Jacky Tar

Self-plagiarism (When a writer had imagination once.)

Duchess, fighter pilot, pirate, belly dancer, and scientist... very impressive. Ye look like a female Steve Canyon, wit' the helmet.

Forger (An unappreciated artist.)

The storm was abatin', an I could hear peals o' laughter comin' from the galley. I needed t' lie down or fall down, an as always Stones was ready t' take the helm. "I'll be damned," I muttered, fer it appeared that the ship off our stern sported raked sails. A man o' few words, even Stones said she must be holdin' herself t'gether wit' bits o' twine. "No," I replied, "Just held t'gether by an iron willed captain!" There was little doubt that it was the Rakehell, which despite the beatin' she'd taken, was plyin' these waters.

This storm was nothin', compared t' those we weathered in these parts in the past. The rain didn't dampen the crew's spirits either, and it was a relief t' be back at sea. No one was happier than I, not be staring' down the barrels o' those Spanish guns. We'd lightened the sails, an 'tween the flashes in another wise dark sky, we caught a glimpse o' a ship off our stern. Too few masts t' be the Spanish galleon, an too busy wit' the tempest 'fore us, t' be a threat at the present time.

Aye Eyes, me visit was brief an un-announced. It was fun watchin' ye swear in a few young pirates, though. T' their credit, the Double Cross crew had captured the end o' the pier, an had the fire power t' keep it. The Pirates of Port Royal had staked out the beach, an were givin' away treasures (balloon swords an all things shiny) t' young scalawags. Scarlett Harlot could be found walkin' the board walk, an breakin' hearts. The Doxie Chicks, an our own Iron Bess (Port of New Providence) were performin' in the Pirates of Port Royal encampment, too! I would only voice one complaint, an that was the shortage o' free parkin'; the free parkin' went fast, an the nearby parkin' required the coin o' the realm, an nowhere t' plunder said coin (which sent this pirate packin' early).

Haven't seen the lad since he became a daddy. Hope the mermaid an the little pirate are lookin' after our princely pirate. Happy Birthday Blackfoot. We know yer days are full and prospects bright. Fair winds at yer back, mate!

In Mad L's case, it's just madness! Wot' do ye expect from a man that jumps out o' a perfectly good airplane? (Again... and again... and again...)

Belated birthday wishes, an happy self discovery. (Don't mind Mission; we all get crushes on our imaginary friends, sometimes.)

Merrydeath, sounds like yer post-op is goin' well, an ye hav' seen fit t' fight fer others (as it should be). God bless ye.

Welcome t' the pub, lass. Make yer mark an pick yer own path, says I. Ye can spin yer yarn here, an mayhaps discover the character ye seek.

Aye, a captain wit' out a boat (er... ship) is not a happy man. I hope ye hav a chance at another Miracle, mate. Welcome t' the pub, Captain Caribbean.

"Glad t' see ye decided t' join us lass!" I shouted over the din and roar, o' the gun fire. "Stones, we've no time fer a second pass, set a course fer the open seas." Our guns had splintered their main mast, an we had a left them wit' a few days worth o' repairs. "I doubt they'll be able t' get underway, fer days." I remarked. The moon light illuminated the damage we'd done. There was a lot o' activity aboard the battered ship, but t' no avail. We were beyond their reach, an they were in no condition t' give chase.

'Fore I could utter a word t' Silkie, she was asleep on the deck. As we approached the outer banks o' the bay, it was clear that the ship Spoons alluded too was Dutch, an not another Spanish galleon. The smaller ship had battened down the hatches, an was preparing t' ride out the storm. "Mister Dillard, let's leave Spoons a partin' gift. Let's unload our cannons on that ship!" I said, as I pointed towards the ship, that was quickly comin' in range. "Mister Dillard, hav the lads train some o' that chain shot on those masts. No sense in leavin' em two ships t' chase us wit'."

Silkie plopped down on the deck, an asked if I was afraid o' wot the Spanish would do, when they found her missin'. I replied, I was more afraid o' wot Ransom might do, when she found the Relentless missin' from this bay! But I assured me self I'd chosen the correct course o' action, despite the fact that it appeared we were sailin' off in t' a dark, an stormy night. "It may be a bumpy one lads!" I shouted. "So let's put some canvas t' good use, while we can, an put some distance 'tween us an those Spanish guns."

