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FEAR
AND LOATHING
BY: BrionyIN PORT ROYAL- WIP *** Will watched Jack take a few staggering steps
towards the hold and promptly fall in with a swallowed curse and
a lot of clatter.
“ ‘S’ok....I’m all right.” Jack’s tangled head appeared over the hatch. “Well, don’t all go worryin’ at once.” He grinned at his own joke and tumbled back down into the hold. Will shook his head and turned to Gibbs. “How did he get like that?” Gibbs finished tying off one of the lines and took a moment to lean against the bulkhead with a sigh. “He wasn’t always so...” “Loopy? Crazy? Cracked?” “Ahh, now, laddie, I’d call it more...um... creative-like.” “Creative, my arse! He’s off his bloomin’ nut. I can understand any crew considering a mutiny. He’s a menace to himself and should be in Bedlam.” Will slumped down onto the deck and glared at the flooring, restraining the impulse to kick at nothing in frustration. He was finally on a ship, bound to rescue his Elizabeth and the crew was trusting this madman with a faulty compass and a pair of unsteady sealegs. It didn’t bode well for his love or any attempt to prove his affection by sweeping her off her feet. In fact, it seemed more than likely he would end up stuck with this crew of ragtags, sailing around in circles until someone had the good sense to put a pistol to the addled captain’s head and put him out of their misery. Gibbs settled down beside him and took a long swallow from his flask. “No, lad. Cap’n’s just fine aboard ship. He’s worse on land.” Will made a face and pointed to the open hatch. “You call that fine?” “Don’t be fooled by that. Jack knows his way around anything that floats and then some. He’s just ...well, sometimes, he thinks that...he sees things that aren’t...” “Gibbs, he fell down his own hold.” Will’s voice was tightly patient, the kind of voice you hear explaining something to a very stupid or very deaf dog. The big mate heaved a sigh and handed Will his flask. “It’s a long story an’ it happened a long while back, when me and Jack, we was just a pair of scurvy lads lookin’ for any berth.” He glanced down at his considerable bulk. “Aye, those were the days. I could see me johnson then.” Will slipped down a few more vertebrae and prepared to sulk, but the rum was burning a nice hole in his belly and there really wasn’t anything to do but listen to Gibbs or go below and listen to snores. He took another swallow and handed the flask back. “Jack’s not that old.” he noted slyly. “Aye, I know. He was just a slip of a boy, younger’n you are now. I kinda looked after him in a way. But tha’s another story. We was docked in Port Royal waitin’ to find another berth when we met this Indian feller. Bloke from Mexico or suchlike and that’s when it all went wrong...” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Jack had just slid around the corner, his palms itching to count the booty. The crowded street was just too much of a temptation and he could not keep his hands out of other peoples' pockets. Besides, it was always good to stay in practise. What was it Gibbs has said to him? Something about always having another trade in case the sea spat him out. Jack grinned to himself and weighed the small pouch in one hand with expert appraisal. Somewhere in the neighborhood of ten guineas he figured. He glanced around and slipped back into a shadowy nook before prying the knot open with clever, dirty fingers. His grin widened as he spilled eleven golden coins out into his palm, rolling one over his fingers before deftly depositing them in the depths of his shirt. He hadn’t lost his touch in the many months he’d been out at sea. Then again, he’d always found time to practise, even on board. Considerably happier, he made his way through the narrow alleys to the small public house where he’d left Gibbs holding down a table. His mate was still above the table and happily consuming the better part of an unpaid bottle. Jack coaxed another from the barkeep and paid for both, glad to exchange one of those shiny and too-conspicuous gold coins for silver. As he slithered his way through the crowd, his eye caught a tall sheaf of feathers, dark green and teal blue, nodded above the dirty hair and mobcaps. Jack knew he should go take his bottle over to Gibbs and settle down for a nice quiet drunk, maybe find a lass later, maybe a fight. He was hardly more than a boy in years, but old, very old in the ways of cities, especially Port Royal. He knew the smell of trouble and those nodding, bright plumes were distinctly trouble-scented. But Jack Sparrow was as curious as a monkey and could never resist a twist to the left, when the wind blew something new into port. He headed towards the feathers, his dark eyes gleaming. A little landside adventure could only make