Work Text:
I. NOW, UPON THIS LITTLE SHIP SO NAMED REVENGE WE SET OUR SCENE;
SOMETIME EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY, INTO THE MIND OF ONE MILDLY ILL-MANNERED ISRAEL HANDS…
There was one thing that the crew of the Revenge was not: subtle. Not by any means.
Pirates were generally not subtle creatures, but Bonnet’s crew in particular were … exceptionally eccentric. And that was saying something, as Israel regularly followed the mildly insane whims of Captain Blackbeard.
Israel spent the days after they dumped Bonnet’s useless crew and all of Bonnet’s flagrant misuses of wealth and his stupid fucking books in a haze of glee so strong he stumbled around like he was drunk. The old Blackbeard and his old violently unconventional methods for pirate diplomacy were on their way — they had to be, given the antics with his toe and self-cannibalism that Blackbeard submitted him to, and Israel breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, he was back.
For a while, serving under Blackbeard — or as the Kraken he called himself, because Edward Teach was a great melodramatic cunt — was better. Great, even! They pillaged and plundered and it was just like the good old days. But then they were right back where they had been: Blackbeard turned despondent, his words lost their bite. Israel poked and prodded and twisted where it hurt but nothing worked. Bonnet’s soft Edward was gone — but Israel was hard-pressed whether it was Blackbeard who darkened the halls of the ship. He drank more, and he had an edge to him that scared the piss out of anyone who dared to make direct eye contact.
With every day, that madness ebbed away from the kind expected of the insane master pirate of the high seas. His thirst for bloodlust and violence had…shifted. He was distracted. Noticeably. Time would tell what that meant for Blackbeard and the dynamic of his crew, but Israel was confident that their routine would return to how it was before bloody Bonnet’s bizarre seduction tactics. Given enough time.
Except it didn’t. Israel half-wondered, half-dreaded the thought that those weeks — months — of normalcy were just a fluke. Maybe Blackbeard had never actually come back. He was just covering himself up, drowning in blood and endless violence.
There was seemingly nothing Israel could do to prevent it — especially after stupid Stede Fucking Bonnet returned. All the loose pieces Israel had been holding together through sheer willpower sank to the bottom of the sea.
Bonnet and Blackbeard’s reunion was filled with far less screaming and bloodshed than Israel had hoped for. There was definitely shouting, and then some blood when Blackbeard tackled Bonnet onto the deck and yelled in his face. He had broken Bonnet’s delicate little nose, as well as his own, but the two of them carried on like that was insignificant in the matter of getting to hold one another again. Then they rolled around a bit more, the shouts reduced to pathetic lovesick whimpering, and Israel left just as the snogging started. Eugh. As if the blubbering mess that Bonnet reduced the great and mighty pirate Blackbeard weren’t enough! As if! Sodding feelings and love and whatnot.
Even that fruity pest of a scribe was spared the clutches of death. Lucius claimed a very long, beautifully manicured merman with golden scales had saved him and brought him safely to port, where he somehow reunited with the ragtag crew that Blackbeard had marooned. Black Pete and Fang appeared the most pleased at the artist’s return. Stupid fucking cockroaches, the lot of them.
Apparently there truly was no rest for the wicked. Stupid fucking Stede Bonnet and his stupid fucking crew were going to get them all killed before the year was out. Israel put his head in his hands and screamed as loud as he could.
“You good, Izzy?” Fang asked. Israel made a swipe at him but Fang just laughed and bounced on merrily to go request another sketch from that intolerable indolent pet catamite that had half the crew wrapped around his stupid wooden finger.
Mark his words. He didn’t care what it took — he needed to pry Stede Bonnet off Blackbeard’s side for good. Since running off to visit his wife and children hadn't kept Bonnet down for long, Israel needed…grander schemes. Death seemed like an appropriate course of action. There was no returning from that. He would make sure of it. But given Bonnet and his crew seemed immune to death, given how the stupid little fuckers kept bouncing back up even after squarely heading off death. Well. Therein lay the problem: how to kill Stede Bonnet and assure it stuck? Duelling hadn’t gone so well the last time. Slitting his throat in his sleep was cowardly at best, but there was also the rather compelling concern of Blackbeard being within arms reach, who always slept lightly, and would crush Israel’s windpipe before he harmed even the littlest hair on Bonnet’s ugly mop.
