tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78507462011-09-19T12:05:41.929-07:00An occasional blog by the guys who brought you International Talk Like A Pirate Day, September 19th. Pat Kighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14187288533769750543noreply@blogger.comBlogger2921100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-73034949141351761422011-08-07T08:19:00.000-07:002011-08-07T08:20:12.625-07:00

Cap’n Slappy breathed in deeply.Memories began flooding his mind … a trip to Wales as a child with his brother, Thomas. It was winter and snow capped the hills around Cardiff – a tempting playground for two boys and a toboggan.“Tom, are ye sure this is goin’ to work?” young Mortimer asked his older brother – fear and frosty air cracking his soprano boy-voice.“Of course it’s going to work!” Thomas

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(Okay. Let's get this going. We started this so long ago it's hard to remember when. We're going to finish, and we'll do so before August ends. So here we go.)The cart trundled slowly up the hills. For Luc, the downhill was actually harder. If he hopped aboard and let it roll, there would be no way to steer. And if he stayed in the traces, the ungainly vehicle bore down on him from behind. All he

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-18128461679123817532010-12-21T08:49:00.000-08:002010-12-21T08:56:24.247-08:00

Anyone who has ever been in close proximity to an exploding governor’s mansion will know that after the noise comes the rain of debris. This was Luc’s first state residence explosion – but it was Slappy’s third (actually, fourth, if you count the unfortunate events of the “party” at Henry Morgan’s celebrating the buccaneer's appoinment as lieutenant governor of Jamaica, but that sort of thing was

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Minutes earlier in the governor's mansion:A shot rang out. Everyone in the entryway standoff – the governor, Mad Sally, Ol' Chumbucket, the guards – froze, looking up, surprised. Then they all looked down, and satisfied that they weren't bleeding anywhere, looked around again for the source of the shot.At the entrance to the main hall a cloud of white smoke cleared and revealed a young,

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“Well, Sloopy you go to the governor’s mansion and rescue your Scumbucket and Luc and I will find Hamnquist and the very mysterious Messier Jeffries.” LeFleur suggested confidently.“Since when do I take orders from you, Froofie?”Fifi LeFleur gasped at Slappy’s impromptu new nickname. Slappy was clearly satisfied with the reaction.“You drop a Sloopy and a Scumbucket and you’ll get a Froofie every

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The guards thrust Ol' Chumbucket and Mad Sally into a small room off the governor's office. While the office was a grand room with French windows opening onto the square, the room the two pirates found themselves pushed into was not much larger than a closet, with no windows.They were shoved roughly through the doorway and heard the door slam and the lock turn before they could even turn around.

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About a hundred yards from the cathedral and the governor’s mansion, forming a sort of “town triangle” was a fountain that depicted the shepherd boy, David, defeating the giant Goliath. It was a work of art on a grand scale, commissioned by the famous sculptor and fountain enthusiast Emil Van Houghton. It captures the very moment the stone entered the giant’s skull – with water, not blood,

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The guard led the way down the darkened hallway, trailed by the two monks and the enormous woman with the infant. "Down one more flight o'stairs and through the door there. I'll let you in," he said, flourishing the large ring of heavy iron keys, "but when you're ready to leave, you'll have to be patient, the guard detail has been called to the cathedral, so there's only the one man left on the

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At the main entrance to Willemstad's gaol stood an unusual looking party of four. Two men in monk's robes led the way, followed by a gigantic figure pushing a perambulator. Someone glancing at the large form would have assumed it was a woman – the biggest, oddest looking woman they had ever seen. Someone giving longer than a glance might have gone blind, but if they somehow managed to retain

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So here we are again, months after the last post. A lot of water under the bridge. But we are determined to finish the story now, if for no other reason than to satisfy Butch of South Carolina, our constant reader, who has been worried about the crew locked in the smelly - albeit freshly painted - gaol. The story has reached its climax and we're ready to push home to the closing.We also want to

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Chapter 36“It stinks in here.”Cap’n Slappy slowly turned his head toward Sawbones Burgess in a move not unlike a slow alligator about to take a bite out of an unsuspecting goat. But Slappy was too tired to snap.“Aye.” He replied accentuating the obvious. “A fetid dungeon wherein dozens of filthy pirates do naught but make more filth and wait for death … bound to be a bit on the ‘stinky’ side.”