the wait for a new berth less tedious. The owner of the feathers stood immobile as a statue, surveying the milling crowd with deep, impassive eyes. His face was a carved mask of bronze that never moved, even as the dark eyes bore down on Jack. “ ’ere.” Jack grinned up at the silent stranger. “Where you from? Wanna drink?” He took the precaution of backing up a step, just in case his cheek earned a less-than-positive reaction. The Indian stared down at him for a long moment, then sat suddenly and motioned Jack to the other chair. Wary and inquisitive, Jack sat down and opened his bottle, offering it with a smile. Without emotion, the stranger took a huge swallow and handed it back. Jack took a drink. The Indian took a drink. Jack took another. The Indian took another. This silent, swallowing duel continued for quite a long time, until Jack was getting distinctly uncomfortable. And drunk. He was watching the crowd thin out or collapse and their faces got deliciously blurry. The table was beginning to look comfortable when the Indian suddenly grabbed him by the collar with one massive hand, the bottle in the other and pulled him through a dark hallway out into the night. Jack would have gulped if he had not felt a bit as though he were being strangled. It was not a good feeling. *** The Indian, fortunately, released his hold and plopped Jack into a chair. The inner room was small and dark, lit by one candle stuck in a cracked bottle. There was a doorway leading to a balcony where a tattered curtain blew in the night breeze. Jack was rubbing his neck and wondering how he could weasel away from his silent companion when a small cup of something yellow that smelled as evil as any brew he had encountered was pushed in front of him. Jack picked it up, eyed it, sniffed it, let the fumes whirl into his head. There were steep pyramids and hot tamales in those fumes. Jack drank it and glared challengingly at the Indian who filled it up. “Oh no! ‘ere we go agin!” Jack’s head was spinning a bit and he remembered all too well the only sage bit of advice he ever got from his late, unlamented Ma back in a Yarmouth brothel : never mix yer drinks, boy. As he eyed the stinking cup in front of him he also remembered how she would cheerfully combine gin, brandy and strong tea for breakfast. So much for motherly advice. Then the Indian brought out a pouch and Jack’s eyes lit up. He was very disappointed to see a large handfull of what looked like dried-up mushroom spill onto the table. The Indian pointed. Jack was getting very confused now and that always made him cranky. He was working up to a prime pout when the Indian got up, grabbed his chin and forced at least a half dozen of the nasty, shrivelled things into his mouth. Jack struggled appropriately, but his jaw was held shut and he fought gagging, chewed a bit and mercifully swallowed. He grabbed the bottle of paint thinner and poured a good pint or so down his throat to take away the dreadful taste of those things. Then the room spun around sideways and went black. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Will shifted his weight to his left buttock, the right having falling asleep. It begged for a few sharp smacks to wake it up, but he pushed that thought away with both hands. The last thing he needed was to be dreaming about was a spanking. He shook his head. There must be something queer in the air onboard. He eyed Gibbs. “I thought you said you only met Jack after his lost the Black Pearl, ten years back.” Gibbs scratched his belly, chewing on a scrap of pemmican like a hairy bovine. “Did I say that? Hmmmm.....musta been the heat... an’ don’t interrupt! You wanna hear this or not?” “Mute Indians? Mushrooms?” Will was clearly not believing it. “Aye, and worse. It gets worse.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Jack opened one eye, then the other and sat up. The room was the same. He looked around cautiously, aware that things felt very strange. There was a tingling running up and down his spine and everything had a strange glow to it. He smiled. Everything was so beautiful. Dark, but beautiful. He wandered over to the candle and stood mesmerised by it until he was suddenly drenched. The Indian was still there and had just doused him with a bucket of seawater. It felt lovely cascading down face. There was a strong smell of burning dog or hair or something nearby. Jack waved hello to the Indian and sat down on the floor where one of the Indian’s feathers had fallen. He picked it up. This meant something, like a heap of mashed potatoes. His eyes grew wide, then he was watching the flickering light jumping around on the spines of the feather and started to hum the tune they were playing. When he looked up, the Indian was gone but there was a small monkey staring at him with