"45, Fit for a Pirate!"

"45, Fit for a Pirate!"
- Eric Stauffer


Note- this story is rediculously stupid. I was in a rediculously stupid mood. Also, the structure's all phucked up, but it was a copy and paste job. deal with it.


The Seaside Tavern was filled with a cacaughany of angry shouting, cheerful shanties, and drunken fist fights. When the three meld together, the product is a beautiful symphony that will bring tears to any pirate's eyes... or eye, as is mostly the case. This particular tear belonged to a pirate named Schmee.


Taking giant, thirsty gulps of grog, Schmee smiled broadly- revealing the few teeth that he had proudly managed to keep in his mouth. He seemed to have forgotten that while smiling and drinking were indeed good things, accomplishing both at the same time is a recipe for wet trousers. Grog ran through his thick black beard, slowly forming a sizeable puddle in his lap. His mates cheered as he smashed his empty mug against the table, sending tiny glass fragments flying into his beard.


"38 pints down, 7 to go! Yarrgghh!!" shouted one of his enthusiastic mates.


You're now undoubtedly asking yourself this question: "As delicious as it may be, why so much grog?" Well, the answer is simple. It was Schmee's 45th birthday! As I'm sure you already know, it's an old pirate tradition that every year, the Birthday Pirate will drink one pint of Grog for every year of his age- starting with his very first birthday. Those not fortunate enough to be born into Piratedom must make up those missed birthday pints, the act usually putting them into a deep pirate coma, only to wake up days later somewhere in the glorious seven seas, very confused. In other words, if you plan on becoming a pirate it's best to do so when you're young. With that said, let's get back to our story.


Schmee rose from his chair on an unsteady peg leg, and an even less steady leg. The Birthday Pirate approached the barmaid cautiously, nearly tripping over an unconscious monkey in the process.


"Need another grog, missy!" Schmee shouted the words into her ear, along a fine mist of saliva and a few tiny glass fragments. Although the request sounded more like "Knee otharog, Issy!" the young girl still seemed to understand him. Handing him a full a mug, Schmee realized something was amiss. Turning around, he realized (with a great deal of drunken confusion) that he had dragged his table along with him up to the bar.


After carefully analyzing his predicament for some time, Schmee determined that his hook was firmly lodged into the small oak table. Between the hook and the table was a playing card- a Jack of Spades to be exact- testament to a vicious game of slapjack. The Jack stared up at Schmee with cold, calculating eyes. The corners of his mouth showed a ghost of a smile.
"Arrrggghhhh!! What be ya lookin' at, ya scurvy landlubber!!" roared Schmee, balling a fist. The Jack of Spades, offering no reaction, simply continued it's unwavering stare, which further angered Schmee. Drawing his pistol, he took careful aim with his only eye, and squeezed the trigger. A back window of the tavern blew out as the bullet ricocheted off his hook. He was now free of the table, but the Jack remained intact- mocking him in silence.


With a roar, Schmee unsheathed his rusty but trusty cutlass and with one hard swipe he cleaved the table in half. An elderly pirate near the corner cheered- which was cut short when a bottle of rum exploded over his unfortunate balding head.


This brief string of violence was simply too exciting for a room filled with drunk pirates, and a massive brawl broke loose. Peg legs kicking, hooks swinging, parrots squawking, the tavern came alive. Narrowly escaping a deadly blow from a bar stool, Schmee uppercut the nearest man- sending him flying through a glass window. Schmee roared with laughter as a table leg connected with his face. Darkness quickly overtook him and he embraced it. This was a grand birthday indeed! Fit for the Pirate King himself!


A few hours later, conciousness tore Schmee from his pleasent dreams of pillaging and booty in a typical pirate fasion- usually a bucket of cold dirty mop water or some other vile liquid- in this case is was the former. As a growing hangover greeted him, Schmee groaned. Massaging his head, he cautiously stumbled up to the bar, navigating around the various piles of drunken, sleeping pirates littering the floor.


After a generous swig of rum, Schmee went off to collect his crew for another wonderous day of drinking, fighting, and plundering. Yarrrggghhh!!!


End.