« He Sleeps to Conquer | Main | There's Privacy Behind the Steam »
February 24, 2003
Arrr-chivist
Three Spice McGhee has taken to smuggling packets o' salt in his pee-jays. It's enough to make an old sailor sick to watch him dump packet after packet on top of his whitefish, but he says it's the only way he can get it to taste like it used to, back when we were all shipmates.
I don't mind telling you, young pup, that in our prime we were more feared on the oceans roiling surface than a herd of she-krakens all taking their monthlies together. We were more feared than a sky full of red clouds in the morn and a distant sound like the Sea King's army o' horses were being bridled.
We were young, angry, full to the gills with freedom and comradery. We would follow our Captain Salteyes to the ends of the Earth and beyond. We'd follow him in sailing into the putrid anus of a great whale if he told us it was a good idea. Gyya, but I should mind my tongue. 'Tis unseemly at my age to still talk as if there were no women present. There are the nurses, you see, and though they don't say anything, we know we're not much wanted in this … home.
The government was awful nice about setting us up here, letting us decorate. I noticed you looking at the net we hung over the, err, dining area. It looked nicer when they moved us in. But you had some questions, yes. Don't want to let an old man wander too far a-field.
So you want to know how it happened. How did all we pirates, companions, husbands and love-swains of the sea, find ourselves on dry land with naught but sponge baths to keep us damp?
Like many stories you'll hear here, it involves a woman. All of us here, from Half-an-Arm Matty in the television room to Eel Mouth or Maggot Cake in the dining area, we all have our stories and we've all been ill-served by the fairer sex. But I'll tell you how it was, oh yes.
We'd been riding high for months for finally a dry spell had set in. We'd all taken to wearing fancy bright sashes, dyed with expensive and rare dyes from the Orient. They cost a pretty penny, of which we had plenty, merchants being a fat and cowardly lot. They still are today, you know, and it's always a surprise to me how few of them get menaced at sword point.
For awhile we made it a game—who could rid themselves of their wealth the fastest. Captain Salteyes egged us, telling us the money we were laden with was slowing the boat and we should spend all on women, wine and song. The women, they left us, the wine went over the side and finally we were left with nothing but song.
Weeks passed and we wandered in great circles, mopping and keeping our eyes on the horizon for a ship fresh from port. Sure enough, Shortplank Harry in the crow's nest spotted something. We sailed like devils and swept over the boat's side to our target, only to find the entire crew in a stupor.
The crew was of Asian parentage and to a man, they were unable or unwilling to fight us of. We found them lolling over every part of the ship, their eyes closed or near-to. Now, we've never avoided a scrap, but we weren't about to become the first pirate crew to claim victory over a bunch of slug-a-beds either. We ignored them and went below where we were disappointed to find nothing but pots and pots of red flowers.
Just as we were about to give up hope, we found that they had a sizable stash of a spice we'd never come across before. It had a bitter but interesting taste and we grabbed all we could to see what Three Spice McGhee could come up with. He spread it on what bread we had left, first knocking out as many of the insects he could from the loaves. We only had fresh bread at the beginning of voyages, then we competed with the worms and beetles.
Anyway, we soon discovered after the next meal time why it was that the Asiatics were so docile when faced with a pirate menace. The spice… I had such lovely dreams. Dreams where I could travel the globe as fast as a thought. Dreams where I wondered what the back of my head would be like to lick. As pirates, we were familiar with riches such as cinnamon, nutmeg, tobacco. We knew nothing at the time of opium, but found we were quick studies.
By the time the crew came out of our dreams, and I can't honestly tell you how long that took, we found that we had been invaded in turn. By a woman. A woman with a clipboard. We called her the Sea Hag, but her real name was Jennifer Harpknees.
As the newspapers of the day crowed, she was the head of a new governmental "lifestyle refitting specialist." She had a crew of cowardly dogs, all clean shaven young wet-eared landlubbers and armed to the teeth they were. We were given a choice.
"Gentlemen," she says, "you have worked hard for many years." Says we're of age to retire, according to some new anti-pirate legislation and we had the choice of going peaceably to this here "resort" or feeding the fishes that very minute with our water-soaked corpses.
Well, one of my closest friends, Eight-Toed Elliot, he managed to head-butt one of the armed young'uns then took a bullet to his skinny, remora-looking chest and went overboard with the young'un. We cheered his brave death, taking the enemy with him, 'til we noticed the soldier boy swimming off the port side like an otter. Of all the filthy tricks…
It's known, of course, that no sailor worth his salt bothers to learn to swim. Makes you fight harder to keep yer boat afloat, knowin' you'll sink like a mermaid's tossed off ex-lover if you go down. Landlubbers, though, they don't care.
As you know, many of us ended up here, and as the years went by grew accustomed to game shows, eating pudding and sleeping. Our kids and grandkids, legitimate or bastards, visit when they can. Every Tuesday we sing the old songs and tell stories. Come back tomorrow and I'll tell ya a few more. And you better bring the spiced rum I asked for. Just put it in this empty Kaopectate bottle.
Aye. That's a good lad.
(Author's note: See also Arrh-thritis and Arrrh-cheology. Artwork by Amanda Summers.)