I figured I was still intoxicated when I saw the Captain summoning me to her quarters with just the motion of her finger. I went to her, as if guided by a mermaid’s song to the comforting depths of the sea. I entered her quarters and saw the door slam shut behind me. I surrendered to the sudden feeling of panic in my gut, and became a little bit worried about the prospect of being gutted like a fish. That feeling was strengthened when she pushed me against the wall and put a dagger to me neck. I felt like she had already thrust the dagger through my heart when I heard what she had to say…

“James Conroy… seafarer, royalist and off-duty pirate… does that name mean anything to you?”

“There are more James Conroys roaming the seas than there are scales on a fish. I wouldn’t know which one ye’d be talking about”

“This particular James Conroy wore a particular locket, given to him by a particular woman. It had two intertwined dolphins on it’s lid. An especially unique brand of craftsmanship. It was not unlike the one you have around your neck…”

The last few words were accompanied by a firmer grip and smaller distance between her dagger and me throat.

“Ah… that James Conroy. I came upon him back in the brig of the HMS Silverlight. We tried to flee the vessel when she docked in Majesty Point. He got shot during the escape and died that same night. He gave me the locket and told me to give it to his daughter if I ever came across her during any of me travels. He failed to give me a name, though, and the locket only had a picture of his daughter as a wee lass. I don’t suppose he was talking about you, was he?”

“And you never even bothered to look for his daughter, I take it?”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said there were a lot of Conroys out there. After three years of searching, I decided to give up on the idea.” Whatever I wanted to say lost it’s importance when I felt her knee dig deep into my groin.

“Well, be thankful your search is over. As for this…” she said as she reached for the locket, and tore it from my neck “I’ll make sure this is kept in good hands. Now get out of my cabin.”

“Aye, Captain…” I grunted while cupping my nuts with one hand and saluting her with the other. I made my way to the door slightly content with the fact that I came out of the ordeal with everything intact, save for my pride and me blue balls. She stopped me in my tracks just a moment later.

“And, First Mate… thank you for your efforts in trying to find me, if you were actually telling the truth, that is.”

“It was no trouble at all, Captain. Could I actually get your name, as a reward for me search?” I said as I built up a wide, stupid grin.

“Cassandra… Cassandra Conroy”

“A real tongue twister, if I ever heard one. And since we haven’t been properly introduced, I suppose I could offer you my name as well…”

“I know who Samuel Coffer is…. the pirate born with the most fitting name. The only one to be part of a crew where his grandfather was Captain and his father was First Mate.”

“It’s good to know my name travels around. I wondered how come you didn’t ask about it when I first came on your ship.” At that point, I was actually wondering I hadn’t asked for hers. Then I remembered I was too busy focusing on how to get my wind in her sails.

If there was one thing I knew for sure now, it was that this trip was about to get a lot more complicated than I bargained for.

“You can throw those away. I won’t have those bed linens hoisted on my masts. And that rope isn’t good enough to hang a man with, much less hold the sails in place.” she calmly scorned me as I could feel me jewels making their way up to me throat. I pondered for a second about murdering her while she was sleeping, but something made me reconsider. Whether it was me leaden feet, or the fact that I slipped off the side of the mast and fell on my head was something I had yet to care about. After all, I was reluctant more likely because she was the kind of woman that commanded obedience to some degree. The kind for whose whims you’d murder people, because you know she’d murder you if you did otherwise. So I was once again bereft of things to say in my hopeless defense.

“But… I thought you said…” I murmured more faintly than an enamored lass.

“I said I wanted you to get them, I never said I’d actually use them.” she intervened with that sharp tongue of hers. I could already tell she was going to sharpen her talons on me arse if I didn’t find some way to enter her good graces.

I left the sails and rope where I stood and I walked up on her ship. I retracted myself like a scared cat when she extended her hand (I imagined, for a second, that there was a sword in it). I realized she only wanted to seal our deal with a hearty handshake. I tried throwing her off the fact that I had soiled my pants just moments earlier and shook her hand with all the strength I had left (none).  With her other hand, she handed me a mop (“handed” meaning she thrust it at my chest).