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A note from the authors – Yes, we're slugs, probably also terrible, terrible people. It's been two months since we wrote the last chapter, leaving Slappy and the crew right on the edge of the gallows! Unconscionable, we know. What can we say? Not much except sorry, and point out that it WAS Talk Like a Pirate Day, and we got busy, and then ... hmmmm. The sun got in our eyes? The ball took a bad

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“Go on, Luc, he says! You take these last meals to la prison! And make sure you get ol’ Hamnquist to tell us where his treasure is hidden! – PWAH!” Luc Duvall spat as he pulled the cart of covered dinner trays across the cobblestone streets of Willemstad toward the gaol doing his most disrespectful impersonation of Fifi LeFleur. “Imbecile! He says – TO ME! Imbecile! I cannot cater the most

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"Where could he be?" Mad Sally asked, not for the first time."I can go look again, if you think that would help, but he wasn't anywhere to be found between here and the jail the last two times I looked," her redheaded companion said.Sally gave a short shake of her head. She had sent Ensign Ericsson to find out about Hamnquist six hours ago. He should have been back – must have been back – long

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“I can’t breathe!”“Did you say, ‘TIGHTER!’? I thought I heard you say – ‘TIGHTER!’”“Stop! I’m almost dead!”“So? ‘Almost’ isn’t actually ‘dead’ now, is it?”The ingénue at the dressing room door signaled for two of the contract painters to come hither for assistance. “Somebody is killing somebody in there.” She whispered in a breathless panic.The two painters listened at the door.“Sweet Neptune’s

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“Now, how do I paint clouds?” Cap’n Slappy asked.Oscar breathed a sigh.“Sir, with all due respect, you don’t. I’ll paint the clouds. You’re a little – “ he thought of saying heavy handed, but decided against it – “a little too important for painting clouds.”“Then could I help Jim paint the interior walls of the library set?” Slappy asked. “All those book spines? I love making up obscene titles

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“Where are you going, Uncle Fifi?”“I’m going to the theatre! If we are to make the cake for the Governor’s command performance of the opera, it would do us well to know what the story is.”Young Jacques continued mixing frosting. “But we’ve got the D’Agustino wedding and the Shapiro Bar Mitzvah to finish this afternoon!”“Sheet cakes and matzo balls! Simple! You and Luc have things under control.

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"Any more of that Low Country Sunrise?" "I think there's a quart of it down by the entrance.""A quart? I've got three cells still to finish!""How about Irish Bog? There's still a lot of that.""Are you kidding! That's green! Mix it with Low Country Sunrise? It'd make the prisoners puke!""Well, I don't know what else you can do.""I'm going to go talk to McCormack."Spencer turned from Red Molly and

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“Uncle, nobody is ever going to believe that we are caterers.”Jacques fidgeted nervously with the cutlery they had used only moments before to dispatch the actual caterers whose identities they now assumed. He wasn’t sure whether to clean the knives or sharpen them so he just kind of handed them back and forth between his left and his right hands.“Nobody would have believed that Duvall here would

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"Omigod!" the lookout on the Dutch frigate called out."What?" his fellow lookout asked."I … I thought I … saw something, over there," he pointed. "But no, there's nothing there," he said, his mind working overtime to deny the ghastly hued horror that was The Festering Boil."Are you sure?" the colleague asked."Yes, yes, I'm sure. But what's that ship over there? The one on the horizon making way?"

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“Mon Capitaine.”Luc Duvall spoke only loudly enough to be barely audible as he stood several paces away from Fifi LeFleur. The French pirate captain carefully scoured the port-side cityscape of Willemstad’s harbor.“Mon Capitaine?”Duvall spoke only slightly louder – half hoping not to disturb his mercurial commander with his probably all-too-petty concerns.“In Dutch, Luc.” LeFleur said softly and

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Mad Sally was a pirate. Always had been.True, that was not always an easy position to maintain in what was typically considered a "man's field." She had long ago lost count of how many times big burly pirates, or even small wimpy ones, had taken it on themselves to "protect the womenfolk," which included her. Or the voyages where, every time it looked as if she'd finally be able to command her

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“Stack the bustles, darling! Let’s get as many as we can on this cartload!”The deep, raspy voice of Grandmama Jeanette du Bonnier barreled down the gangplank from The Poison Pearl to the women who hefted the cargo of wedding dresses and wedding dress accessories from the ship to the cart and then on to the little boutique they had purchased next to the gaol.“It’s a corset, dear! It’s made of bone

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Every afternoon Gov. Roelof Van Wubbeldinker stood atop the scaffold, scanning the horizon.“Is that them?" he asked.Bernard Jeffries, the governor's valet and personal assistant, sighed. They'd gone through this every day for two weeks."Begging your lordship’s pardon,” Jeffries replied with a voice that was wearying of the routine, "to which ship are you referring now?""That one over there, to

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In the darkness, a voice.“’allo? Is anybody here? ‘al-low-sie-wosie? I am calling, you … yoo-hoo! ‘allo?”Another voice replies. This voice is deeper, a bit raspy, with just the hint of a Swedish accent.“Go away or I will kill you.”A pause. The first voice replies – losing much, but not all, of its baby-talk quality.“Too?”The raspy voice replied, “Do you mean, ‘two’ as in the number two? Or ‘too’

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"Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen.""What?" Keeling asked Cementhands, who was chanting the phrase over and over."Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen." Cementhands held up his fingers, indicating he was counting on them and Keeling would just have to wait until he was done."Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen. Yaagen Hoogen." Cementhands paused, looking at his fingers,

