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| Chronicles of the Cake Stop |
| Vol V No. 2 |
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On the deck of the pirate ship The Black Pearl, Zipperhead, Jokeyjon, FatBat, Nuttycyclist,
TooMuchCake and PH are lying in the bright, hot, equatorial sun and discussing whether or not the
crewmen scampering around in the rigging like so many monkeys should be wearing helmets. It would,
Jokeyjon observed, possibly provide some protection should one of them lose his grip and plunge to the
hard wooden planking below. FatBat points out that it might make swimming more difficult should one
of them fall overboard, and Nutty notes that they might be at more of a risk from overheating. Then it
occurs to them that it is really far too hot to argue about that sort of thing, and they agree that it should
be up to the individual pirate whether or not to utilise head protection more robust than the
commonplace headkerchief.
On the poop deck the Archaeologist is trying on a suit of armour that he found in the hold, and seeing if
it is possible to ride in it. There isn't really enough space on the deck to ride safely, and the pirates
gawp at him in astonishment as he careens around the narrow perimeter, swinging past stanchions and
ducking under stays. Some of the crew can be heard to mutter irascible, uncomplimentary comments
about how he has caught 'sun-fever'.
A good-natured argument has broken out about whether Guiness is nice or not. Gonzo is evidently
becoming more and more smitten with the fair maiden Kitzy: her past dalliances with the would-be
Kwisatz Haderach Thaumatrope are of no consequence to him and seemingly of little consequence to
her. 'Tis not that Kitzy is a dishonourable wench, fit for the life of a serving maid or scullion. No!
Youth is naturally fickle and flighty, and cares not for the more esoteric and difficult pleasures of the
longer view.
Jalapeno is conducting a taste test of milk of varying fat content. It is not going very successfully. The
brave sir Chuffy has resolutely refused to take part, insisting that the only proper milk is full fat. This is
probably quite wise, as Jalapeno has not taken into account the scorching heat of the tropical sun. It is
quite unlikely that any of the three varieties on offer is fit for consumption. Each is slightly odiferous,
as of a badly made cheese.
Bagonabike managed to get lost somewhere for a while and even now is waving frantically through a
small hatchway that is just too tiny for her to squeeze through. Chuffy is promising to find her a way
out. LamBO has turned maudlin for some reason, and is trying to get people to tell him what their last
ride ever would have to be. Someone implies that he might have drunk a little too much of Captain
Jack's rum to get into this sort of mood, but LamBO insists he's just bored.
Derall suggests he doesn't repeat that too loudly, in case he gets press-ganged into doing some work up
above in the rigging.
Cuddy Duck, Pingu and Seagul, however, have convened a meeting of the Aquatic Fowl On Bikes
Society, and are up in the Crow's Nest, enjoying the view over a quiet beer and some carrot cake. A
pelican swings past, giving them the bent eye before soaring off away over the starboard quarter
towards the horizon. Far away, seemingly at the edge of the world, where the sea and the sky merge
into a safety net that stops people falling off, there is a faint hint of grey and a swathe of fluffy white
cloud piled up like a Mr Whippy, sans flake.
"Excuse me, Mr Pirate?" Cuddy smiles politely at one of the swarthy, dirty, rigging-monkeys doing
something inscrutable with a wooden peg and a piece of rope while sitting astride a rough-looking spar.
"Yars. Worrizzit?" He coughs, hawks, sniffs and spits a large gobbet of green phlegm carefully to
leeward. It flies away on the wind to land unseen in the aquamarine blue of the Pacific.
"Sorry to disturb you in your pursuit of utilitarian satisfaction in this apparently bourgeois and
capitalist enterprise, but is that meant to be there?"
The pirate looks at him blankly, the half-open mouth of the vacuous expression revealing several
missing teeth and several more blackened ones. "Whart?" he asks.
"That," repeats the Duck, this time pointing with outstretched finger at the cotton-wool mass on the
distant horizon.
The pirate swivels round to look in the indicated direction, and starts, as if taken surprise by a sudden
hiccup.
"Well bugger me," he says. He cups his grime-ingrained hands to his mouth and shouts down to the
deck below. "Laaaaand ahooooooy!!!"
Down below, the door to the main cabin is thrust open and Captain Jack Sparrow swaggers out,
blinking owlishly and squinting in the bright sunshine. He glances up at the Crow's Nest and sees the
pirate pointing and gesticulating. Moving swiftly, if a little erratically, towards the rail he leans over,
shielding his eyes from the blistering sun, and looks in that general direction.
"Glass!" he calls. His first mate scrambles over and hands him an antique brass instrument.
Captain Jack extends it, puts it to his eye and scans the horizon.
"Ahhh," he says. "About time." He shuts the telescope and slaps it unceremoniously into the hand of
his mate without even sparing him a glance. Jack Shandy emerges from the galley, wiping his hands on
a rag. Captain Jack strides across the deck and shoos the helmsman away from the wheel, alters course
and checks it against a compass that he takes from his pocket.
"You be keeping her pointing over there, my lad," he says to the helmsman. The 'lad' is indeed little
more than a boy, whippet thin and wiry, brown as a nut from exposure to sun and sea. "Shandy! Break
out a portion of rum for the men."
"Aye Captain," he says. He pronounces it 'capitan'.
"And you might as well break out Mate Care-For's pennant while you're at it, Shandy lad. It can't hurt.
"You want I make a veve?"
Captain Jack gives him a sudden smile, brief and fleeting. "Not yet, Shandy, not yet." He scans the
horizon once more, gaze lingering over the mountain of cloud that is undeniably closer, as if he can
somehow see further, see inside the cloud, see what is there despite the intervening distance and
wreaths of vapour.
Shandy breaks out the rum barrel, calls two of the crew and has them distribute some of the liquor, one
cup to each man. He keeps finding himself drawn to stare at that slowly-growing lump of cloud, and it
is not until the dolphins return, leaping high out of the water off the side of the boat right next to him,
dazzling him with reflections of the sun on their water-bright skins, that he can set his mind to the task
at hand.
The flag. Oui. It would not do to arrive without the protection of their loa. Not at all.
In a few minutes the pennant has been run up, and is fluttering on the stiff breeze that just appeared, as
if to make sure the flag displayed properly. Mate Care-For. Maitre Carrefour. Legba, Guardian of the
Crossroads. The breeze plumps out the sails with the whump of tightening canvas, and The Black Pearl
leaps across the sea.
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