“It’s time for you to get to know your crew better. I hear the way a man scrubs a deck is a dead giveaway for the kind of person he is, so I need you to gather all the information you can about your fellow crew mates. I trust you’ll have fun.” Her words were accompanied by a gentle push in the direction of the sorry bastards scrubbing the decks like they’d find gold under all the rotten wood. She was so gentle, in fact, that I nearly got impaled on me damn mop. That would have ended the day fittingly, I suppose.

“Like I just found the greatest riches in the world” I interjected to cover the metallic sound of my fillings grinding against each other. I took one long look at the crew, then the Captain, then the crew again, then myself, mop-in-hand. It was at that instant that I realized I should have just stayed at the tavern and gotten dead drunk. Especially since it looked like it was going to a while before I was going to be able to do that again.

The sad part is, however, that even after almost a year and a half of freedom, I have yet to actually be able to round up another crew to roam the high seas with. Not that I didn’t try, mind you. It’s just that fending off three corsairs in a ship that has more holes in it’s sails than a mainland brothel isn’t exactly a small feat. That, or evading “Cuthroat” Jack, who didn’t get that nickname because he’s a caring pirate. But, even given all that riffraff, I’ve never been a part of such an inspirational event as the one that happened only a few days ago (I didn’t get to write about it until now because my one-year old waterlogged journal was yearning for a replacement).

I had barely moored in Devil’s Anchorage (a charming little hovel of an island in the middle of pirate-infested waters), when I laid eyes upon the most beautiful of morsels to grace that putrid land with her gentle swaying. She had a firm and narrow stern, her sails drifted gently in the cold breeze and her sharp bow could cut the moist air with guiltless pleasure. And this ship had a captain with tits and an arse to match it. She was a fine damsel indeed, with a blade on her thigh as sharp as her emerald stare. Hair as black as the devil’s own soul, a crimson scarf and a finely embroidered white shirt completed that shining portrait. She was like an albatross in a nest of crows.

Any lesser man would have thought twice about risking a close encounter with the tip of her blade. But, even after that second thought, I still decided to prance along like a little schoolgirl and extend my heartiest hellos to the fine lass. She was at the very least deserving of some hospitality on this barren rock. After being harshly scrutinized for approaching her ship at less than an arms length, I proceeded to weigh my steps carefully as though I was walking the plank, not boarding her ship.

She proceeded to calmly ask me what I was doing so close to her vessel, with one hand on the hilt of her sword. I murmured a few words about how pleased I was to see that there was at least one person on this island that carried a semblance of style and finesse. I must have stuttered, since her only reaction was to squint her eyes in disgust.

“If flattery is the only thing that’s helped you sail your ship, I’m not surprised it looks the way it does. Or maybe you can only keep your rudder straight when it comes to barmaids and wenches.”

She allowed herself the benefit of a small guilty pleasure, pausing for a second to let the venom of her words sink deeper into my wounds. With a devilish grin, she asked me what it was I actually wanted from her, besides the chance to stare like a blundering idiot.

“I took the liberty of noticing that your vessel seems to be missing an able-bodied First Mate to help you run a tight ship around here. What I mean to say is, your men look to be a bit on the sloppy side, and I don’t think a fine Captain such as yourself has had to deal with scalawags like these before. I, on the other hand, have had extensive experience with these sort of cutthroats.” I answered shortly and foolishly.

“Are you trying to say I’m not able to run a tight ship? Or did you stutter?”

“No, no, no. What I mean is, it would be a lot easier if you had someone around to handle the dirty business of keeping these scoundrels in line. I’m merely trying to provide you with a little service”

“A little service that’s going to cost me what exactly?”

“The simple pleasure of being on board your ship and to be a part of your crew. Also, you strike me as the kind of sailor that’s looking for more… lucrative adventures. So I imagine that there is at least reputation to gain from sailing with you.”

“You have anything salvageable on what’s left of your ship?”

“Save for dead rats and a few barrels of rotten fruits, I’m afraid the only thing to be had of the poor girl is her timber.”

“What about her sails? They seem to have a little wind left in them.”

“…I… wouldn’t wager they’ve got too much of it left”

“Be that as it may, I’m still not entirely sure you’re the right man for this ship. So get me what good sails you’ve got left and all the rope you can salvage that won’t break at the first heave. You have until dusk. If you’re not ready by then, the only way you’ll get close to this ship again is if you swim beside it.”