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Fifi LeFleur was fixated on a single knot.As La Petit Mort Deux sliced her way through the choppy waters of the Caribbean – only a day’s sail out of Curacao – he couldn’t take his eyes off of a single knot that he thought had been shabbily tied.The wind slapped at the twisted and frayed clump of hemp rope that secured a small section of the foresail to its yardarm. LeFleur seemed hypnotized by

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"All right then, that's the plan," Cap'n Slappy said. "Anyone have any thoughts, suggestions, additions or dirty jokes?"The entire crew of the Boil looked around expectantly, but since they'd all been sailing together for some time now there had been no opportunity to learn any new dirty jokes, and the one about the pirate, the charwoman and the rabbi's duck, funny though it was, had lost a lot

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“It’s Purple!”Wellington Peddicord’s temper was growing despite the fact that he was employing his storied two-pronged approach to anger management; deep slow breathing and imagining his Happy Place.“And I say it’s Violet!”Leftenant Keeling responded to rising tension as he always had, with icy self-assurance.“PURPLE!”“VIOLET!”“Please.” Cementhands McCormack interrupted as he stepped between the

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The knife sped through the air so fast that its end-over-end trajectory was a blur, hitting the wood point first and burying itself an inch deep with a satisfying "THUNK! Whirrrr!" as the handle oscillated, expending the remaining energy from its flight not more than a couple of inches from Cementhands' right ear."Jumping Jesus Christ!!!" he shouted, leaping to his feet. "What are you doing,

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Ol’ Chumbucket and Cap’n Slappy stood at the taffrail and watched as an overly turbulent wake was the only connection they believed they still had to Kejsardömen av Sverige as they put the pillaging literally behind them.Young Spencer, clip-board in hand, and the even younger Gabriel approached as if they were taking an inventory of The Festering Boil to make sure she was still intact.Spencer

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The door blew open – they almost always did after a blow from a five-foot long, three-inch thick iron bar wielded by the immense form of Cementhands McCormack."Everyone stand still, deliver the goods and we'll be on our way," Cementhands said as he followed the door into the ship's cabin. "No one needs to get hurt …""Except you if you take another step," said a voice from his side, as he felt the

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“BY THE SPLINTERS ON A LILY-LIVERED, LAND LUBBIN’, TOE-TAPPIN’ JEBUSITE of a PLANK-RIDER’S BOTTOM …!!!”Black Butch, the Dutchman and ship’s chef of The Festering Boil brought his enormous meat cleaver down with a satisfyingly squishy THUNK as he dismembered the eighth and final leg on what was, only a few minutes before, a perfectly harmless dead octopus. Still at the peak of distemper, he buried

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"Ahoy the deck!" Two Patch shouted down from atop the main mast. "Here they come!"On the quarterdeck George the Greek and Ol' Chumbucket shifted their gaze from the opposing ship to the coast. The two longboats were putting off from the shoreline and making for the ships as if racing in a regatta. The boat headed toward the French ship had gotten the earlier start, but the boat rowing toward the

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“I could use a little help.”Spencer gasped for breath as he strained against the oars pulling the longboat through the surf toward the beach. “I mean, seriously. I’m pulling for six and some of us aren’t as svelte as we used to be.”Facing the stern, he could see the look on Cap’n Slappy’s face which was, appropriately to the location, also stern. And he could feel the stare of Cementhands

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It wasn't the Frenchman's ship that Two Patch had sighted, but a small Spanish merchantman The Boil overtook and relieved of its cargo of wine, silks and racy Italian novels just before nightfall.The next day they spotted another ship heading diagonally across their course, but after running it down they found it to be a local fishing boat. The Boil sent it on its way after buying its catch and

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Bernard Jeffries gripped the heavy draperies that shielded the governor's boudoir from the unforgiving illumination of a bright Caribbean afternoon. Attired conservatively in the most expensive clothes, ten years out of date, he looked every inch the gentleman's gentleman. This was, of course, one of the many requirements for employment in the household staff to the right honorable Governor of

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“What the hell is this?” Cap’n Slappy shouted as he stormed out of the captain’s private head, one hand clutching his unfastened trousers and the other waving the copy of Pirattitude Monthly over his head.“Hamnquist is dead!” the captain shouted. “This is crazy! He couldn’t possibly be in a Curacao jail!”Ol’ Chumbucket and Peddicord came sliding down the ratlines, joining a growing group of

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Dawn aboard Kejsardömen av Sverige, and Ensign Marck Ericsson was staring astern, trying to pierce the glare of the rising sun. His eyes narrowed and his hand shot out, finger pointing.“There!” he said, “Right there. Hull down, two points north of east!”The captain pulled out his telescope and stared long and hard at the horizon. He grunted. “You have good eyes, youngster,” he said. “Or I have

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“Now let me get this straight.”Cap’n Slappy’s voice had the sharp staccato of an impatient man clarifying an improbably situation by slicing it up into bite-sized pieces with the knife edge of his elocution. He thumbed his way through the copious notes taken by his cabin boy, Gabriel, occasionally glancing over the top of the papers to verbally confirm the information he was reading.“You’re not