So instead Israel watched, waited, and at the first available moment where Blackbeard was off the ship to incite terror in some poor merchants he cornered blubbering Bonnet.
He pressed his knife deep enough to leave the slightest line of blood on Bonnet’s throat. Bonnet whimpered shrilly.
Just as he was preparing to deliver a scathing monologue about Bonnet laying waste to the dignity of the greatest pirate on the high seas, the pointed end of a blade pressed into his lower spine.
“Drop the knife,” a raspy voice warned. He turned. It was the bard. The remainder of Bonnet’s irritatingly useless crew had him surrounded. Israel knew when the odds were against him and reluctantly lowered the weapon. Yet again, Bonnet slipped away.
Israel would need to plan more carefully for next time. Only now it seemed the entire crew of the Revenge had it out for him — with the utmost disrespect for any decorum for the code which all pirates were honorbound to obey, and in the most unsubtle, most obnoxious manner possible.
Motherfuckers. All of them.
II. BUT FIRST, THE PLAN.
(SOMETIME SHORTLY AFTER THE GRAND REUNION, WHERE ISRAEL HANDS’ DEMISE WAS SCHEMED IN THE DEPTHS OF THE REVENGE AFTER THE FIRST MATE ATTEMPTED TO DO HARM UPON ONE CAPTAIN STEDE BONNET;
AN ACT THAT COULD NOT GO UNREMARKED BY HIS DOTING AND SOMEWHAT FOOLBRAINED CREW, AS THE GAUNTLET HAD BEEN THROWN)
Amongst most crew the consensus was this: Izzy Hands was an annoying bastard exuding punchable vibes on a good day, and all other times he was downright ruthless. Anyone who had spent more than a moment in his presence was inclined to see him firmly stuffed into a small crevice at the bottom of the sea.
Somewhere else on the Revenge, the crewmates gathered in the privacy of Roach’s kitchens. Jim poked the tip of their knife into the counter and spun it slowly, whittling into the wood top. The lowest voice was barely audible, as the participants were conscientious of their desire not to be caught. “...assuming you can even get within five feet of the guy.”
“Maybe you can’t. But I am a master of stealth,” Frenchie pointed out, affronted, only to be hushed. He was then subsequently reminded of his epic flub regarding Bonnet’s journal by the many bystanders who had seen the events firsthand, and entered a fierce sulk.
Wee John’s bottom lip curled as he thought deeply. Very deeply. His eyes went unfocused and distant. “Could just stab him. Maybe that’s enough of a warning. Oh, cut off one of his toes in the middle of the night!”
“And make him eat it!” Buttons added gleefully, all too intrigued by the gruesome prospect. The Swede made a terrified bleating noise. He was recovering from his post-traumatic horror after being nearly-cannibalised while marooned after Blackbeard and Bonnet’s awfully dramatic breakup. He was still rather jumpy around Buttons and Roach. Though his fears probably weren’t assuaged by the occasional long yearning look in Button’s eyes and the way he sometimes licked his lips as he admired the Swede’s voluptuous backside…
Lucius pinched his face up with discomfort. “He might get the wrong impression. I think he’s got a bit of a kink for that.”
Fang, who was not supposed to be listening in on their mutinous discussion, rolled over to offer, “Yeah, he’s got a weird foot thing.” The other crewmates shushed him.
Lucius, who had no stomach for violence, continued furiously scribbling down the proceedings — or, rather, sketching something raunchy and illicit, for it would not do to have Izzy Hands discover their plans. He was sure encoding it into a fine drawing of Black Pete’s nether regions would keep Dizzy Izzy from peering in where his eyes were not meant to look. Today’s subject was a study by memory of Black Pete, as it had been for the last several previous pages. Lucius thought he might have finally found a semi-permanent muse.
Black Pete said, “I mean we did a pretty good job last time. Maybe that will make him think twice about killing Cap’n.”
“But now we need to go on the offensive!” Wee John slapped his fist into his palm with a hearty smack. “Besides, he’s going to keep trying. Trust me, a man like Izzy won’t be deterred. He means to kill Cap’n Bonnet!”