“But that’s about an hour’s time.”

“Then you shouldn’t dawdle, now should you?”

“Aye… Captain.”

—————————————————

I know, it’s been a while since I gave any love to this blog, but I decided to oil my writer wheels with another pirate’s tale. This was done at the behest of someone not unlike the Captain of the vessel. When I find myself in possession of an excess amount of inspiration, I’ll be sure to pour it into another part of this tale… which could even develop into a full story (I just got the idea for it today).

As always, feedback is appreciated, and I hope you enjoy the adventures of my little pirate friend over here (who has yet to be named as I have recently been reminded).

Sail on, ye scalawags!

Either way, I suppose the reason I’m in here is fairly due to my own failure to take into account the fact that I should rarely, if ever, spend time anywhere where my crew is. They tend to be unruly… that is if you consider cutting a man’s throat because you think he gave you a smaller pint of ale (which you only saw smaller because of how dead drunk you were) as being unruly. The fact that one of my men also beat the squishy insides out of a wench, only served to bring about even more unwanted attention.

Thus, by the time I could actually get out of there and start recruiting a new crew, I felt my brain slam against my cranium as if it were a prisoner and my skull was the prison. It was quite pleasant afterwards, when I could feel an acute tingling in my legs and arms. I failed to establish whether it was from brain damage, or the 400 lbs of pure rage crushing my ribcage.

My cellmates are pleasant folk. Or at least they would be, if I had any. I’m apparently seated in the best cell in the prison because it’s always in perfect shape since only prisoners who are to be executed the day following their apprehension are sent here. Considering the risk-cost ratio, I think I would have preferred a shittier cell. Or at least a decent last meal. Half rotted potatoes aren’t good, regardless of season or preference. Although they have a unique texture to them, I suppose.

I need to find a way to get out of here… and quick…

————————————————————————————————-

As always, it’s been a while since I wrote a post. For anyone wondering, I actually used a special calculator to determine how many days have passed since I moved to the apartment. The bad news is, I’m actually moving out of it now. ‘Tis a sad development, however I must bid adieu to living with my friends and I must go back to my parents. The factors involved in taking this decision are numerous and I will not go into them at this point.

It’s not to say it hasn’t been a particularly pleasant experience. I really wish I could stay longer, but you don’t always do what you want in life, now do you?

The bitterness of this is softened by the fact that I’m going to go with my friends to the seaside on the 1st of May week-end, which is awesome. Three days of getting hammered until my tongue feels like a shovel and my head feels like whatever’s left after you put about 10 sticks of dynamite in a piece of swiss-cheese, lit them and watched the fireworks. I hope it’s going to be just as epic as last year’s outing was, if not more so.

I may write another movie review one of these days, since I now have a really nice movie to talk about, but I’ll save the surprise for later.

See ya around.

Another fact I’ve realized is that THE Tantrum hasn’t visited me in a while. And by a while, I mean about a few years worth of time. Ok, maybe that’s not entirely true, it’s actually been almost a year now. God, I feel like I’m in an AA meeting. “It’s been 2 months since my last shot of tequila. I’m on a shaky road, but I’ll get there.” says the guy in the yellow sweatshirt in the back of the room, his only distinctive feature being a name-tag with the word “Cleetus” written on it.

Either way, I had actually forgotten how THE Tantrum felt. I knew it was bad when it happened but, you know, I just wondered exactly how it felt the last time. It was like a speck of  dust forgotten somewhere amidst the sand dunes of my mind. It felt pointless and stupid to search for it, but I did anyway.

Ooooh boy, and did I find it. HELL YEAH!!! The sudden rush of blood, the explosion of rage all culminated in a beautiful serenade of dismissive “hmpf”s. Now I know how it felt before. It felt awesome. It felt exhilarating. It felt thrilling.

I’ll probably regret part of what I said, but that doesn’t take away from just how good THE Tantrum feels. And the sensation of alleviation it provides afterwards is the very definition of apotheosis. For some reason, I just wanted to convey what I felt in writing, so as to not lose it somewhere in the depths of my memory again. And I probably won’t remember it too soon, because like I said in the title, my mind just shot itself in the face….

