Monday, June 20, 2005


A Pirate Tale – Part 89 "Brainstorming"

Northward up the coast they sailed. It had been a day and a half since the encounter with Shifty Meg and Slappy had been taken aboard her rather slow “ship” which was more like an oversized canoe. But what Meg’s force lacked in speed and size they made up for in sheer numbers. Her large canoe was accompanied by several dozens of others like it in a primitive flotilla of dart-blowing pirate Olympic hopefuls. Well, not so much “hopefuls” as “expectants.” All the Ol’ Chumbucket, George, Cementhands and company could do was sail along side and think.

Occasionally, Slappy would glance up at them and force a smile or wave feebly, but Meg tolerated no loss of focus and redirected him to the finer points of her plan. It couldn’t “look” like Slappy was favoring them or his status as supreme judge would be jeopardized – and if he failed to sell his decisions, he would be rewarded with a neck full of darts and their accompanying myriad of symptoms up to and including a painful death. Meg was NOT fooling around here.

“Well, men!” George began, “I am open to any suggestions.”

“We could blast them out of the water and be done with this charade!” Doc Burgess said decisively.

“And blast the Captain in the process?” Chumbucket snapped back.

“Look, I’m just trying to get the brainstorming session going – it’s an idea. I didn’t say it was without drawbacks. What’s your bright idea?”

“We could sail ahead to Sao Paulo and explain to the Women’s Beach Volleyball and Pirate Olympic governing body that the Captain is in this dire situation and they could settle it by disqualifying him as a judge and leveling the playing field.” LefTENant Keeling suggested.

“If we do that,” Chumbucket argued, “they’ll know that it was us what interfered and they’ll take it out on Slappy by using him as a pin cushion and feeding him to the sand crabs. What else?”

“The Pentari use a poison extracted from Rogallian Red Dart Tree Frogs mixed with a distilment created by boiling the bark of the Wabba-Wabba Willow tree.” Salty Jim mused. “With some simple ingredients available aboard the ship, I can concoct an antidote.”

“Excellent!” George exclaimed adding, “What do you need?”

“Rum.” Jim replied

“We’ve got that!” George slapped him on the back – nearly knocking him over.
“And gunpowder.” Jim continued.

“Not a problem – we’ve got extra barrels.” George motioned for a couple of hands to take a couple of them to Jim’s quarters.

“And urine from the female members of the crew.” Jim declared decisively adding, “They’ll have to donate in my presence so I can keep it sterile.”

“Why is it,” Cementhands observed, “that whenever you are making one of your secret concoctions you need urine from the ladies?”

“Theirs is rich in nitrogen and iron.” Jim replied matter-of-factly and seemed as though he would be continuing, but Ol’ Chumbucket intervened quickly.

“Thank you, Jim. I’m sure the wenches won’t mind donating once again if we offer extra rations of rum – but one thing troubles me.”

“What’s that?” Jim inquired.

“Well, I see how inoculating the crew would be handy if we are going to be in an all out fight with the Pentari, but I don’t see how this helps the Captain?” Chumbucket’s question had the men looking at each other for an answer.

Cementhands opened his mouth to speak when the splat of a saliva-soaked piece of cannon wadding slapped and stuck to his left cheek. All heads turned in the direction of the soggy projectile and fixed on young Gabriel who had fired at Spencer but the older boy had skillfully ducked the wet wad.

Gabriel’s face shifted from malicious glee to abject fear as he realized he had just interrupted a very important meeting my globbing his spit on a very big man.

Cementhands gave the boys “the death stare” as he wiped the goober off his face. But he relented when tears began welling up in the little boy’s eyes and smiled broadly and did that “bug-eyed” that always made the kids laugh.

“Where did you get that blow-gun, lad?” Chumbucket eagerly asked Gabriel.

“I traded some of my extra Sir Nigel trading cards for it with one of those Jungle men.” Gabriel.

“They prefer to be called, ‘Pentari,’ over ‘Jungle men,’ lad.” Jim corrected.

“And I prefer to be called, ‘Voltar: Lord of Devastation and Despair!’ But who’s giving me the love?” Gabriel opined before running away from Spencer who had just hocked up an excellent loogie and was about to spit it in his direction.

George turned quickly to Salty Jim. “How quickly does this anti-venom work and how quickly can you have everyone inoculated?”

“It begins working as soon as it enters the bloodstream and how quickly I can have everyone inoculated depends on how full we can make the ladies’ bladders?” Jim replied.

“I still think your obsession with women peeing is weird.” Cementhands shook his head in disbelief.

“It’s not an obsession, it’s a scientific practicality.” Salty Jim replied sharply. “The collection of urine is a strictly clinical process.”

“Then why do you have such a large collection of women’s knickers?” the big man shot back.

“That’s a hobby.” Jim stopped just short of huffing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the sooner I begin the sooner I can provide you all with protection. Even you.” This parting shot was directed at Cementhands who replied only by snorting.

“Sawbones, will you help Jim and keep him focused on the work and not the ladies undergarments?” George asked.

“Aye-aye.” Burgess replied and followed after Salty Jim.

Ol’ Chumbucket gazed through the spyglass at the large canoe, but could see no sign of Slappy. He could, however, hear his unmistakable moaning. “My God! What are they doing to the man?” he wondered aloud. But apart from the upper shoulders and head of some very attractive Pentari young women, moving in what appeared to be a “floor scrubbing” motion he could see nothing.


“Oh! Oh! Sweet Sassy Molassy!” Slappy moaned as he lay face down on the deck of the large canoe – out of the view of his comrades aboard The Festering Boil. “Oh, yeah! That’s the spot!” he gasped as the two nearly naked young women who straddled his large frame worked their hands into the knotted muscles of his back, buttocks and legs.
“Ah! Sweet Tap-dancing Baby Jesus!” he howled.

Shifty Meg sat in the small shelter that passed for a cabin aboard the large canoe and chuckled at his groans. “That was part of our problem – I could never tell whether you liked something or hated it.”

Between gasps, Slappy shot back, “Well, it was never any of your goddamn business anyway.”

Meg looked at one of the girls and made a talon-like motion with her hand. The young woman reached up between his legs and gripped Slappy’s testicles giving them a sharp twist. Once again, his groaning growl was ambiguously left to one’s own interpretation.

“You’re the only man I know whose brain’s pleasure and pain centers are undifferentiated.” Meg observed. "Promise me I can have your head when you die."

“Sure thing, Darlin'. I have no idea what any of that means,” Slappy replied, “but if you could get that girl to twist my balls again, I’d be eternally grateful.”

“Perhaps that can be arranged,” Meg said calmly, “after the games are over. In the meantime,” her voice dropped as she began to loosen her bodice, “we’ve got some catching up to do before we get to Sao Paulo in the morning.”

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