Post by Cid on Feb 11, 2010 4:07:24 GMT -5
Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.
~Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi
---
"FIFTEEN MEN ON A DEAD MAN'S CHEST," a moment's pause beset them. Then, as if a spark of inspiration shocked them back to the world of the living, they finished their merry shanty. "YO HO HO AND A BOTTLE OF RUM!" The group of ten sailors were having a time, laughing and gambling in their zero-g rec room. None of them were belted into anything, and cards were strewn all about the poorly lit room as if that was how business was usually conducted--and it was. None of them were keeping count and the booze was a little watered down. Not that it all mattered, anyhow, because old Tom Smithly was having a boy.
"SO TOM, MA LAD," spat the elder captain, away from his duties and as drunk as a skunk, yet not a care in the world. "WHADDYA NAME 'IM?" He was as loud as a bullhorn, having lost any semblance of self-control hours and many bottles earlier.
"Well, sir, I b'leave the misses has takin' ta callin' 'im Frank--after me father!"
"Yaar!" They all clapped and cheered, each one patting old Tom on the back as enthusiastically as rum and weightlessness would allow. The mood was jolly, as jolly as any of them had seen since
they'd set out from the Ayers with a less-than perfect union contract with their shipping company.
They were all ready to see Baldur Bey again and take stock of their only remaining valuables--their families.
"AIN'T THAT BE SWELL! SWELL IN-DEEEED!" Spat the ol' seadog captain. "I got two minds to give ya a raise--"
A shudder ran through the deck, tossing them all their separate ways. The lights snapped off and the cabin dropped ten degrees. A few of the lads let out uncontrollable whimpers, confused and drunk, and the captain pissed himself voluntarily. They'd heard stories of bad things happening to men making the Luna/Side 6 Run, and they'd during this time of year. Stories of ships vanishing into stellar mist, renegades appearing from behind the tiniest of debris. They'd all shrugged the rumors off as if it were a mere drizzle. Now they felt the downpour.
The door to the rec room hissed open, the light from the gantry way silhouetting three jagged-edged men. There was a still moment when nobody moved and nothing was spoken--nothing could be spoken, all were shaking with terror. The condensation from the toasted captain's nose hung in mid reverie.
Then, the cruelest, most venomous voice split the stasis and hollowed into the dear captain's ears. "Hate ta break up the par-tay, gentlemen, but it seems ye be havin' fergotten a wee lil' somethin'."
The captain squinted, still unable to see anything behind the shadows. It reminded him of the old holos his mother used to show him of Robinson Crusoe's exploits in the tropics, danger around every turn--shadows hiding shadows. He felt his bowels move a second time, but out the other end.
"AN... AN... WHAT MIGHT THA' BE, BOYS?"
The glinty flash of a wink gave the lead shadow life. "Why! Our invitations, of course! What be the occasion?"
Tom spoke up, unmoved by the spectacle. The rum, or perhaps the rush of the good news, giving him a little too much piss when there ought to be vinegar. "Why, I'm a father if that be any of yer concern, sir."
A shot rang out, catching old Tom, proud father that was, in the eye, killing him instantly. A mute cry started at the bottom of the captain's gullet, but only his face contorted in shock. He was fifty-six, two months away from leaving it all behind to eek out a living on government checks--nothing he'd seen from all those years on the open spacelanes could've prepared him for this. Even the bloody war between the Earthers and the Zeon couldn't seem to compare.
"But sir!" Cried the captain, his tone finally under control. "We got nothin' of value! If'n you seek treasure, all's we have are the meager marks in our wallets!"
The pirate scoffed, amused. "Dear sir. My dear little plume. You be sittin' in my treasure." The pirate leader made a motion to his compatriots and they herded the men out of the rec room and into the hallway. The captain's face was a portrait of confusion, he had no idea what the pirate meant, nor why they were on the move. They stopped in mid-shuffle within the cramped shuttle corridor in front of the airlock. He was now a portrait of realization.
"An' now, if ye be 'scusin' me, I beg yer leave from my prize." The pirate made a petty "shoo" motion with his hands, almost playful.
The rough, Irish-looking fellow and the cloaked man pointed their pieces and forced them all into the cramped quarters. The smell began to overwhelm them as they all shit. He had no idea what to do, or if there was any possibility that this was all a hallucination due to a bad case of rum. He knew he shouldn't have trusted that Ayers liquor merchant with the parrot, that rat bastard. Then the captain considered the chance that this was all real, and that these were his final moments. He worried, not knowing what words he'd have as his last and if they'd be any good on his tombstone. This was all in vain as he saw the pirate captain through the small, greasy porthole wave an elaborate goodbye and press the release button.
Stars opened up around them and they were sucked into a cold nothingness that crushed their souls like a steel-toed boot. Fire choked them and ice crushed their limbs with untold weight. They died looking back at their little shuttle, now property of one Samuel "The Wraith" Riley. The captain saw a man in a normal suit already on the side, spray-painting (or something) a laughing skull next to three dots, two yellow, one red.
It was then the captain understood, right when his eyeballs turned to glass and the rum, undigested in his stomach, began to boil.
~Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi
---
"FIFTEEN MEN ON A DEAD MAN'S CHEST," a moment's pause beset them. Then, as if a spark of inspiration shocked them back to the world of the living, they finished their merry shanty. "YO HO HO AND A BOTTLE OF RUM!" The group of ten sailors were having a time, laughing and gambling in their zero-g rec room. None of them were belted into anything, and cards were strewn all about the poorly lit room as if that was how business was usually conducted--and it was. None of them were keeping count and the booze was a little watered down. Not that it all mattered, anyhow, because old Tom Smithly was having a boy.
"SO TOM, MA LAD," spat the elder captain, away from his duties and as drunk as a skunk, yet not a care in the world. "WHADDYA NAME 'IM?" He was as loud as a bullhorn, having lost any semblance of self-control hours and many bottles earlier.
"Well, sir, I b'leave the misses has takin' ta callin' 'im Frank--after me father!"
"Yaar!" They all clapped and cheered, each one patting old Tom on the back as enthusiastically as rum and weightlessness would allow. The mood was jolly, as jolly as any of them had seen since
they'd set out from the Ayers with a less-than perfect union contract with their shipping company.
They were all ready to see Baldur Bey again and take stock of their only remaining valuables--their families.
"AIN'T THAT BE SWELL! SWELL IN-DEEEED!" Spat the ol' seadog captain. "I got two minds to give ya a raise--"
A shudder ran through the deck, tossing them all their separate ways. The lights snapped off and the cabin dropped ten degrees. A few of the lads let out uncontrollable whimpers, confused and drunk, and the captain pissed himself voluntarily. They'd heard stories of bad things happening to men making the Luna/Side 6 Run, and they'd during this time of year. Stories of ships vanishing into stellar mist, renegades appearing from behind the tiniest of debris. They'd all shrugged the rumors off as if it were a mere drizzle. Now they felt the downpour.
The door to the rec room hissed open, the light from the gantry way silhouetting three jagged-edged men. There was a still moment when nobody moved and nothing was spoken--nothing could be spoken, all were shaking with terror. The condensation from the toasted captain's nose hung in mid reverie.
Then, the cruelest, most venomous voice split the stasis and hollowed into the dear captain's ears. "Hate ta break up the par-tay, gentlemen, but it seems ye be havin' fergotten a wee lil' somethin'."
The captain squinted, still unable to see anything behind the shadows. It reminded him of the old holos his mother used to show him of Robinson Crusoe's exploits in the tropics, danger around every turn--shadows hiding shadows. He felt his bowels move a second time, but out the other end.
"AN... AN... WHAT MIGHT THA' BE, BOYS?"
The glinty flash of a wink gave the lead shadow life. "Why! Our invitations, of course! What be the occasion?"
Tom spoke up, unmoved by the spectacle. The rum, or perhaps the rush of the good news, giving him a little too much piss when there ought to be vinegar. "Why, I'm a father if that be any of yer concern, sir."
A shot rang out, catching old Tom, proud father that was, in the eye, killing him instantly. A mute cry started at the bottom of the captain's gullet, but only his face contorted in shock. He was fifty-six, two months away from leaving it all behind to eek out a living on government checks--nothing he'd seen from all those years on the open spacelanes could've prepared him for this. Even the bloody war between the Earthers and the Zeon couldn't seem to compare.
"But sir!" Cried the captain, his tone finally under control. "We got nothin' of value! If'n you seek treasure, all's we have are the meager marks in our wallets!"
The pirate scoffed, amused. "Dear sir. My dear little plume. You be sittin' in my treasure." The pirate leader made a motion to his compatriots and they herded the men out of the rec room and into the hallway. The captain's face was a portrait of confusion, he had no idea what the pirate meant, nor why they were on the move. They stopped in mid-shuffle within the cramped shuttle corridor in front of the airlock. He was now a portrait of realization.
"An' now, if ye be 'scusin' me, I beg yer leave from my prize." The pirate made a petty "shoo" motion with his hands, almost playful.
The rough, Irish-looking fellow and the cloaked man pointed their pieces and forced them all into the cramped quarters. The smell began to overwhelm them as they all shit. He had no idea what to do, or if there was any possibility that this was all a hallucination due to a bad case of rum. He knew he shouldn't have trusted that Ayers liquor merchant with the parrot, that rat bastard. Then the captain considered the chance that this was all real, and that these were his final moments. He worried, not knowing what words he'd have as his last and if they'd be any good on his tombstone. This was all in vain as he saw the pirate captain through the small, greasy porthole wave an elaborate goodbye and press the release button.
Stars opened up around them and they were sucked into a cold nothingness that crushed their souls like a steel-toed boot. Fire choked them and ice crushed their limbs with untold weight. They died looking back at their little shuttle, now property of one Samuel "The Wraith" Riley. The captain saw a man in a normal suit already on the side, spray-painting (or something) a laughing skull next to three dots, two yellow, one red.
It was then the captain understood, right when his eyeballs turned to glass and the rum, undigested in his stomach, began to boil.