Post by Cid on Nov 4, 2009 19:22:33 GMT -5
Don't haul on the rope, don't climb up the mast
If you see a sailing ship it might be your last
Just get your civies ready for another run ashore
A sailor ain't a sailor, ain't a sailor anymore
~Old sea shanty
---
"Mr. Kirkland," a formal voice said. "You are on trial for numerous counts of robbery, ten counts of murder, two counts of fraud, and seven counts of pirating."
The courtroom, an ugly bunch of cusses with scowling, uninteresting faces, was quiet, but as the prosecutor emphasized that last part, metaphoric tomatoes were thrown--maybe even a few real ones. Sam, the gentleman that he generally is, sat in an old suit and tie, his own cursory look on his mug.
"Riley," he said.
A gavel smacked down from on high, and the courtroom silenced. "You will not speak again, Mr. Kirkland, or I will hold you in contempt." The judge, an ornery old coot with far too much stubble for an officer of such status, matched the scowls of the court. His head is far too big atop his lanky old-man shoulders, and the wig only seemed to worsen it. His robes were covered in dandruff.
Riley shrugged, the courtroom still a-buzz in what can be best described as tertiary pandemonium.
"How does the defendant plea?" Spat old dandruff robes.
"The defendant pleas--" in a dramatic move, very symbolic of the pirate, he cuts his attorney short. It wasn't his idea to have "Mr. Starch Collar" represent him, it was the court's order. The fool had been bungling the job thus far, not that Riley cared much. He just wanted to speak on his own behalf.
"Let me take a moment and speak for myself, if it so pleases the court," said Riley, having lost his accent and taken up the persona of one Mr. Kirkland.
The judge looked down, his big, muddy lips smacking as if he's about to bite into a sirloin. "Ah, so it will, so it will. Continue, Mr. Kirkland."
Sam smiled, their hopes were up. "HANG 'EM HIGH, AND HANG 'EM WELL, GENTLMEN!" With that, Sam, "The Wraith"--Sam, "The Arse of Jupiter"--let out a high-pitched cackle, sending each and every member of the court into momentary speechlessness. The silence was awkward but Riley didn't feel it, what he felt was utter transcendence.
As they tore him away from his seat, the verdict already in it seemed, he was ready.
---
The lights turned on in the shabby captain's cabin, and Samuel Riley's eyes opened with a start. Yes, it had been a dream. A good dream? A nightmare? Maybe the tides were turning--maybe his sails had finally caught hold of some wind. The sweat on his upper lip, hiding behind his tailored mustache, spoke otherwise. It was a foreshadowing, a premonition. He looked around, spotting the shelves of books tightly packed in their bindings and thought, I d'serve a drink. He unstrapped himself from his cot and floated to a cabinet. Inside was rum--always rum--a picture of captain in a space helmet on the front (the helmet drawn on by yours truly). He uncorked it and drank from the straw attachment.
"Ah," he said, the queerness fading.
BZZT
"Heeey, cap'n, ye ol' tooth, ye ol' dog, ye ol'--" Sam, like in the dream, cut the speaker off with an uncompromising sharpness.
"Shut yer yap, Manny, or I'll find time to come up n' shut it for ye."
"Certainly, cap'n. Just wanted to inform you of our progress. The JDEG's are on top of us, like a cheap whore."
Riley winced. He hated trading with the Joves. The joops. The supreme arses of the entire universe. It was all part of the plan, of course, the plan he'd concocted for himself the day he took off with their ship. By this time he'd painted her, wiped her drives clean, and added a few personally modifications. She wasn't the dove he strolled out in years past, no, she was now a vulture waiting for the deathblow. But for now they were more of a pigeon. Aye, a pigeon.
"Yar. Be a dear and don't call me again. I'll be on the bridge at half past the pope's ass." That meant 6:00 PM Belt Time, a little lingo one of the men had picked up somewhere. Probably Ted. That one was a real shiner. The captain thought of him as little more than a court jester--a court jester with the clap, of course. Boy was he raunchy.