huge, dark, deeply stoned eyes. “So do you care if it falls?” “If wha’ falls?” Jack kept watching the feather’s dancing glitter. “The Empire. England...the social order based on the remnants of the Romans. Western civilisation as we know it.” “Huh?” Jack said. “Does it matter to you that the entire bulk of society will crumble into a morass of anarchy once released from the stringent arm of law and order.” “Yer talking.” Jack stared at the monkey’s sharp little canines. “Of course I’m talking. Tell me, Jack, do you think Nietzche was right? That there is no God and that we are doomed to a meanless existence?” “You know my name?” Jack struggled to untangle his legs and stand up. He managed to stand up but his legs were still twisted around and it took him a moment to walk, rather, to waddle towards the table. He collapsed into the chair gratefully. “Walking is hard.” The monkey’s dark eyes bored into his. “I speak to you of reality and that’s all you can say? That perhaps the quest of man to find his Creator is a gigantic myth, perpetuated by various religions and hierarchies to uphold whatever social order is in current power is just an endless rerun of that quest.” “Re-rum? Hey, where’s the rum gone?” Jack was back on the floor, crawling on all fours, searching for the bottle. “Don’t mix your drinks, dearie. Awwk. Awwk. Pieces of eight.” The parrot screeched from the balcony. Jack looked up. “Where’d the parrot come from?” “And if the existential ideal is to embrace an existence free of moral restraint does that in any way satisfy the inner monkey? Can you find true happiness is nothingness? Was Buddha right?” “Wha’ sa Buddha? “ Jack stopped crawling around and pulled himself back onto the chair. “ ‘Sides,” he complained, “I don’t have an inner monkey.” The wise eyes were reflecting the candle in beautiful greens and golds, swirling around like pinwheels. “Yes, of course you do. You need to find the inner monkey...release it and let him guide you.” Jack poured more of the battery acid down his throat and considered the idea. Perhaps he was missing the point. Maybe he did need to find an inner monkey. He still wanted to know how the parrot had got there. “So wha’ do I do? I mean, to fin’ the minkey?” “You have to search inside yourself. Think of yourself as an great ocean and look for the deepest shoals. Find the biggest banana.” “Waitaminum. I don’t like banasas!” “Climb every palm tree...search high and low...” Jack bolted up and dashed to the balcony, grabbed hold of the swaying palm that seemed to be growing out of it and began to shimmy up the tree. “It’s TRUE! It’s true!” He shouted, nearing the top and grabbing coconuts to shower down to the adoring herd of buffalo below him. “I’ve found the inner monkey! I’m complete!” A voice came from below. “You’re an ass!” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Will was giggling. He made himself stop, telling himself that no self-respecting semi-pirate giggled. “So he climbed a palm tree after talking to a monkey?” Gibbs scratched his left ear, examined his finger and sniffed. “Well, y’see, the benighted lad hadn’t really climbed a tree. He were up on the roof, throwin’ tiles down inta the street, screaming ‘bout this ‘inner monkey’ business. I kept hollarin’ fer him to get down before the lobsters come an’ start shootin’ at him. But he held up an old boot and cried out ‘The Big Banana’.” Will smirked. He could imagine one of those himself, especially attached to the currently down-the-hatch captain. The good Will inside slapped his face and he shook himself. “So what happened next?” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There was a gigantic crash and the palm tree slipped away and Jack was falling down through a hole for the longest time. He thought that was rather strange because it hadn’t be written yet, but he didn’t have time for more ponderings. He landed with a thud in the middle of a bed between a very scrawny sailor and a very large lady in a Naval uniform and petticoat, brandishing a large paddle. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The bad Will on Turner’s left shoulder perked up and gave the whelp a good jab at the word ‘paddle’. The good Will pulled his hair. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Well hello dearie! Stars above and thank the heavens! Such a pretty boy!” The lady in the petticoat and Navy jacket exclaimed in a decidedly baritone voice. “ See ‘ere!” The sailor complained. “We ain’t done yet!” “Oh, you’ve had your forty whacks. Just look at this!” Jack found himself hauled up by the collar and staring into the ‘lady’s’ heavily made-up eyes. He smiled sweetly. “I found it. The big banana.” “You certainly did, sweetie. And, pulling up the petticoat, he proved that Jack had, indeed, found the Big Banana. TBC *** |