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“Bring me them Frenchies!” roared Cap’n Slappy as he stared down from the deck of The Festering Boil to the captured ship, Le Petit Mort, which was tied up alongside.“I’m not sure there are any Frenchmen aboard,” said George the Greek, who’d overseen the capture. “There’s only a handful of men aboard, and they seem to be mostly English.“Nonsense,” said Slappy. “That’s Fifi Le Fleur’s ship, isn’t

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-75193630351959303882008-05-13T21:51:00.000-07:002008-05-13T21:57:17.193-07:00

As The Festering Boil closed in on the dread pirate Fifi Le Fleur’s La Petite Mort, a cluster of Boilers gathered behind Cap’n Slappy and Ol’ Chumbucket as they kept a careful watch on their intended prey. The two were peppered with questions from this impromptu peanut gallery that came fast and furious – like a desperate press conference with a world leader who had just done something of which

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-47705072049724180832008-02-22T13:13:00.000-08:002008-02-22T13:24:38.389-08:00

“De boze ballen van Neptunus!”As soon as Ol’ Chumbucket heard this exclamation, he knew two things. First, he knew that Cap’n Slappy had just closed his telescoping spy glass with enthusiasm, pinching the meaty portion of his left hand in the collapsing mechanism thus causing him to bellow something from his random collection of Dutch oaths. Secondly, he knew there must be something good on the

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-83922681541601947352008-01-28T17:36:00.000-08:002008-01-28T21:16:02.465-08:00

The cold steel poised above the exposed breast of Ol’ Chumbucket as if seeking exactly the right spot, then flashed forward, piercing his unresisting flesh. It withdrew, then raced forward again.And again and again, slicing through the pirate’s skin over and over.“This is really annoying,” Ol’ Chumbucket said to himself, then out loud, “C’mon Clay. How long is this gonna take?”“Do you want art or

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-57417465511706376552008-01-10T14:43:00.000-08:002008-01-10T14:52:21.363-08:00

The season wouldn’t be complete in Cap’n Slappy’s mind without The Cementhands McCormack Singers’ fine rendition of “The Twelve Pirate Days of Christmas.” It was performed with gusto – in both voice and sign language with several members of the chorale attempting what can only be described as “interpretive dance,” and culminated in a spectacular albeit wildly inappropriate fireworks display. By

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-72740683172536586432008-01-09T05:53:00.000-08:002008-01-09T06:20:51.089-08:00

All was quiet as the great wooden ship churned its way south towards the warm water of the Caribbean. The crew of the Swedish merchant ship, Kejsardömen av Sverige, had enjoyed their Christmas celebration, singing, drinking and eating a variety of ethnic dishes that were all too rare at sea. Their distinguished passenger had not seemed to enjoy the meal, refusing anything. Those few sailors who

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-28455354003324941612007-11-19T13:50:00.000-08:002007-11-19T13:57:24.342-08:00

In case it wasn't clear (and we thought it was) Installment 49 was the last chapter of "The Havana Caper," with the crew of The Festering Boil sailing into the sunset on the quest for more glory and adventure – or at least more rum.But don't fret! That doesn't mean the story is over! Oh no. The Havana Caper will soon (like in about a week) be available as a book from our Web site, the fourth in

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-53454394096431875672007-11-13T07:43:00.000-08:002007-11-13T07:49:52.826-08:00

“So, let me get this straight ...” Doc Burgess was trying to brush the fog of confusion from his mind and our story line. “ … young Tharp was your nephew and the cousin to our own Dogwatch Watts, right?”“Wrong.” George the Greek chimed in. “Young Tharp and Dogwatch are brothers. And since young Tharp is now aboard his father’s ship, no doubt putting in a good word for Cheesey and the other

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-24766227639385080112007-11-01T19:33:00.000-07:002007-11-01T19:38:46.875-07:00

First, a note of apology. It's been three months since we last sent word about the doings on The Festering Boil. Far too long. We had a hell of a good Talk Like a Pirate Day there, of course, and a few other things keeping us busy. We'll have a very big announcement soon – very big. In the meantime, here's the penultimate installment of "The Havana Caper," and we hope to have the final chapter

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-59393708640826340982007-08-01T09:07:00.000-07:002007-08-01T09:22:05.659-07:00

“De Technologie van de schroef!” shouted Cap’n Slappy as he closed his telescoping spy glass in such a way as to remove a chunk of meat from his fleshy hand.“He’s cursing in Dutch again – this can’t be good.” Cementhands McCormack whispered.“What is it, Cap’n?” Dogwatch asked.Slappy scrunched up his face in a grimace that clearly showed something was wrong, but he was too busy thinking of the

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-45584165005310010082007-06-22T12:03:00.000-07:002007-06-25T17:36:23.257-07:00

(Authors’ note: We noticed in the last installment that we were calling young Tharp a lieutenant, and we were pretty sure at one point in the story he was an ensign and he obviously couldn’t have been promoted by the navy while on a pirate ship. So we went back and looked and sure enough, his rank has switched back and forth rather indiscriminately. Our curiosity got the better of us and we went