“That’s true,” Ivan agreed, but he too was shushed.
“Blackbeard will protect him.” Black Pete’s lingering bitterness over their marooning and Lucius’ attempted murder was still a bit of a sore spot, but even he didn’t look entirely convinced of his own counter-argument.
Wee John shook his head vehemently. “But even Blackbeard can’t be at his side all day and night!”
A pause.
“Mostly night,” Black Pete said, and shared a funny look with Lucius as he did so.
“Can’t we just poison him?” Roach piped up. Fang nodded approvingly.
Buttons scratched at his chin and considered. “Poison’s a woman’s weapon, laddie. None of us are women.”
“They’ll never suspect us then!” Pete cackled (though very, very quietly). “We just slip something in his food, or his rum, and —”
Oluwande cast a long look at the ceiling. “Oh hell. This is never going to work,” he muttered.
Frenchie shot him a look of keen betrayal. “Why not? It’s foolproof.”
“Sí, except you’re all pendejos,” Jim added under their breath. The plan was not, in fact, fool-proofed and Jim was quite correct. They were usually right about most things, especially regarding assassination.
“And where are we getting poison?” Oluwande asked the ceiling. It was difficult to be the voice of reason amongst a crew like the Revenge, but he tried. Oh God, he tried.
“Not to worry,” said Roach, grinning maniacally. “I know a guy.”
At the next port Roach and Wee John departed for a bit of illicit shopping. They returned giddy and triumphant with a variety of tiny bottles with sealed cork tops, and other goodies in little burlap packages. All of which were acquired after an exchange of hefty manual labour for some sweet old lady with a storefront (and who ran a rather impressive side hustle selling weapons and poison and other various means if one wished to shorten the lifespan of one’s spouse, amongst other unsavory goods). Roach seemed most pleased at the arrangement of spices he returned with. Though the spices were just one piece of the plan, for some bribery was necessary, as Roach would be the first to face suspicion regarding poisoning Izzy Hand’s meals.
Each bottle was labelled thus: Arsenic. Belladonna. Foxglove. Death cap mushrooms. Botulinum. Nightshade. Strychnos. There were some labels written entirely in gibberish. Not even Lucius could decipher whatever was meant to be inside the strange faintly glowing vial.
“Why did you get so many?” Oluwande bemoaned, already stricken with a vision of the future as he was aboard a ship of rather forgetful and dim-witted pirates. Some of them were just as likely to accidentally ingest or otherwise poison themselves.
Jim just laughed and laughed and laughed.
“Never know if you might need to poison somebody else,” Roach declared. “Think of it this way — lots of back ups! In case, ah, the first one doesn’t take.”
“Or the second,” Oluwande moaned into his hands. “Or third.” Oh God, he thought, with a tinge of hysteria. Half the ship is going to be dead within a week. It’d just be him and Jim by the end. Which was alright with him, actually. There were worse fates.
III. THE REVENGE CREW PLOTS THEIR REVENGE
(OR, A DAY IN THE LIFE OF ISRAEL HAND’S ABYSMAL EXISTENCE OF MISERY)
Needless to say, all was not going to plan. Not Israel Hands’ plans in any case.
In the long and extensive history of attempts on his life, this was one of the worst. The only way it could have been any more obvious was for a parade of costumed pirates to race past his room yowling at the top of their lungs, “POISON! IT’S POISONED! EVERYBODY GET UP AND DANCE, FOR TONIGHT WE KILL IZZY HANDS!”
His meal came to his cabin on the night shift, delivered by the cook, who deposited it before Israel like it was some grand meal set before a king, and bowed out. Or tried to, for Israel grabbed his apron and seized him close. Nose to nose. The cook had the sense to look startled and terrified as Israel pointedly drew his knife.
“What the fuck’s this?” Israel looked down at his dubious meal. The bloody thing was practically glowing with all the signs of being tampered with; and meat was not supposed to be that colour.
“Your supper,” Roach answered meekly. “Er, sir.”
“It looks like bloody dog food. Are you trying to kill me?” That remark earned him some shifty eyes. “It’s fucking blue! Are you insane?”
“Eeeh?” Roach lowered his gaze to the bowl. “That’s, eh, new spices. For flavour.” He grinned, guileless and unrepentant.
