KID BLINK: I heard there’s a call for more pirate stories in these parts. Just today, Bob the Second brought me this:
@make-friends-with-the-rats
Now, if you’re askin’ “who’s Bob the Second?,” you’re in for a treat. I got a whole piratical library for ya:
PART THE FIRST – in which the I, the dashin’ Captain One-Eyed Ballatt, an’ my noble crew battle the Dread Pirate Crutchy. You’ll also find out what happened to Original Bob.
ILLUSTRATION – a battle scene by famed nautical artist @coffee-rack.
PART THE SECOND – in which I meet my pet shark, Sharky Ned.
PART THE THIRD – a cautionary tale for about mermaids. (Davey Not-Jones, the Sailin’ Mouth, likes a story with a moral.)
But our rat-befriendin’ pal didn’t send a carrier-parrot note askin’ me to rehash old stories. No, they called for new adventures—new horizons that ain’t ever been sailed before. And I ain’t the type to deny a tale.
Now, this weren’t too long after Part the Second, ’cause our cook Racebeard’s stove was still lyin’ deep in Davy Jones’ locker. (Sharky Ned had tried to fetch it, but there’s even limits to what a shark can dive.) I was first mate under Red Jack Kelly at the time, and the Villainous Snyder was still chasin’ him all over the world. The Nell was a good ship an’ true, but she was stolen, and the Villainous Snyder’d stop at nothin’ to get her back—an’ to make matters worse, King Pulitzer was fundin’ Snyder’s expeditions.
Us? Our only fundin’ was what we made through our talents, like sharpshootin’, cannon-shootin’, sword-wieldin’, ship-boardin’, an’ vaudeville. And with Snyder close behind, it weren’t wise to carry lots o’ treasure to weigh us down. Problem was, we’d just buried our latest haul ahead o’ the storm that nearly killed me, an’ we didn’t have enough to buy a new stove at the next port. So all we could eat was raw potatoes, which ain’t very tasty, an’ raw bilgerat, ’cause nobody’d told us to make friends with ’em, as we sailed off to try to find more treasure, or maybe the mythical island o’ Santa Fe.
We were four days past the storm when we spotted land, an’ were we ever happy to see a restaurant! But the problem was, we couldn’t speak the same language as the waiters, an’ that made sayin’ “have you ever heard of Santa Fe, do you have stoves to buy on credit, and have you seen the Villainous Snyder” real difficult. So, fed but disappointed, we kept sailin’.
We were eight days past the storm when Cutthroat Boots, our lookout, yelled “Avast! I see glintin’ ahead!”
I climbed up in the crows’ nest with him, an’ sure enough, a bright FLASH! FLASH! was comin’ over the waves! “Red Jack!” I hollered, “There may be a treasure there, arr!”
Can you guess what we found? Gold bricks? Piled rubies? A trove o’ dime novels? No, it was some guy on the beach, turnin’ his head to an’ fro so the sun gleamed on his hair like a signal beam.
“Who’re you?” Red Jack demanded.
“Bumlets the Fierce,” the guy said. It turned out he’d been washin’ his hair in the ocean when a big wave pulled him in, an’ since then, he’d been tryin’ to get back home. An’ best of all, he said he could speak the same language as at the restaurant! He said he weren’t sure about stoves, but at least he could ask ’em ’bout Santa Fe.
So we started sailin’ back, when all o’ a sudden, somethin’ dark cut across the sky! Was it a bird? Was it a flyin’ fish? No, it was the biggest kite you ever saw, with two fellas hangin’ onto it!
Crash! Smash! They hit the deck, an’ wood an’ canvas splintered all over. (Red Jack would want you to know that it came from the kite, not the Nell. He says Nell’s indestructible.)
“Goedemorgen,” said the yellow-haired one o’ the fellas.
“Guten morgen,” said the dark-haired fella.
(Actually, they said some other words too, which weren’t fit to print in a schoolbook. Gussie, if you’re readin’ this, your granma can thank me.)
Red Jack said “WHAT!”
So then the yellow-haired fella said, “Greetings, sailors! My esteemed colleague and I apologize for the unfortunate collision upon your vessel; however, you have contributed to furthering the course of science!”
“Yeah, okay,” said Red Jack, who goes more for history. Physics ain’t always in his favor, ya know. “Who’re you?”
“Dutchy,” said the yellow-haired fella.
“Dutchy what? The Mad Scientist?”
“No,” Dutchy said with a grin, “just Dutchy.”
“Pardon me,” said the dark-haired fella, Dutchy’s esteemed colleague, “has anyone encountered my spectacles?”
We all looked around in the wreckage. “Here!” Bumlets the Fierce said, an’ handed ’em over.
As soon as he did, we all gasped—which is piratical behavior, if you’re a pirate while doin’ it. “SPECS THE FOUR-EYED RUM-SWILLER?!?” we yelled.
“Who?” said Bumlets the Fierce.
“Red Jack?!” Specs the Four-Eyed Rum Swiller hollered, now that he could see us clear. “One-Eyed Ballat?! Cutthroat Boots?! Racebeard?!”
“I thought you were goin’ to architecture school,” I said. Specs helped build the Brooklyn Bridge, after all—but that’s a story for another time.
“Nah,” Specs said, “it wasn’t fun once you guys sailed away—at least, until I met my esteemed colleague.”
“Quite,” Dutchy said.
Red Jack kicked at the kite scraps. “So now you’re buildin’ flyin’ machines?”
“Crashing machines, thus far,” said Dutchy, “but we remain optimistic!”
“Quite,” Specs agreed.
“How about stove machines?” Racebeard asked.
Well, it turns out canvas an’ wood can’t turn into a stove—not for lack o’ tryin’—but we got back to the restaurant, an’ Bumlets the Fierce negotiated a payment plan for the finest o’ ships’ stoves, guaranteed not to push any crew members overboard an’ into the arms o’ a shark, prob’ly. And at the next island, they didn’t speak Bumlets the Fierce’s language, but they spoke Dutchy’s! And they told Red Jack Santa Fe was Thataway.
So, off we sailed—Cutthroat Boots in the crows’ nest, Red Jack at the wheel, Dutchy an’ Specs the Four-Eyed Rum Swiller cruisin’ above the waves, Sharky Ned swimmin’ behind to bring ’em back once they fell. Flash! flash! went Bumlets the Fierce’s hair, givin’ ’em a beacon to follow.
Next time you’re on the waterfront, look. You might see it gleamin’ too.
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