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-5444257316046616672007-06-12T13:53:00.000-07:002007-06-12T14:08:55.654-07:00

“And just what do you suggest we do?” Ol’ Chumbucket asked, feigning nonchalance as he quietly counted the gun ports on the pursuing Princess. He was concerned because Slappy sometimes seemed guided less by a cool calculation of the circumstances and odds than by a bellicose sense of machismo that led him into rash acts. In the heat of combat he had been known to ignore the tactical situation and

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-11654627002342579232007-04-26T18:31:00.000-07:002007-04-26T18:35:11.134-07:00

Cap’n Slappy and his rescuers made their way quickly through the stone-walled corridors of the castle. Cementhands McCormack pulled torches from the walls as they passed and handed them to party members as both a source of light and potential weapons.Keeling’s uncanny sense of direction guided them through the gloomy maze toward the sally port he and the rescuers had used less than an hour before

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-39035236221912298812007-03-26T09:29:00.000-07:002007-03-26T09:33:06.904-07:00

This is the way the plan was supposed to work.It was all about stealth and cunning, retaking the ship and getting it ready to sail before anyone knew they were missing. That’s why all the pirates were ordered not to use pistols – knives and cutlasses only. Ol’ Chumbucket and his small group would take the attention of the English-speaking guard at the stern, yammering at him in ersatz Spanish.

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1171596456342250182007-02-15T19:25:00.000-08:002007-02-15T19:27:36.366-08:00

Firearms hadn’t been a source of fear for Cementhands McCormack since his famous charge on the French fort, Le Pantalon De la Soeur, when he managed to single-handedly defeat the entire garrison armed with only a serrated grapefruit spoon and breathtaking chutzpah.But this wasn’t a mob of drunken Frenchmen who managed to blow up as many cannons as they were able to actually fire. This was a

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1171401403057010692007-02-13T13:03:00.000-08:002007-02-13T13:17:47.776-08:00

The exploits of The Festering Boil and its colorful crew are now available in book form!The daring adventures of Cap'n Slappy, Ol' Chumbucket, their crew and friends can make a handsome addition to your bookshelf. Or, look impressive sitting on the back of the toilet. Wherever you keep your favorite reading matter.We took the first two complete adventures from this blog story and made them

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1170440804391757692007-02-02T10:20:00.000-08:002007-02-02T10:26:44.420-08:00

Fanny raced down the hidden spiral staircase, her rear guarded by Tasha. The steps wound down the tower eight flights, and by the time Fanny arrived at the guardroom at the bottom she was dizzy from the rapid, circular descent. Throwing open the secret panel, she lurched into the room, which spun before her eyes.Ensign Jack Jones was seated at the desk, facing the door into the room. This put his

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1169510152111819822007-01-22T15:52:00.000-08:002007-01-22T15:55:52.133-08:00

The world was a blur. But at least it seemed like “the world” again and not an ever-shifting dreamscape upon which this hellish nightmare was playing in five acts.Slappy blinked his eyes hard in an attempt to peal off the moist fog that enshrouded the room around him as well as the other people in it. By his count the room was populated by himself and three others – Lady Fanny, the beautiful

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1168880859202318432007-01-15T09:01:00.000-08:002007-01-15T09:10:33.986-08:00

Five soldiers marched along the seawall toward the sally port on the harbor side of Morro Castle, their armored breast plates and helmets gleaming, their swords clanking menacingly at their sides, pikes swinging from their shoulders in perfect precision. Indeed, if it weren’t the dead of night they’d have made a martial display worthy of any battlefield in the world, though one of them was

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1168107811418580282007-01-06T10:05:00.000-08:002007-01-06T10:23:31.436-08:00

One of the Spanish soldiers burst into tears. It was clear that he had been under stress for some time and having pirate guns shoved into his face was simply more than he could bear. His comrades moved quickly to comfort him. One spoke in broken but defiant English to his captors.“Why are you be so nasty? We tell you anything! Everything! You no need push pistols in our noses! Look what you do to

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1165940128389918882006-12-12T08:13:00.000-08:002006-12-12T08:15:28.406-08:00

“They’re definitely in there,” Keeling said, jerking his thumb towards the gray bulk of Morro Castle. “The soldiers I overheard at the taberna were talking about a whole crew of pirates who’d been brought in.”The crew of Lord Shiva’s Eye glanced up at the imposing edifice. “Well, I suppose a direct assault is out of the question,” Dogwatch said. “So how do we slip in there?”“Are you all nuts?”