Israel threw the bowl at him and bellowe, “Get some actual food!” The cook scrambled to his feet and bolted. Bloody useless pirates. Not even a decent chef on this eyesore of a ship.
Before the cook was entirely out his door Israel called, “Wait.” The cook stalled in his spot, halfway out the threshold, and slowly lifted his gaze to rest at Israel’s knees. Israel poked the strange assortment of beans, vegetables, and salted beef on the floor. “Where’d you get the mushrooms?”
“Mushrooms?” the cook repeated. “I don’t see any mushrooms.”
Israel rolled his eyes at the ceiling. It was insulting, actually, that his would-be-assassins believed him so gullible. Or stupid. He wasn’t Stede Bonnet, for Christ’s sake.
“This crew is trying to poison me,” Israel announced to Blackbeard later.
Stede Fucking Bonnet was asleep on the couch beside his captain, snoring away gently in a sweet dreamland with cute puppies and flowers or whatever the fuck that insane little man dreamt about when he wasn’t off doing questionable piracy things with this wasteless expanse of a ship. His head rested in Blackbeard’s lap as the captain smoked from his long pipe. Bonnet’s nose twitched every so often in sleep, or if he accidentally inhaled too much smoke, and Blackbeard lowered his hand to pet his hair.
Blackbeard shot Israel a dark look and blew a long huff of smoke. “Fucking sucks to be you, I guess.” Israel wasn’t sure what he expected by saying anything. Of course Blackbeard wouldn’t give a shit, even though Israel was the only person aboard this cursed ship with an inch of sense, and possibly the only person capable of keeping Blackbeard’s hide from permanent harm. Of fucking course.
With that, Israel began a careful routine of drinking water from shared cups. Though it appeared Fang and Ivan were in on the little conspiracy because they were always conspicuously absent to share drinks when Israel offered to share a cup for supper.
“You need to do something about this,” Israel seethed. He grabbed Blackbeard by the collar and shook him thrice. Blackbeard smacked his arms away. “I’m going to fucking die, and you don’t give a shit!”
Blackbeard considered that. “I believe you said you resigned.”
“I’m still fucking here though, aren’t I!?”
There wasn’t much beard growth yet, but Blackbeard stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I think I also banished you. Oh, but then you betrayed me. But then I s’pose I unbanished you… Though I never got a chance to thank you for your betrayal with the British Navy. I could reconsider repaying you for that, if you want? Your call, mate.”
Israel had plenty of sense to know he had lost that battle before he entered the room and wisely walked away. So. Blackbeard was not going to intervene in the slightest. Fucker probably had a good laugh about it too. Under any other circumstance Israel would be chuckling over the sad bastard who had a crew of incompetant assassins on his arse, but...
He was inclined to ignore it all, given that those morons were just as likely to poison themselves, and it was only a matter of time before they mixed up his plate with someone else’s. Up until the point he awoke one morning, an uncanny breeze blowing atop his head. There were no mirrors aboard the Revenge that Israel had any access to, but he knew. Oh, he knew.
“DO YOU SEE THIS!?” Israel seethed.
Blackbeard barely blinked. “See what? You’re all stressed out, Izzy, man, it’s bad vibes. Stede’s trying to sleep.”
“MY HAIR!” Israel pulled at the empty space atop his head, where he would have pulled hair, except he had none. “I DEMAND VENGEANCE!” He pointed accusingly at the two closest buffoons. “You! Which of you is responsible!”
Blackbeard raised his hand. “Did any of you poison Izzy?”
“No,” the crew chorused together.
“Did any of you steal his hair?”
That earned another chorus of hearty “no” and “no, cap’n” from the rest.
Blackbeard turned and offered Israel a shrug. “You heard ‘em. Maybe it’s the stress, Izzy. You need one of those, er, maycations.”
Israel would have pulled out his hair then and there, but. He snarled, “Vacation! I don’t need a bloody vacation!”
