|The Story||The Authors|
For good measure Injun Joe, a Ho-Ho protruding from each ear, lashed them all together to the mizzenmast where even muffled the keening wail surged through their salty veins with lusty desire. Suffering though they were at least they were safe from their own worst impulses.|
There came a low moan from the bowels of the Ignavia and from the hatchway arose the anguished Mr Tickles frothing at the mouth and headed for the rail.
He could not resist. He'd once read a theory on humanity's long-time emotional response to stringed instruments, in which it was hypothesized that the cutgut strings of the instruments vibrated at the same frequency as the churning bowels and guts of the listeners. He understand that now, the dwarf did, tears streaming down his face as he crossed the slippery deck. Across the suddenly quietudinous bay the sailors on the deck of the pirate ship writhed about like a great gestalt of reef-chafed octopi beached upon a shoal of purest rock-salt. And Mr. Tickles understood that. Each emotion was a string to be plucked, love and hate, pain and pleasure, all part of the great song of life. And moreso, the now-drolling dwarf knew (with zombie eyes rolled back into his head) that his time had come. And it was about time, ne? His operatic brides awaited him across one small stretch of water. He stood on the rail. He threw wide his arms. He tilted his head back and he raised his voice in song: |
|*growls* What happened to eating veggies for a living.|
Step by careful step Mr Tickles traversed across the placid seatop towards L'il Debbie mesmerized by the siren song. Carelessly stepping on the heads of the less fortunate Drake's sailors laboriously swimming towards the same goal.|
From his place on the deck of the Ignavia Injun Joe could only look on. There could be no escape. Even if Mr Tickles managed to free himself from the clutches of L'il Debbie's spell, the sound once heard would torment the wicked dwarf into madness for the rest of his days. It would be better to just go than to exist like that.
One of the sirens produced a gilded lyre and the trio launched into a slow and langorous version of "Temptation". Mr Tickles began to run.
|So possessed by the most unscratchable of all itches did the music have Mr. Tickles, as he stepped across the surface of the water with a grace and a lightness that would've done Fred Astaire proud, that (unlike you and I, dear reader) he completely failed to notice the irony of the briny Fate which was then befalling that scourge of the seven seas, the bloodthirsty buccaneer and pederast Sir Francis Drake's-Cake. Having craftily stuffed his ears with delicious marshmallow Fluffú to immunize himself against the bewitching songs of Li'l Debbie and the Del-Sirens, he had come up onto the deck of his ship only to find that his trusted crew of maritime brigands had not only neglected to stuff their own ears against such obvious auditory danger -- and, thus crazed, were consequently tearing each to gory shreds with anything handy, teeth, nails, deck-mops and flensing knives -- but, even worse, had neglected, down to the last pirate, to don their life preservers in the face of gross and obvious trouble, type B, as defined in Blackbeard's Rules for Pirates (Third Edition, Revised). Appalled behind words but wise enough to recognize defeat when he saw it, that most notorious leader of pirates had abandoned his own ship, leaping into the warm green waters of the bay, only to find his delicious chocolatey sponge-cake exterior and his tasty creme center instantly set upon by ravenous fishies and crocodiles from below and hungry screaming gulls from above. Within seconds he was gone. The sugar-frenzied fishes, crocs and gulls smacked their lips (or beaks, for those who had no lips) and proceeded in the direction of the first of the water-treading pirates.|