Chapter Text
The hordes of pirates ‘pon the Perilous Sea could not be counted. This was partially due to their numbers, which were ‘more than ten’, and mostly due to the fact none of the lawless rogues that manned the pirate ships could count that high. Typically, the only maths problem each pirate had ever needed to solve was ‘how do I take their stuff to add to my own?,’ which inevitably gave the answer ‘violence.’
Among the countless crews that roamed the seas was talk of the most ruthless, insane Captain ever to man a ship: Captain Philip ‘Flamingo’ Squawkins. Despite the nickname, he was a parrot. He had gained his bizarre moniker due to two characteristics: his distinctive stance as he perched on his one remaining leg among the rigging of his ship, The Uncrackable Walnut, and his even more distinctive vibrant pink colouring, gained from a lifetime of dining on bright pink prawns and bright red chunks of flesh ripped from the last cheeky bugger to ask him if ‘Polly wanna cracker.’
Captain Squawkins nibbled contentedly on a walnut as he watched his pet cat, Paprika, frolic with the disembodied finger of one of the dead men now littering the deck. There were a great many skilled fighters on this sea, but none had yet come up with a successful strategy to outwit Captain Squawkins’ trademark approach of:
- Fly up high
- Drop a cutlass on their heads
- Profit.
This was tremendously handy for winning all the fights and getting all the plunder, but it did make things a wee bit boring. Stealing gold was old news. He needed a new challenge. “Rark! Make for Port Farfalle!’ he cried. He was heading to The Penitent’s Noose, the toughest, roughest, gruffest dive bar this side of the Perilous Sea. The place where all pirates shared treasures beyond measuring: gossip. Rumours. Secrets. Threats. Promises. Where allegiances changed hands at the speed one could draw a sword. Where the cruellest legends of the sea cried for their mothers as they bled out on the floor. Where the savage wildfolk of the fringe colonies dared not dine…
“Where the only thing fresher than the sea breeze is our famous smoky salmon bagel!” declared the proud manager, waving his arms grandly as he brought the crew’s attention to THE CHEEKY CHAPLAIN splashed proudly across the shopfront in large, friendly letters. “We realised that a reputation as an awful place to get murdered wasn’t exactly the best long-term business plan, so we gave it a bit of a spruce up! Would you like a seat? Can I interest you in an amuse-bouche?” “Certainly not!” screamed the furious Captain Squawkins, but he was drowned out by the chorus of ‘aw, yeah, sounds alright’ that rumbled from the rest of his pleasantly surprised crew.
As the meal went on, Captain Squawkins discovered two things:
- A fresh coat of paint didn’t stop the rumour mill’s waters from running swiftly through the eatery, and
- He quite liked haloumi.
A pigeon had wandered in while the crew were gorging themselves on artfully arranged constructions of avocados, eggs, bacon and toast. Most had tried to shoo it away, but it had continued to meander aimlessly around, not a hint of awareness visible in its piscine eyes as it drifted about the café floor. Most had assumed it to be a brainless obstruction of no consequence nor intelligence. Most were not Captain Philip ‘Flamingo’ Squawkins. The cunning Captain kept his eyes on the pigeon, watching for the tell-tale tic that would confirm his suspicions. Suddenly, a swerve! The pigeon whipped into the shin of a waiter straining beneath a platter of shellfish, and food flew across the room! Shouts of alarm and despair flew up from the crowd as guests were coated in tartare sauce, and ‘Flamingo’ swooped onto the floor, smacking the pigeon across the face with a wing and pinning the other bird to the ground with his beak poised above the pigeon’s bobbing throat. His barbed words carried enough barely restrained anger to supply a moderate family gathering as he hissed “Pavlova Hawkins, you son of a bitch! I told you never to let your feet carry you into my presence again!”
The pigeon grinned, which was an impressive achievement for a being with no cheeks or lips. “That you did, that you did, ol’ mate, but, ya’ see, fing is…these ain’t my feet!”
Squawkins glanced down, and saw that Pavlova was telling the truth: the bright orange, webbed feet of a seagull jutted out from the pigeon’s body. “How in the Realms?!”
“Nicked ‘em off a seagull, so I did! ‘Fing is, ‘e didn’ even notice ‘til I was flappin’ away like a bin chicken wot’s ‘eard there’s been an accident at the bin juice plant!”
“I repeat my question” growled Squawkins. “How. In. All. The. Myriad. Blighted. REALMS?!”
“Grapes.” stated the pigeon, the twinkle in his vacant eyes betraying his glee.
“Never heard of them.”
“Not surprised,” chuckled the pigeon. “Mos' consider them too good to be true and toss the idea out like yesserday’s ham sandwich…which, incidentally, I could kill for right about now?”
“I can get you all the old ham you want if you give me a straight bloody answer!” roared the Captain, but Pavlova was unimpressed. “I’d muffle me pipes if I was you, mate. Lots of ears listenin’ around 'ere, and they’ve just about got that lobster cleaned up, so we’re fresh out of time. You wanna hear more? Meet me at the ware'ouse at the corner of Carthrup and Sixth Avenue at sundown. Bring chips.”
With that, the pigeon flapped his wings in a flurry and wiggled clean away, leaving Captain Squawkins with a fistful of feathers clenched in a furious beak.
High above, two sets of eyes, one human, one feline, shone in the rafters as they watched the pigeon escape. “Cin,” said the young woman, to whom the human eyes belonged (and she had a certificate to prove it, thankyou very much). “My tummy’s doing a rumbly…that only grapes and cold hard cash can satisfy.” Her feline familiar, Cinnamon, blinked once decisively to show she would come along, but not because Hyacinth had asked.