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1165010425111255272006-12-01T13:44:00.000-08:002006-12-01T14:00:25.756-08:00

Lady Fanny stared coldly into Cap’n Slappy’s eyes; looking for some sign of fear or at least mild surprise. A long frozen moment passed and she decided to move on.“I’m so glad you asked!” Fanny’s words dripped from her lips like the excess toxin from a serpent’s fangs. Her icy enthusiasm for story telling sent chills down the listener’s spine.“When you marooned me and left me to die on that God

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1161624123234548052006-10-23T09:36:00.000-07:002006-10-23T10:22:03.996-07:00

The sun was dropping behind the city of Havana, setting off a Technicolor aerial display of reds and oranges that would have looked great in a Hollywood adventure movie if only the movie business and indeed the entire movie-making technology and the city of Hollywood itself weren’t another couple of hundred years away, but never mind that, the point is that Sol was settling in the west and

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1160843584031230682006-10-14T09:26:00.000-07:002006-10-14T09:33:04.066-07:00

Just a note to let you know we haven't abandoned The Havana Caper just when it was getting to the mysterious part.We'd been cruising along, posting four entries a week, into August, even wth the "Wife Swap" chaos. Then, as we approached this year's Talk Like a Pirate Day, we got seriously busy with plans for the holiday. Since then we've been kind of overwhelmed with two other projects – a young

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The sun beat mercilessly on the captured pirate ship and its brightness forced Cementhands McCormack’s eyes into a tight squint as he was brought up in chains to the deck of The Festering Boil. There, he joined the rest of his crewmates who had been filing onto the deck since they had arrived in Havana harbor. On the other side of the dock, he could see the weary forms of Cap’n Slappy, Ol’

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1157243706720774152006-09-02T17:32:00.000-07:002006-09-02T17:35:37.256-07:00

“He threw you overboard? How did you make it here?” Keeling asked as he, Gabriel and Dogwatch sat around the fire they’d lit. All day the pirates had watched from the edge of the jungle as the ships – including their own Festering Boil – conducted a cursory scan of the shoreline without actually sending a landing party ashore. As the sun began to settle they watched the ships sail away. Only then

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1155594161102864742006-08-14T15:21:00.000-07:002006-08-14T15:22:41.120-07:00

The depths of the hull of The Festering Boil, which was now home to more than eighty men, let in no natural light and the two swinging lanterns cast faint shadows that swayed dizzyingly as the ship took a battering from waves on the open sea. The armed men – formerly Royal Marines – guarding them seemed to take little interest in the crates all around that contained the enormous Spanish booty and

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The officers of the Festering Boil were shown into the captain’s cabin of the Princess, a large, surprisingly light and airy room for a man o’war. The Atlantic waters sparkled through the wide transom window that formed the back wall of the room.Captain Stubing waved his guests to seats around the oak table that stood at the center of the room. Ol’ Chumbucket was rather surprised to find his

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1154479047662771642006-08-01T17:33:00.000-07:002006-08-01T17:37:27.680-07:00

“That’s a pretty, pretty Princess.” Cementhands McCormack said admiringly as he tried to get some idea of what was going on aboard the English flagship. “Aye!” Dogwatch Watts replied, “and there are many stories told of her romantic voyages!”McCormack’s left eyebrow raised as he pondered whether or not to seek details of these romantic voyages or let the reputation of the British navy speak for

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1154015601376070202006-07-27T08:32:00.000-07:002006-07-27T08:53:21.493-07:00

29Cap’n Slappy snapped his chair forward, his boots hitting the deck with a thud as rum spilled onto the crotch of his pants.“Raak me doden met een rottende kabeljauw,” he cursed, jumping to his feet.The sound of excited talking on the deck brought his attention back to the sail sighting and he rushed from his cabin to the quarterdeck. Everyone was staring west.“Is it Spencer and Lord Shiva’s Eye

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1153367234771215442006-07-19T20:44:00.000-07:002006-07-19T20:47:14.790-07:00

“By the Grand Dam of Mermaids’ left teat, Benny! That’s not how ye carry a treasure chest!” McCormack bellowed at his stubby unofficial lackey.Benny had balanced a small box filled with doubloons on his head and held the edges of the chest delicately in his hands – it was a trick he had seen done by African tribeswomen with heavy baskets of food sometimes twice their own size. He’d chosen the

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1152143641645334642006-07-05T16:53:00.000-07:002006-07-05T16:54:33.106-07:00

Slappy had expected – well, maybe ‘hoped for’ would be the better expression – a good haul from hitting the treasure fleet. He was in no way expecting what he saw when he climbed aboard the captured ship.As Slappy clambered up the side from the longboat, he was greeted by a crew of pirates, none wearing less than a chain of gold around his or her neck. Most were much more ostentatious. Somewhat

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1151362373388472682006-06-26T15:51:00.000-07:002006-06-26T15:52:53.410-07:00

“I’ve collected all the red shirts and piled them around the mizzenmast for the red shirt bonfire!” Benny “Barrel Bacon” Postlethwait reported to Cementhands McCormack. If McCormack had an aide-de-camp, it was Benny. Short, dumpy, stupid and constantly smelling of rotten meat, Benny earned his moniker when he bet McCormack that the big man couldn’t cook bacon on the barrel of a cannon during a

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1150995787008904782006-06-22T10:00:00.000-07:002006-06-22T10:03:07.026-07:00

The captured urca was turning, but the maneuver was achingly slow. Because the Spanish ships had been working against the wind, the sails had been tightly reefed and the pirates from the Boil were struggling through the unfamiliar rigging as musket fire and the occasional cannonball hissed through the air around them. At the helm, Ol’ Chumbucket swore as a bullet tore a hole in the jaunty officer