The attempted poisonings continued in the most ill-planned and pathetic manner possible. They were just that — pathetic! His would-be assassins were some of the most incompetant of the lot, let alone that they had the gall to try and finish him off with such whimsy and not an ounce of class. He deserved better assassins, worthy of his true skill and stature, honestly…
IV. THE BEST-LAID PLANS OF FUCKERY AMONG PIRATES, FRIENDS, AND CREW:
WHILE WELL-INTENTIONED, ONE DOES EXPECT IT WILL VERY LIKELY GO QUITE ASTRAY, EVEN COCKED-UP, IN THE MOST UNEXPECTED AND DIRE OF WAYS
(AS A FUCKERY OF THIS MAGNITUDE MIGHT)
Around once a week, or every two weeks depending on the rate of pillaging and piracy, Captain Bonnet arranged a full course supper for the entire crew to attend. The dinners usually coincided with helping out in the kitchen, which the cook certainly appreciated. There were always extravagant meals and far too many courses. An unreasonable amount of fanfare included. Blackbeard found them endearing, because of course he did, and Israel was ordered to attend against his wishes.
Israel stirred his thick stew. There was very little chance that his meal wasn’t laced with something highly toxic and poisonous. Not to mention the cook had obviously added too much salt, but the rest of the crew were chomping at the bit for seconds.
Then stupid, stupid Stede Fucking Bonnet spilled his wine. Israel was seated across from him and had a front row viewing to witness the entire mess. Bonnet bemoaned his linens and the poor tablecloth, fruitlessly mopping at it with his napkin. Blackbeard settled his arm across the back of Bonnet’s chair and whispered something in his ear.
Bonnet answered, though Israel had not heard whatever the question was. “Oh, it’s just, that was my favourite vintage port. That was the last of it, I’m afraid.”
Blackbeard clumsily reached for his own cup but he was not one to indulge in wine. He only had ale to offer, which Bonnet’s face scrunched up at. He consoled his sour-faced Bonnet with a gentle squeeze on the shoulder.
Fortune of fortunes, Israel did appreciate a good vintage now and then. He looked down at the dark contents of his mug. Israel smiled, all too wide and sharp. Not that Bonnet was intelligent enough to pick up an obvious bit of underhanded trickery. “Bonnet,” he called softly, a hiss of a stalking snake in the grass.
Bonnet lifted his head to attention.
Israel smiled wider. “Not to worry. You can have mine. Haven’t taken a sip all evening. Swear on my honour.”
There was not a flicker of suspicion in those dark doe eyes. Only gratitude and bashful excitement. “Ah, you sure? It’s really alright.”
God. He’d love to smack that simpering look right off that round face. “I insist. No need to let good wine go to waste.”
Bonnet grinned. No sharpness in his smile. A little lamb eagerly awaiting the slaughter without the faintest idea of the wolf rounding the corner. “Oh, that’d be just lovely. Thank you!”
Israel couldn’t have planned it better.
By then, the table had noticed the exchange of cups. The dawning realisation slowly swallowed the other end of the table as the cheer and conversation came to an abrupt halt. Bonnet raised the cup to his lips.
Even that stone-faced Jim had the grace to look caught off-guard, and thoroughly appalled. To the horror of all — except Israel, who was holding back a joyous, triumphant internal scream — the goblet tipped up, and stupid Stede Fucking Bonnet downed the contents. Blackbeard’s face went haggard and frozen in a belated stupefied expression. He lunged for the goblet to rip it out of his beloved Bonnet’s hands, but it was too late.
FINALLY, Israel thought victoriously. YES! YEEEESSSSSSSSS!!!
The crew of the Revenge stayed in their seats, wide-eyed and terrified. Then Bonnet burped, blushed, and cleared his throat. “Whyever are you all looking at me so — so…ah, all” —he gestured vaguely with his limply hanging wrists “like that?”
The crew’s expression was one Israel thought best described as watching someone’s family gutted in front of them, or the one Fang wore when he was ordered to put down his prized pooch.
That is rather fitting, Israel thought with grim satisfaction. Blackbeard’s pet had finally met his timely end. The poison would set in any moment now. He would fall over, blood spewing from his stupid fucking ugly mouth to stain the elegant tablecloth, and he would be dead! At last. At last!