It’s gonna take a while for it to recover from THE Tantrum.

Peace out.

Amidst the vaguely washed out scenery, there was one particular spot of color that caught my eye. At least this time it did so metaphorically, as opposed to the last time something caught my attention. I’ll never forget how that damned parrot lunged towards my face.

No, this time it was a most enticing morsel. A most beautiful and delicate woman stood before me. She was the very blueprint of fairytale princesses, the kind that any man would kill for in a moment’s notice. The fact that she was distinctively cleaner than any of the other women present was a relatively important factor. I think it was the contrast with all the rotting fish that made it more blatant.

I approached her with reluctance, and it was apparent that I didn’t really succeed in capturing her attention. I cleared my throat with the subtlety of a bear wrestling an elephant and proceeded to ask her if she was waiting for someone in particular. Her eyes darted towards me and it was only at that point that I realized she may have in fact been accompanied by any manner of man. The particular manner I was worried about was the kind that could crush my skull just by cracking his knuckles and staring menacingly as he does so.

I sighed with slight relief as her face lit up and she actually spoke to me, saying she was expecting her husband to arrive any time soon. My relief shot itself in the face and drowned in the lukewarm waters of the port around that point.

I haphazardly asked her what ship the man sailed on, so as to establish whether I knew the man or not. Upon hearing the name of both the ship and the man, I realized I had actually known him quite intimately. Or at least my sword did. Several times.

That meant two things:

1. I had unwittingly removed the sole contender I had for this woman’s graces.

2. If she were to find out, I dare not think what kind of vengeance would be unleashed upon me.

Normally, I wouldn’t rightfully care, since I could have just as well taken advantage of her and gone out of port come next morning, but, considering my crew’s propensity towards babbling their mouths off, this time it didn’t quite seem like the right idea.

As such I decided to leave and get completely shitfaced. Story of my life, I suppose.

<—————————————————–>   <—————————————————–>

Not much going around these past days. Technically, I had the house to myself, but that didn’t really count for much since I’m not that good at throwing parties. And given the current weather, it would have been an arduous task just to get people out of their damn house.

Either way, college is gonna start again in like 3 days, which is both kinda crappy and awesome at the same time. Crappy because, well… college. And awesome because, well… college.

What I’m trying to say is that, although I don’t look forward to spending inordinate amounts of time getting bored the fuck out of my mind during lectures and shit, it’s gonna be pretty awesome to get back together with my fellow students.

As far as continuing the story I started…. hell, I might as well continue the one I’m indirectly writing at the beginning of my recent posts. It’s quite fun. And the last word is the 666th.

P.S. No really, if you count all the words up until the P.S. there’s 666 of them, which is something nobody gives a shit about. So, I have no idea why I did that, but you know, shit happens. I’ll get back with updates as soon as I can.

So.. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! and all that jazz, a Merry Christmas and may all your wishes come true. Ho Ho Ho!

Anyway… I’m going to stop before I get too cheesy, but not before I write a few rhymes off the top of my head:

Happy Birthday my dear friend,

A word of cheer I wish to send,

May all you wish come to pass,

May you excel and kick some ass.

May your friends never leave your side,

Cause’ if they do they’ll have to hide.

And if you ever feel let down,

Don’t you ever start to frown,

Just let go of that old pout,

Cause’ I’ll be there,

Without a doubt.

I kind of screwed the pooch on those last lines, I know, but you have to appreciate the effort. I swear my head nearly exploded from all the rhyming. Poetry is not my specialty. I always take with a grain of salt and a shot of whiskey. It sounds better that way.

Either way, happy birthday once again

Things look pretty grim, considering the fact that our rum reserves have reached a level close to “Oh shit we don’t have anymore booze”. Given that being shitfaced is one of the main activities my crew indulges itself in during periods of unrest, this does not bode well for me. The remaining 24 hours will be crucial in determining whether or not fortune is my bitch. At least Shitshanks is gone, and that rids me of two problems. One would be the fact that if one were to use his blood in a distillery, the resulting liquor could be used as both a potent poison and an explosive substance (that is to say he drinks in quantities ranging from I’m-about-to-be-in-a-coma to Metric-fuck-ton-times-infinity-times-oh-god-make-it-stop-my-liver-is-rupturing). I guess it was during one of those bouts of alcoholic retardism that he decided to abandon ship. The second issue with Shitshanks is that he rather enjoyed playing with fire in the storage where we keep the gunpowder. Because of an oversight in the ship’s design, that is also where we keep the rum, which makes me realize that fortune has been my bitch all along, since I have not wound up being a flaming carcass until now.