Shirtless and pantless, he started getting dressed. He had a giant orb tattooed on his back, more detailed than the Mona-fucking-Lisa. An orb with orbs around it. Jupiter. But instead of the orb you'd see if you looked out a telescope just right, when the planets were just aligned so, this orb was completely ablaze. And instead of the soft, shifting hues of gasses, a dozen corpses lay strewn across it, as if in the atmosphere. He grabbed his knickers and a white shirt, both floating not too far from his cot. He wrapped his hair in silk bandanna, one of his best, and went out to speak to Jabez, the ship's mechanic. Not many liked the man, the captain included, but boy could the rascal maintain a piece of machinery. With little more than some nuts and bolts, maybe a little oil, he'd kept The Bones running like a fine Lunarian cougar. He hated talking to the tallow, blemished man, but it was obviously necessary.
He rode the zip line to the bay, located aft. There, without warning, he bumped into Sayer, his second. They exchanged looks, Sayer's more of surprise than anything. The captain's look, well it read, "get back to yer damned post." He had nothing against Sayer, in fact he knew he was of pretty good stock, but he did not want to be trifled with, especially when he knew he had to deal with Stone. Instead they parted ways, Sayer clearly preparing for the mission to come. Oh how the captain loathed calling them "missions."
Finally at the bay, he looked about the load. Ten enormous containers of the good stuff. Laughin' gold, they sometimes called it. He called it bank. Enough of it could set a man for life. It's how the Joves made their trillions. The bastards.
Stone was floating about the hold, looking at a readout of the sails. He looked more tallow than ever, his eyes sunken back into his pallid face, his lips nonresistant.
"Uh, Captain, I don't agree with your tactics from the last battle," as sick as the man looked, he sure had gall.
"Yeh? And guess who doesn't give two shits n' a half?" The captain had tried to compose himself before speaking, but his poor mood shone through regardless, and Stone was just too much of a puss. "What I need to know is if those suits will be ready. We hain't got time nor the tide to be dealin' with yer blusterin'."
Stone grimaced. "Yes, Captain, they'll be green for go just as soon as you give the order." He clearly didn't hold to the captain's customs of talking gibberish and acting like the universe's biggest jerk.
"Fine, fine," he waved him away. He left Stone to his blubbering and went off to the library. The "library," as it were called, was really the captain's personal head. Here he would read until called for. Treasture Island, perhaps, or Gulliver's Travels. Something his weary eyes hadn't read since they were but wee little mirrors to an enormous imagination, back before he had all this anger. Thoughts of death as far aside as possible, he'd enjoy his hours before going to talk to that miserable Latino fluff.
If you see a sailing ship it might be your last
Just get your civies ready for another run ashore
A sailor ain't a sailor, ain't a sailor anymore
~Old sea shanty
---
"Mr. Kirkland," a formal voice said. "You are on trial for numerous counts of robbery, ten counts of murder, two counts of fraud, and seven counts of pirating."
The courtroom, an ugly bunch of cusses with scowling, uninteresting faces, was quiet, but as the prosecutor emphasized that last part, metaphoric tomatoes were thrown--maybe even a few real ones. Sam, the gentleman that he generally is, sat in an old suit and tie, his own cursory look on his mug.
"Riley," he said.
A gavel smacked down from on high, and the courtroom silenced. "You will not speak again, Mr. Kirkland, or I will hold you in contempt." The judge, an ornery old coot with far too much stubble for an officer of such status, matched the scowls of the court. His head is far too big atop his lanky old-man shoulders, and the wig only seemed to worsen it. His robes were covered in dandruff.
Riley shrugged, the courtroom still a-buzz in what can be best described as tertiary pandemonium.
"How does the defendant plea?" Spat old dandruff robes.
"The defendant pleas--" in a dramatic move, very symbolic of the pirate, he cuts his attorney short. It wasn't his idea to have "Mr. Starch Collar" represent him, it was the court's order. The fool had been bungling the job thus far, not that Riley cared much. He just wanted to speak on his own behalf.
"Let me take a moment and speak for myself, if it so pleases the court," said Riley, having lost his accent and taken up the persona of one Mr. Kirkland.
The judge looked down, his big, muddy lips smacking as if he's about to bite into a sirloin. "Ah, so it will, so it will. Continue, Mr. Kirkland."
Sam smiled, their hopes were up. "HANG 'EM HIGH, AND HANG 'EM WELL, GENTLMEN!" With that, Sam, "The Wraith"--Sam, "The Arse of Jupiter"--let out a high-pitched cackle, sending each and every member of the court into momentary speechlessness. The silence was awkward but Riley didn't feel it, what he felt was utter transcendence.
As they tore him away from his seat, the verdict already in it seemed, he was ready.