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1150569613455620662006-06-17T11:32:00.000-07:002006-06-17T11:40:13.480-07:00

“Door krullend de kinhaar van mijn moeder!” Slappy cursed in Dutch, as was his custom in particularly stressful moments. And moments didn’t come laden with much more stress than this one. A flotilla of Spanish war galleons was closing a circle around The Festering Boil which was having some difficulty getting turned in order to regain the wind. Cannonballs were whizzing over the decks so close to

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1150294603546059032006-06-14T07:16:00.000-07:002006-06-14T07:17:34.473-07:00

Five eyes squinted into five spyglasses as the pirates stalked their prey among the urcas and hulks pressed in close to the shore.“That one’s close, and she looks like she’s in trouble,” Spencer said, eyeing a target. “We could be on her in no time.”Ol’ Chumbucket gave her a long look before dismissing her. “She’s giving too much leeway. She’ll be on the reef before we could get to her, and then

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1150060099683399342006-06-11T13:51:00.000-07:002006-06-11T14:08:19.840-07:00

“Let me get this straight.” Young Dogwatch began, trying to make sense of the strategy even as he steered The Festering Boil toward the flotilla of Spanish ships, twenty-two urcas (slow-moving cargo ships laden with gold and treasure) and ten swift war galleons, heavily armed and itching for a fight. “We’ve sailed around the armada to the north so we can attack from the northeast with the wind at

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1149516775513351222006-06-05T07:12:00.000-07:002006-06-05T07:13:34.333-07:00

“Anything?” Ol’ Chumbucket asked.“Not yet,” Red Molly said from high up in the palm tree, her spyglass focused on Lord Shiva’s Eye, cruising about two miles offshore. “Damn,” Ol’ Chumbucket sighed. “They should be here by now. I don’t mind going into battle against impossible odds, that’s all in a day’s work. But this waiting is going to kill me.”“Heads up!” Molly called, and Chumbucket barely

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The sharpened scissors caught the light from the lantern and bounced it into Leftenant Keeling’s eyes. “Is this absolutely necessary?” The young pirate wearily swayed back and forth on the operating table.“By Gawd, young man!” Doc Burgess shot back testily. “Do I tell you how to go about givin’ a shirker a good flogging?” He snapped the scissors shut several times making a crisp metallic click

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Things were moving quickly now. After weeks of planning and preparing and getting in position, it was time to set things in motion. The pirates went over the plan one more time, the armada’s stolen documents spread over the chart table as they made their final dispositions.They had already picked out several likely targets from the 74 ships that would be sailing up the coast towards them, all

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Barely visible in the darkness, the fiery puff of smoke was followed by a loud bang. The cannonball from the big ship whizzed just fifteen yards over their heads and splashed down in the waters beyond them. This was immediately followed by the familiar strains of George’s deep voice, “Goddammit, Chumbucket! If that’s you fire up the freakin’ lantern!”As he lit the lantern, Chumbucket smiled, “

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-1148514575272934532006-05-24T16:49:00.000-07:002006-05-24T16:49:35.286-07:00

Ol’ Chumbucket and Keeling were poring over the papers filched from the Spanish admiral and comparing them to Cap’n Slappy’s plans for the raid on the treasure fleet.“He’s picked just about the perfect spot,” Keeling said. “The current will be just about nil there, and the winds should be right in the Spaniards’ faces.”“Slappy knows these waters well,” Chumbucket said. “He sailed here with ol’

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A large map of the Cuban coastline blocked the view of the actual Cuban coastline as Cap’n Slappy seemed to line up the paper and ink version with the real one trying to identify which island was the one that he and Ol’ Chumbucket had decided on for their rendezvous. “Your map’s upside down.” Young Gabriel, the powder monkey turned cabin boy observed as he pointed out what he thought might be an

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A pale light was beginning to color the eastern horizon when the lookout on Lord Shiva’s Eye caught a glimpse of movement. Something was coming around the headland of the small cove the pirate pinnace anchored in, and Spencer saw the low shape clearly silhouetted against the brightening sky. Carefully, quietly, he cocked his musket and waited.The shape approached the ship, and the sound of

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“She’s always been swift!” Cap’n Slappy observed with Salty Jim and George the Greek as he stood on the deck of The Festering Boil as she made her way to the island where they would rendezvous with Ol’ Chumbucket and the crew of the Lord Shiva’s Eye, “But by Davy Jones’ gigantic Johnson, she’s as fast as a clipper!”It was true. The Festering Boil was now even faster than before.“You and your

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The Plaza de Armas, the center of Havana, lay cloaked in darkness. A pair of watchmen made their rounds from the cathedral to the government buildings, but this late at night there was none of the usual bustle that marked the plaza. The square was all but deserted.Had they been more alert the guards might have heard the tiniest of rustles. Had their eyesight been better they might have noticed

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A morning mist rises from every living thing in the jungle as the ruddy rays of sunrise force shafts of light through the broad leafs on the branches above the rooftops of the village. Cap’n Slappy and George the Greek moved through the silent camp like two men with a focused purpose. The steam rising from their moist greatcoats gave them a ghostly appearance as they approached the still sleeping

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The sun had long gone when Keeling, aboard Lord Shiva’s Eye, noticed the lights to seaward. He roused his sleeping comrades and the five of them stared out to sea, where they could see the glimmer of lanterns a couple of miles out.“One ship, kinda big,” Keeling suggested.“Maybe two smaller ships in formation, really close to each other,” Dogwatch suggested.“That close together in the dark?”