“Cap’n,” Frenchie started, trembling all over. “That — that drink. It was — it. Poisoned. It was poisoned. I’m so sorry, we tried to warn you. Oh my God. Izzy’s cup was poisoned —”
Blackbeard had zeroed in on him first, as he was the only one still speaking somewhat coherently over the cries calling for someone to shake Bonnet around until he hurled the contents of his stomach, or throw him in the ocean to drain the poison from him, or grab leeches, or cut open his stomach to release the poison. All of which would be most unhelpful, Israel thought with a wave of glee. Oh, sweet vindication. God was smiling on him today, indeed!
Bonnet peered down at the emptied goblet. “Which one?”
“— never meant for this to happen,” Frenchie continued, already pleading for his life as Blackbeard’s expression went through several shifts of dread, contempt, and then murderousness. “— you have to believe me, we just —” There was a stilted beat as he gathered himself. “— what. Wait. What?”
“Which poison?” Bonnet repeated patiently. Always so poised and gentle, even in the face of imminent death. Not unnerved in the slightest. Israel wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or disgusted. He was leaning on the latter.
“Uh.” Frenchie glanced at Roach, who had the widest eyes of them all. “It’s. The, er. That was the. The, uh. Belladonna. I think?”
“Belladonna. Well. Not a problem, dear boy,” Bonnet said kindly, while Blackbeard was menacingly sharpening his daggers. He stopped glowering as Bonnet placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It was an accident. And to think; we almost let our dear Izzy Hands drink from that poisoned cup by mistake! It is a good thing it ended up in my hands, after all.”
What, Israel thought.
That same thought was voiced aloud — by several others, if not himself as well. “What?”
Bonnet picked at a stain on his collar, still distressingly unfazed by the rather unfortunate turn of events for his well-being. He said, “Something you may not know is that as a child, my father regularly poisoned me. Just a little bit. He said it would help with my weak demeanour, I believe. Not that it helped, mind you, and I spent a fair amount of time quite sick.”
WHAT, Israel thought again.
Bonnet continued pleasantly, “I am also quite sure that if he accidentally poisoned me and I died, then that would have been no great loss to him. Though it does make this all rather serendipitous, as belladonna was his poison of choice. I have built up quite an immunity to it over the years.”
He sat down and primly wiped his mouth with a clean handkerchief. Bonnet turned to Blackbeard and his face softened, if that were possible, even though he was practically melted butter to begin with. “Oh, did I scare you, Ed? Oh, dear, I am so sorry. I assure you, I am alright. Really.”
Nobody said a word for a while, blinking, too stunned to even form a coherent response. Israel leaned back in his chair and promptly reconsidered his resignation. As soon as possible.
Blackbeard had turned to his beloved Bonnet, cooing and petting Bonnet’s head and making sickening sweet faces. Israel retched to the side. He felt all at once rather deranged. He considered lunging across the table and tearing Bonnet’s throat out with his teeth before he discarded the idea. Blackbeard had at least four knives within arms reach, and even if his last act in a moment of poetic suicide meant Bonnet would finally be rid of the world, it was fruitless. A pointless act of desperation.
Israel dismissed himself from their supper. Fucking cockroach is immune to poison, Israel thought to himself hysterically as he flopped onto his bunk. He’d already stabbed the shithead once (which had subsequently gotten Israel banished off the ship). How the fuck was he ever going to kill this obnoxious fucker!? How!?
The universe — and God, or whoever was out there — was clearly conspiring against him. The only solution available was to steal what he could from that wretched cook’s kitchen and start himself on a month-long bender until Bonnet finally died of natural causes, given his propensity for stupidity. Then, Israel Hands could finally sleep in fucking peace.
V. CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT, BUT SATISFACTION BROUGHT IT BACK.
(AND THEN GAVE IT SOME RATHER DISTRESSING GASTRO-INTESTINAL ISSUES TO ENJOY AND SERVE AS A SOLID, WELL-LEARNED, UNFORGETTABLE REMINDER NOT TO FUCK WITH JIM JIMENEZ)
Life, as it did, went on. Blackbeard and his stupid pet Bonnet were inseperable. Everyone else on the Revenge was getting a fair amount more sex than Israel, or rather everyone was getting their share and more while Israel slept alone in his dusty cabin with only the memory of what it was to be touched by a woman — or a man, because out on the high seas one could never be too particular — which was fine, and that was how he preferred it.
