Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash: Pick Two (aghrivaine) wrote,
Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash: Pick Two

There comes a time...

I've had enough of Hollywood. One too many "let's take a meeting"'s, one too many empty promises and mouthed but not felt platitudes - and one too many traffic jams.

"There comes a time in every man's life when he wants to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and slit some throats." Of course, if Mencken had a daily commute that involved the 101, he probably would have replaced "life" with "day". And so it was.

I took a quick ballot of the crew - they were in favor by a large margin of running up the Jolly Roger and making our way as gentlemen (and women) of fortune. (Mental note: increase rum ration) I, as owner of the car, could easily have insisted on my own primacy as Captain, that being the ancient nautical custom. However, a crew of buccaneers is a fickle thing, so I ceded that right, and we held an election for Captain. I won handily anyway, (mental note: increase rum ration) and we ran up the black flag.

It was no time at all before we found a likely prize - a broad and fat 18 wheeler, running low on her shocks with all the booty in her hold. The traffic was such that they were powerless to escape as we pulled up alongside. However, lacking boats in my little Saturn Coupe, we were unable to properly cut her out, and instead I had to lay alongside, yardarm-to-yardarm, hubcap-to-hubcap; fire a broadside, and board her in the smoke.

The freighters crew put up a lively resistance, no doubt emboldened by the broad daylight and countless witnesses sitting in their cars, stopped in traffic and bemused by the spectacle. In the first crashing volley of pistols and grape, we lost Mad Matthew and Johnny-Two-Legs. (Johnny One-Leg we lost to scurvy last year in the West Indies. Never the less, Two-Legs nickname persisted.) Even so, Bob the Salt and Ragamuffin Jane made for their rigging as quickly as good be, and the rest of the crew and I stormed the quarterdeck. It was a bit sharpish for a few minutes, but when the smoke cleared, Jane and Bob had cut down their colors, and the captain offered me his sword, as neat as kiss-my-hand. (mental note: increase rum ration)

While the crew looted the hold, and the prize crew took charge of the truck, I rifled the Captain's cabin - there was precious little to be found other than their manifesto and charts. We were lucky though - they were laid down low with gold and imported electronics which we'll be able to sell with no questions asked when we make landfall in Malacca. Of course, the formalities had to be observed, and I had time to entertain the Captain and the ladies that had taken ship with him; some of the crew wanted to treat them less-than-honorably, most notably Shifty Paul. But then, that's why we call him Shifty Paul. I took a quick ballot, and the decision to leave the ladies unharmed won by a narrow margin. (Mental note: decrease rum ration). We had just enough time to take our tea and little cakes, as well as a few glasses of wine and sing a few bawdy , before police started to make their way through the heavy seas of high traffic.

The crew offered the appropriate salute to His Majesty's ineffectual officers, and the ship's monkeys capered alongside in a passing comical manner. We weighed anchor, used our best bower to warp out of the traffic - and in a trice we were on a backroad, laid up in a remote corner of the Spanish Galleria's parking lot. Yah hah!

So take note - there's a new buccaneer on The Main, and Lucky Davy is his name. Lock up your women, hide your valuables, and drink yer rum before we take it for ourselves!


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