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Slappy looked down and noticed that his fine pirate clothes had been replaced by a baggy one-piece denim covering under which he seemed to be wearing a plaid flannel shirt.“Dad burn it!” He mumbled and when he caught himself saying, “Dad burn it!” He cut loose with an even fouler oath.“Great Grandmammy McSlappy’s Bloated Testicles! It’s happening again!”Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe and the world

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Deep green jungle slid past the small ship’s port side –foliage dank with the recent rain and giving off the rank, fecund aroma of life run wild.Since leaving the cove that sheltered the mission Nuestra Señora de la Sangría Eterna de la Nariz, the five pirates aboard Lord Shiva’s Eye had sailed steadily northwest along the coast of Cuba, with a brisk breeze blowing off the starboard beam and a

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“A pirate of little faith says what?” Cementhands, or “St. Swithin” mumbled in the captain’s direction.“What?” Slappy replied then winced immediately knowing he’d been “got.”“He got you, Cap’n!” Wellington Peddicord laughed.“Yes, Wellington! I know! That’s why I winced– didn’t you see me wince?” Slappy declared – then shaking off the silliness – “This is madness, McCormack – sorry … ‘St. Swithin!

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While McCormack and his inner saint continued their chat with Padre Bracca and Peddicord, Slappy directed the refitting of the two storm-battered ships. Or, more accurately, he directed George the Greek and ship’s carpenter Salty Jim, who directed the work.When Jim had inspected the forepeak of the Festering Boil, what he saw made him blanche. “We almost lost the whole front end of the ship,” he

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“That’s it! Just send the Negro!”Wellington Peddicord’s tone was playfully sarcastic – as it was on most occasions. The fact was, he did not mind Cap’n Slappy’s request that he stop untangling the Medusa’s Head of rat line clusters to escort the erstwhile Cementhands McCormack, currently the physical incarnation of St. Swithin, to the mission at the top of the hill and “look after him,” while

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Rain lashed the Festering Boil and howling winds made keeping any course difficult. With the sails closehauled and a sea anchor out, the crew struggled to maintain enough headway to keep the ship riding into the waves and not turning broadside into them and broaching. The seas broke over the bow and flooded the waist of the ship, and it was all hands to the pumps to keep the Boil from

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Cap’n Slappy and Sawbones Burgess made their way through the bustle of activity on the Festering Boil and made their way below to the ship’s sick bay. “What’s the story on our good friend, Cementhands?” Slappy asked with grave concern.Cementhands McCormack was, in fact, everyone's good friend - the best-loved man on the ship. For one thing, he was quite large – both in size and spirit. Standing

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“Helm’s a lee!” George shouted from behind the ship’s wheel.“Helm’s a lee!” echoed Ol’ Chumbucket in a voice that could be heard up in the main tops. “Let go and haul!”The crew of the Festering Boil leaped to the task, releasing the forebowline and weather braces, and hauling the lee braces. The ship began turning to tack back across the wind, turning the ship towards the grey bulk of Cuba on the

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Cap’n Slappy entered his cabin where he found young Spencer sitting quietly on a stool in the corner. He couldn’t have looked more forlorn if he had been faced into the corner – he gave the appearance of a seven-year-old boy about to be punished.“Come out from the corner, lad. Sit in the man chair.” Slappy’s voice was firm, but friendly.Spencer got up sheepishly and moved to the large sturdy

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The Havana Caper – 1A haze had settled over the island like a wet rag, turning the sun into a sickly yellow disk that barely penetrated the thick air. Mist clung to every surface in the harbor town and the surrounding waters.Out of the haze sailed a ship, its black hull and red trim cutting through the choppy waters as it drove to its anchoring place. Though a Dutch flag fluttered from the

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Miss Piggy: “Why are you telling me this?” Diana Rigg: “It’s basic plot exposition. It has to go somewhere.” From “The Great Muppet Caper” First, thanks for being our readers.Second – Don’t worry (or don’t get your hopes up,) we’re going to continue the story. But, as much fun as we have with it, we have always said that we’re doing the story first and

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“Yo Ho, Butch!” Dogwatch called from the wheel as Black Butch, the ship’s cook, passed on one of his many trips back and forth from the banana storage hold to the galley. “What’s on the menu this evening?”“Well!” Butch called out with unabashed enthusiasm, “We’ve got a nice banana fondue for starters with a splendid banana-cocoanut dipping sauce – followed by freshly baked banana bread. Then, we’

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