Just as with Hell and Hot Chocolate, this was my entry in a short story contest held among the denizens of http://bbs.chrismoore.com (affectionately known to the Mooreons that frequent it as The Boardello). The challenge was to write a story with the title Pie and Pirates. It's not the best thing I ever wrote, hastily crafted between CounterStrike:Source games, but it did earn me some gel pirates to stick to the window of my apartment.
Pie and Pirates
by Jeff Yates
“Give me the pie and no one gets hurt!” I shouted so that everyone in the tavern could hear. “Argh!” I added, remembering that I was a pirate and it was kind of a rule.
The warning shot I’d fired a few moments earlier, killing Bearded Bill’s parrot and wounding Bearded Bill (who wasn’t actually bearded or named Bill due to him being only 7 years old and named Tarquin), had already silenced the room, making shouting pretty redundant, but it too was kind of a rule.
“Come on, come on! Avast with the pie already! Argh!” said Bearded Bill (still without a beard), who then turned to me and whispered, “I can’t believe you shot Spongebob.”
“Sorry, matey,” I said, eyeing the corpse of his dead beloved as it lay in a feathered heap on the floor. “I never was very good with a pistol, I’m more of a swashbuckler, myself. We’ll get you another parrot.” I ruffled his hair.
“I can’t believe you shot me,” he continued with surprise, as though he’d forgotten all about it until the blood reminded him.
“I said I was sorry! Focus on the matter at hand?” I was hungry and had no time for Bill’s whinging. I turned back to the room and eyed the occupants with suspicion just in case they were getting any bright ideas. “Avast, ye landlubbers! Get the pie or the parrot won’t be the only one to be meeting his maker! Argh!”
Bill, with only a year at sea, was quite naive in the ways of the pirate. I, however, had been at sea for over two years now and at 9, had seen all the world had to see. I was a ruthless killer. A highwayman of the high seas. The scourge of every…
“Excuse me!” said the tavern keeper from the back of the room, “Number 65?”
Bill checked our ticket. “That’s us!” he called back. I elbowed his ribs and raised my eyebrows. “Oh right, Argh!”
As we walked out of the tavern — me carrying the pie, Bill carrying a dead parrot and nursing his wounded shoulder — the keeper shouted after us, “See you next week, boys!”
We both waved behind us and headed for home.
* * *
It took us fifteen minutes or more to trek back to the ship, but once there, we were greeted with growls and licks from the scurvy dogs aboard.
“Good to see you, mateys!” said Bill to the old seadogs.
“Avast! Ye scurvy dogs. Argh!” I added, “And now for the feast! Argh!”
“Argh!” said Bill.
We both sat down on deck and reached for the pie, eagerly anticipating its taste.
“I hope you two aren’t eating that pie!” shouted Captain Mum.
“Aw, mum!” we whined in unison, “We’re playing pirates!”
“I’ll give you pirates! Bring that pie inside before the dogs get it!”
And so, Bearded Bill and One-Eyed Jack, heads hung in shame, walked the plank into the kitchen and sat down for tea.