Either way, I shall have to make due with what life has given me and make the most of it at the moment…

Technically, this post has been in my draft folder for more than a week now, and why I chose not to finish it is beyond me.

Either way, I am done with my exams, and I actually managed to fail only one (and that one was close too), so, you know… FUCK YEAH!!! I say “only one” because of the fact that I put so much effort into this exam session that I am now qualified to teach sloths how to be lazy. I mean, if there’s anyone who doesn’t believe in a higher being, than this is irrefutable evidence of the contrary, since there really is no other goddamn explanation for this whatsoever. That is if you don’t count the little fairies that were whispering in my ear during the exams. They may have told me some of the answers, but most of the time they just didn’t make any fucking sense. Maybe they would have, had I not made it a habit to sleep 2 hours before an exam, at most…

Oh yeah and I got slightly hammered the day before yesterday, when my flatmate threw a birthday party, and I spent part of the night admiring what a pretty blue color my wallpaper is, while trying my best to tell my stomach and liver that I’m their friend and they don’t need to hurt me anymore. Apparently, I’m a good liar, since what I ate actually actually stayed eaten. The party was the bomb (when I wasn’t feeling like I needed to hug a toilet) and the birthday-girl liked her present a lot so that was pretty awesome.

On another note, I’ll get back to writing the story as soon as I’m sober enough to think straight (that might not be the case for the following week), so just sit tight. Or don’t, it’s your call.

Anyway, if any of you had a pretty fucked up exam session or anything, please describe the experience in a comment, and I’ll reply with a score to determine just how bad or good it is. Or I won’t, it’s my call. I’ve got some important things to do in the following days (BIOSHOCK 2 FTW MOFO) so I’ll post whenever I’m not in the mood to do anything else (which is to say it’s gonna take a while).

Live long and prosper and all that jazz.

I woke up fairly well this morning (which is to say I felt like a freight train decided to use me as a hood ornament the night before) and was quite enthused with the prospect of taking my first exam… I am such a bad liar. Not even I believe myself.

The exam in itself was actually quite OK, but only because it could have been so much worse, not so much as it was OK in general terms. No, exams blow… big time. Hell, exams blow so much that even hookers are going “You’re good”.

Out of the allotted 2 hours, I took 30 minutes and decided to get the hell out of Dodge. And even those 30 minutes were freaking long. I could have sworn at one point my test paper was talking to me. It was mostly babbling insane gibberish, but I could make out it’s intent to “break me” (whether or not this was done in a thick Russian accent has yet to be determined).

The only thing I can hope for more than anything else at this point is that I didn’t suck donkey cock at this exam. Although I am being kind of a whiny bitch about this, considering the fact that I put about as much effort into studying as I do into making coffee (hint: I don’t drink or make coffee, zing!). I just decided to go balls first through the door and hope I would develop superpowers that allowed me to shit luck. Considering the outcome, I’ve either been exposed to radiation, or my anatomy is something scientists will look forward to studying in the future. In the future being, you know, when I’m dead and stuff (I’d give it about 10 years, unless the warranty on my liver doesn’t expire until then).

Now, if you think this post made no fucking sense, I think we all know why. IT WAS THE PIXIES GOD DAMN IT! Gah! Eating my squishy brain cells like gummy bears… made of marshmallow. Sweet, sweet marshmallow.

OK, I blacked out the for a second, where was I? Oh yeah, the exam kind of took it’s toll on me, seeing as after I was done with it, I felt a strange taste of eyeball soup in my mouth. Yeah, I was so fucking tired that my sockets decided to promptly interject with a muffled “fuck you” and just eject my eyeballs. Considering I was kind of hungry, that was actually a pretty good move.