I took off me frock coat, an offered it t' Silkie. Wit' me head turned away, I muttered, "Bastards, couldn't even spare some slops fer ye." "Dillard run up topside, an fetch a pair o' breeches from the capitan, or one o' his crew. Can't march Silkie t' the long boat wit' out some clothes on." I said. 'Fore I could say more, the lanky young lad, was out the main hatch. Wit' out turnin' back t' Silkie, I asked, "They didn't force themselves on ye, did they lass?" Given her state o' undress, an how long these devils had been at sea, I feared the worst. But before she could answer, a grinnin' Dillard had returned wit' some silk breeches. "Good work, Mister Dillard." I passed these on t' Silkie, an added, "Be quick lass, we best be off 'fore the crew awakes." Once Silkie had dressed, we weaved our way back t' the launch, past sleepin' crew members, an a pantless capitan. Upon our return t' the Relentless, we hoisted the anchor, an set sail fer the open ocean.

Tis' true, Mad Matt has been scarce. If he ventures in here, hope he knows, he is still welcome here. Happy birthday Mad Matt!

Happy Birthday Black Hearted Pearl! Mayhaps see yer plunder in Long Beach?

"Rough around the edges mayhaps..." Gentle

The sun was high in the sky, Smithe had plied the capitan an crew wit' drink, an Rosie danced herself in t' a dervish. While Dillard an I stood there, tired, sober, and laughin'; we watched Smithe top off drinks, as the crew settled in fer a drug induced siesta. The rum Smithe served was laced wit' a narcotic, an even the lightest drinkers were feelin' the effects. Rosie, had lifted keys from several gents, an deposited them in me coat pocket. She danced over t' the capitan, an coyly asked him t' finish his drink, if he wanted her t' dance more. Amused, we watched the goblet slip from the capitan's fingers, 'fore his slide t' the deck. Even Spoons has accepted a drink, an was now face down near the main hatch. Our little troupe, wandered below decks offerin' drinks t' the remainin' crew members. We came upon Silkie's guard, who refused t' drink while on duty, despite our assurances that the capitan had sent us. We relieved 'em o' his watch, wit' a belayin' pin, t' help the lad slumber.

Any attempt by me t' address the capitan, fell on deaf ears, fer his eyes never left Rosie as we boarded. I stepped up t' Rosie, an placed a set o' castanets in her hands, then I whispered, "Dance!" 'Fore I said another word, she whirled away, an began t' click out a flamenco beat. The crew began t' clap in time wit' her castanets, when a member o' the capitans' staff started strummin' a Spanish guitar. http://youtube.com/watch?v=nm3-gXpUJ6M&feature=related She was captivating, an I'm sure, every man would o' sworn she was dancin' just fer him. Rosie flirted wit', an danced around, those on deck; but her gaze finally settled on the capitan.

"No offense was intended, an I'll offer no apology, either." (Watches as the cat laps at the beer, an it runs back out the fresh hole in it's belly, an on t' the bar.) "As fer a drinkin' contest, make the drink Pirate ale, an the first one who has t' relieve oneself loses! Aye, that's a proper drinkin' game." "Ye don't suffer from t.b. (tiny bladder) do ye, mcdrago?"

The crew had been on their feet all night, an Dillard's sorry expression summed up, how most felt. "By my count they hav us out gunned more than two t' one." I said out loud, not addressin' anyone in particular. "They've no doubt locked her away below decks. And if I were their capitan, I'd place her under armed guard." "They're more than likely watchin' us, fer any foolish rescue attempts. And I've noticed a few gunners faces at each port despite the early hour." I walked over t' the main hatch, an shouted in t' the hold, "Rosie, topside if ye please, an even if ye don't please!"

Happy Birthday Mister Dogge! Aye, every dog has his day, an this one be yers (But we'll leave the belly scratchin' t' the ladies).

(Jacky pulls out his pistol an shoots the scrawny undead cat, which jumps back up on the bar and just hisses.) Mutters, "Waste o' beer, if ye ask me. Blasted undead cats are worse than the undead monkeys, around this pub!"