---
The lights turned on in the shabby captain's cabin, and Samuel Riley's eyes opened with a start. Yes, it had been a dream. A good dream? A nightmare? Maybe the tides were turning--maybe his sails had finally caught hold of some wind. The sweat on his upper lip, hiding behind his tailored mustache, spoke otherwise. It was a foreshadowing, a premonition. He looked around, spotting the shelves of books tightly packed in their bindings and thought, I d'serve a drink. He unstrapped himself from his cot and floated to a cabinet. Inside was rum--always rum--a picture of captain in a space helmet on the front (the helmet drawn on by yours truly). He uncorked it and drank from the straw attachment.
"Ah," he said, the queerness fading.
BZZT
"Heeey, cap'n, ye ol' tooth, ye ol' dog, ye ol'--" Sam, like in the dream, cut the speaker off with an uncompromising sharpness.
"Shut yer yap, Manny, or I'll find time to come up n' shut it for ye."
"Certainly, cap'n. Just wanted to inform you of our progress. The JDEG's are on top of us, like a cheap whore."
Riley winced. He hated trading with the Joves. The joops. The supreme arses of the entire universe. It was all part of the plan, of course, the plan he'd concocted for himself the day he took off with their ship. By this time he'd painted her, wiped her drives clean, and added a few personally modifications. She wasn't the dove he strolled out in years past, no, she was now a vulture waiting for the deathblow. But for now they were more of a pigeon. Aye, a pigeon.
"Yar. Be a dear and don't call me again. I'll be on the bridge at half past the pope's ass." That meant 6:00 PM Belt Time, a little lingo one of the men had picked up somewhere. Probably Ted. That one was a real shiner. The captain thought of him as little more than a court jester--a court jester with the clap, of course. Boy was he raunchy.
Shirtless and pantless, he started getting dressed. He had a giant orb tattooed on his back, more detailed than the Mona-fucking-Lisa. An orb with orbs around it. Jupiter. But instead of the orb you'd see if you looked out a telescope just right, when the planets were just aligned so, this orb was completely ablaze. And instead of the soft, shifting hues of gasses, a dozen corpses lay strewn across it, as if in the atmosphere. He grabbed his knickers and a white shirt, both floating not too far from his cot. He wrapped his hair in silk bandanna, one of his best, and went out to speak to Jabez, the ship's mechanic. Not many liked the man, the captain included, but boy could the rascal maintain a piece of machinery. With little more than some nuts and bolts, maybe a little oil, he'd kept The Bones running like a fine Lunarian cougar. He hated talking to the tallow, blemished man, but it was obviously necessary.
He rode the zip line to the bay, located aft. There, without warning, he bumped into Sayer, his second. They exchanged looks, Sayer's more of surprise than anything. The captain's look, well it read, "get back to yer damned post." He had nothing against Sayer, in fact he knew he was of pretty good stock, but he did not want to be trifled with, especially when he knew he had to deal with Stone. Instead they parted ways, Sayer clearly preparing for the mission to come. Oh how the captain loathed calling them "missions."
Finally at the bay, he looked about the load. Ten enormous containers of the good stuff. Laughin' gold, they sometimes called it. He called it bank. Enough of it could set a man for life. It's how the Joves made their trillions. The bastards.
Stone was floating about the hold, looking at a readout of the sails. He looked more tallow than ever, his eyes sunken back into his pallid face, his lips nonresistant.
"Uh, Captain, I don't agree with your tactics from the last battle," as sick as the man looked, he sure had gall.
"Yeh? And guess who doesn't give two shits n' a half?" The captain had tried to compose himself before speaking, but his poor mood shone through regardless, and Stone was just too much of a puss. "What I need to know is if those suits will be ready. We hain't got time nor the tide to be dealin' with yer blusterin'."
Stone grimaced. "Yes, Captain, they'll be green for go just as soon as you give the order." He clearly didn't hold to the captain's customs of talking gibberish and acting like the universe's biggest jerk.
"Fine, fine," he waved him away. He left Stone to his blubbering and went off to the library. The "library," as it were called, was really the captain's personal head. Here he would read until called for. Treasture Island, perhaps, or Gulliver's Travels. Something his weary eyes hadn't read since they were but wee little mirrors to an enormous imagination, back before he had all this anger. Thoughts of death as far aside as possible, he'd enjoy his hours before going to talk to that miserable Latino fluff.