But I guess my body is affectionately telling me to screw myself (a tinge of irony in that I suppose), because it knows that after I’m done with my exams, I’m going to get so fucked up on booze that the little people inside my head will actually shut up for a change. I’ll most likely sing my country’s national anthem while waving a flag made out of two chopsticks, a roll of toilet paper, and crayons, which will probably count as the highlight of that night. That and being able to taste sounds and shit like that. You know… the stuff everyone does once in a while, am I right? Give me a high five!

… no one? Aaaa, screw you guys.

On an unrelated note, I caught a news story today that was somewhat bafflingly retarded. It was related to Obama’s first tweet. Just to make things clear, I don’t give a shit about politics, and even less of a shit about American politics. The propaganda behind the title wasn’t what really struck me… no. It was the tweets themselves that serve the purpose of being both moronic and politically propagandistic. They read as follows:

“President Obama and the First Lady are visiting our disaster operation center right now.”

“President Obama pushed the button on the last tweet. It was his first ever tweet!”

I have no fucking idea how the rest of the tweets sound like, and I honestly don’t want to know. This was just what was present in the article as a picture of the account. And the second tweet is epic. I mean THE PRESIDENT PUSHED THE FUCKING BUTTON!!! Did that button end world hunger? Save a bunch of people from disaster? No… it just submitted a god damn tweet… that the man didn’t even write most likely. I find Obama’s Twitter account to be pretty much useless anyway, since it’s like it only contains newspaper article headlines more than anything else. But hey… you know, awesome.

Either way it’s getting late, and I have to get up early tomorrow, so I guess I’ll get back to you guys as soon as possible.

Peace out.

My last meal was comprised of one identifiably edible element (potatoes or some form of mutant rodent), and something else that the “Holy Shit!” center of my brain does not allow me to describe in skull-fucking detail. It mainly looked like something I’d cook or order as take-out (i.e. summon) from that diner across the street, affectionately named Satan’s Cuisine. That made it even freakier since I don’t remember pertaining in spawning said dish in any measure whatsoever (that is if you don’t include the profuse intestinal distress on my part).

I sense mutiny afoot, mainly because of the fact that I noticed a noose around my door this morning (the severed goat’s head in my bed didn’t help stifle my sissy screams and rivers of tears in the slightest either). I fear that this voyage will end abruptly and painfully for me. For all those who shall mourn my loss, remember I died with dignity, or at least I was going to right before begging for my life.

Of course I jest. As I mentioned in the previous post regarding my new place, stuff is actually going pretty well. I’ve learned a couple of new things and got freaked the fuck out by a couple as well. Events in the latter category include rediscovering the sheer horrifying sounds I am capable of making, and exactly how they sound in a room that bears an echo similar to a fucking cave…. seriously. I never imagined a room with not so much furniture in it (i.e. the only thing in the room large enough to be considered furniture is the sofa, everything else is basically flammable material more than anything else), would generate such a freaking echo.

I mean, I swear to God, I have never been scared shitless by my own sneeze… EVER!

Until last night, that is, when I thought my sinuses spontaneously detonated or something. I feel like I lose a couple of braincells when I sneeze anyway, but last night it was like my frontal lobe had a wild night with my motor cortex and decided to elope to Tijuana on the first jet out of the country (that jet being my nostrils). I chose those specific parts of the brain because the immediate outcome of what happened was that I froze in place and didn’t realize whether or not the fact that the walls visibly trembled was only in my imagination.

I think it’s really the first time I am mildly horrified of the concept of having sex in my room. I imagine the moans and stuff would sound like the walls were having sex on their own and they’re actually borrowing my voice to make the atmosphere just the right amount of pants-shitingly-creepy. That and I now feel like vomiting because of how disturbed I realize I am.

But I digress. I mainly wanted to let my train of thought derail into random territory this time, just to make the tag-line of my blog deserve its reputation, and this post turned out. One thing I also wanted to do was thank Iulia for her surprise comment on the previous entry in my blog regarding the whole moving part (thanks for reading the blog and actually liking it :*) and Magda for clarifying who I was actually talking about moving in with in that post.

I’ll get back to posting another part of the new story today, aaaaaand, if you’ve been good boys and girls, I might also write a review for Sherlock Holmes *SPOILERS* IT IS FREAKING AWESOME!!! *END OF SPOILERS*.

This is your faithful ranter signing off with a hearty good night!