.

Tilt immediately responds, "We burn down everything! We pillage a city! Lets get us more booty than we know what to do with! Lets Plunder, and surround ourselves in riches! Riches, I say!"

"Here is why that won't work. If we raid a town, the police will shoot us. If we fire our cannons, the navy will smite our ship within minutes. We're outgunned. Utterly outgunned," Cid says flatly. Tilt scowls, crosses his arms, and says nothing.

Cid turns to Barthas, "And what say you?"

Barthas rolls his eyes, sighs, and says dryly, "I don't give a damn."

"...Orf," Cid looks towards the gargantuan glutton.

"Feast! Women! Drink!" He says with a loud, simple gusto.

Cid groans, "We have little food left, and certainly not enough for a feast."

"Where it go!?," Orf demands.

Cid slaps his forehead in frustration, "You ate it!"

Orf frowns. "...Women? Drink?," he says with a glimmer of hope in his voice.

Cid speaks slowly and carefully, as to a child, "We're almost out of rum as well. You've been drowning yourself in it nonstop since we got here. And in case you hadn't noticed, there are no women aboard this ship." Orf lowers his head in despair and makes a few small sobs.

Cid turns to Cecil, whose eyes light up with an enthusiastic glow. "I know what you want to do. Forget it. We're not singing and dancing. Ever."

Cecil makes a long and over dramatic sigh, "You're all no fun. No fun at all."

"... and what about you, Olan?"

I look up, startled. I can't even recall the last time I was asked for my opinion at a corsair-council meeting. I think slowly, carefully, racking my brains for an idea: for some concept that will make the pirate life full fledged at last. Then it hits me.

"Conquest," I say simply.

"Have you gone addlebrained?," Cid asks accusingly, but I can see the glimmer of fascination in his eyes.

"It will be unprecedented. We'll be the last of humanity to go into full, undiluted conquest. No pretense, no holy crusade, no political inanity, no phony moral justification behind it: just pure, undefiled expansion by war that runs under one banner: ‘might makes right.' We'll make history! The world won't know what to make of it. The barbarians of the past will laugh in their graves as their legacy becomes resurrected after all these years! It will be like a great ball of fire, suddenly erupting without warning in the dead of night!"

The crew looks at me intently, perhaps for the first time.

Cid asks now eagerly, but still skeptical, "And how do you propose we do it? How in the hell are we going to conquest in this day and age?"

"We start small. We sail to tiny, isolated third world countries and commandeer nearby ships and their supplies, which we sell for war funds. We'll use the funds to get more weapons and troops. As we gain leverage, we silently start to take over small islands owned by rich and eccentric hermits, and other islands that are ignored by the world. It's at this point that our funds and territory will actually start to develop. Then we keep growing our empire, as far as the powers of our swords can reach."

Cid's mouth drops open, "That's. Just. Crazy. Enough. To. Work."

"Conquering sounds like great fun! Great fun indeed! I want to conquer! Nothing puts pep and vigor into the spirits like a good conquering," bubbles Cecil.

"We conquer! Then we feast and drink to celebrate!," Orf grunts enthusiastically.

Tilt lets loose a maniacal laugh, "I like this idea. I like it! We conquer!"

"...Why not?," Barthas says with a sly grin.

Scabtooth and Smiddly still run about the main deck, caught in their own squabblings, oblivious to what has just transpired. But they seem distant, meaningless now: as if they no longer belong on the ship.

"Aye... conquest it is," I say.

"Aye-aye... sir," Cid says solemnly.

The night sky hangs quietly above the dark, sleeping surface of the Briny Deep. The waters move dully, slowly about in silence as they are pushed by the forces of the Earth. Amidst this midnight sea scape, our vessel alone brings light to the skies, as it moves against the currents: as we choose it. It sails onward to our destinies: the pirates' life.

Yarrrrr!

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