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Captain Eric Cartman knew a rat when he heard one and whatever was hiding on his ship wasn’t one.
He’d first heard it a day ago, then the sound of something moving around, trying to be quiet.
He’d turned to his first mate, Clyde, and asked, “Did you hear that?”
Clyde had shook his head. “Hear what, sir?”
Cartman scowled. “It’s the sound of a stowaway.”
“Could be rats,” Clyde said. “We don’t have a cat.” They’d had a cat until Mark had accidentally let it off the ship in South Port.
“I’ll prove it’s a stowaway,” Cartman had vowed. “And when he's caught, he shall be hanged.” Cartman had never stowed away on a ship himself, but he’d been on plenty ships that had been stowed away upon by others. He’d come to have a strong distaste for them.
If there was one thing he knew about stowaways, it’s that they often stole food. But the cook, a small boy named Thomas, had informed Cartman that no food was stolen recently.
To anyone else, this might’ve seemed like a dead end. But Cartman’s mind was more advanced than that of some, and this information opened up a doorway, which led to a plan.
If there was no stolen food, that meant the stowaway would be hungry, since the last time they’d stopped anywhere had been nearly two days ago in South Port.
That morning, Cartman had asked Thomas to make his lunch extra large, in order to bait the stowaway. Thomas knew better than to question the only authority figure on the ship, and did as he was told. The plan was set. All he had to do now was wait.
*
When Cartman went to collect his lunch, he purposefully left the door to his office unlocked. Somewhere on the ship, he heard the floorboards creaking as someone stepped on them. That was the nice thing about having an old ship; you always knew when someone was sneaking around.
When he came back, carrying his tray, the door was shut, as it had been when he’d left.
He sat down in his chair, and ate his lunch as he normally would. After what he deemed a reasonable amount of time to eat, Cartman ceased his movements, calmed his breaths, and made like he was asleep, only peeking through one of his eyes.
After a minute or so, a hand snaked up from under Cartman’s desk and grabbed a piece of bread.
He was slightly surprised that a person had been able to hide underneath his desk without him noticing, but not so surprised he couldn’t reach out and grab the person.
The hand was connected to an arm which was connected to a body which, in turn, was connected to a head of fiery red hair.
Cartman had never liked gingers. One of his earliest memories was of his mother telling him stories of how gingers could steal your soul with one glance if they so desired. Her reasoning for this, she’d told him, was that because they don’t have a soul, they must steal it from someone else.
That was why nobody on his ship was ginger.
Nobody except for this stowaway. Though, Cartman suspected he wasn’t a full ginger. He’d spent a long time trying to learn the genetic differences, and he usually ended up being right 60% of the time.
He hoped half-gingers couldn’t steal souls.
“Gotcha!” he sneered. “I knew I smelled a rat on board.”