At the next port Jim and Oluwande haggled with some trader for a special candy, which they flaunted from the rest of the crew. Pointedly giving one to each member, except for Israel. Most of the crew found the candy strange and bewildering in flavour — “Most exhilarating!” Bonnet proclaimed, while others chewed with sour expressions, so Israel could only imagine how they tasted — but Jim would snack on them periodically throughout the day, and shoot Israel a sly grin. Taunting. A challenge if Israel ever saw one.
Israel met their gaze and blinked slowly and deliberate in reply. Jim grinned, all teeth, and took another bite off their sugary treat. The candy was rolled and long like a short cigar, coated in some sort of chilli spice and sugar.
Well. He would show that motherfucker not to underestimate Israel Hands, fearsome and ruthless First Mate to bloody Blackbeard. He would not be bested by some… barely grown, half-baked child assassin!
Israel planned wisely. He snuck into the quiet cabin that Jim and Oluwande shared, picking quietly through their small tenant space. Israel’s nose twitched. The room smelled of ochre and warm spice. Jim had caught their lover in a tight spooning embrace, while Oluwande’s snores rattled the entire deck.
Victory tasted sweet — but also slightly sour. He didn’t know why the other crew had made such faces: the candies were really rather enjoyable.
In the morning, Jim stormed up to him. “¡Oye, lamebotas!” Israel took a moment to parse that the insult was intended for him. They rolled their eyes. “You, Hands!” Oluwande sputtered behind them, and he saw more than one pirate fall off their perch with laughter. He looked down at Jim and offered the most baleful look he could muster.
He snarled, “What the fuck do you want?”
“You stole my shit!” Jim accused. At Israel’s expression they added, “All of my — dulces de tamarindos! ¡Todos ellos! The candy! Eh!? What’s your fucking problem!?”
Israel raised a brow. “What? Why would I want your shitty food. Get out of my fucking face.”
“¿¡La que!?” Jim shouted at his back. Then, louder, “Well be glad you didn’t! If you ate an entire box of tamarind you’d really be Shitty Hands! Tamarind’s a natural laxative! You hear me!? ¡Laxante! You’re gonna shit your fucking brains out, cabrón!”
Somewhere high up on the crow’s nest, he heard a jaunty holler from that insane Scotsman, and some sort of low-pitched chanting.
Israel’s steps faltered but he continued down the steps to the cabin below. A trickle of something like fear shivered down his spine and set the hair on the back of his neck standing straight.
In the end, he spent approximately the following day and night on the bucket in his room in the most unpleasant manner, all of which was a gruesome affair. He preferred eating his own toes to…that. Israel had also learned a new lesson: one does not fuck with Jim Jiminez, ever, upon pain of splitting bowels. One also does not steal delectable tamarind candies from Jim Jiminez either — or at least, does not eat a hefty amount, let alone an entire box, in one sitting.
VI. YO-HO-HO-HO MERRY ‘HO, IT’S A PIRATE’S LIFE FOR ME!
(ALL THAT IS WELL SO ENDS WELL, EXCEPT IN THE CASE OF ISRAEL HANDS, IN WHICH CASE POISON AMONGST PEERS IS STILL MOST CERTAINLY IN THE CARDS)
He thought he had hated the nicknames “Dizzy Izzy” and “Izzy the Spewer.” He positively loathed “Shitty Hands” with every fibre of his being. Unfortunately, much like its predecessors, he sensed that this nickname would stand the test of time.
“Feeling any better, Shitty Hands?” the cook asked, after knocking and entering Israel’s cabin. Israel settled a fiery glower on the cook, but it had all the effect of a dull knife hitting a solid wall of stone and bounced right off. Roach set down a bowl beside Israel, something steaming and smelling actually quite delicious.
“What do you want?” Israel demanded with a croak.
“I thought you might be feeling up for something a little more solid,” the cook offered. “I brought you some nice, warm, savoury stew.”
Israel glanced blearily at his beef stew. “...’s this poisoned?”
Roach smiled pleasantly with all of his teeth, strangely bright and straight and all too sharp looking. He nodded eagerly. “Oh yes. Most definitely.”
Israel sighed. “Figured.”
He held out his hands for the bowl anyway. Maybe God would be so keen as to put him out of his misery at last.