‘And blessèd be mine minions,’ cried Evil, swaggering across the poop. ‘Aha, me hearties, thou art briney-eyed and muchly rummed of spunk.’
‘Punk. Punk. Punk. Aaaaark.’
He stroked the ageing parrot perched on the cliché of his shoulder — gently, as it only had one leg.
‘Mine timbers wert ever a-shiver, when ‘pon the Sabbath, their precious bounty they didst deliver.’
‘And with sails a-set each dawn of ever morrows, mine bluest beard didst sublimest quiver whene’er, from yon booty locker, aloft, I hoisted Jimladdiest of scrolls. Bountiful treasure maps, aaaaar, drawn by rubied souls.’
Evil’s gaze settled on the tip of his question mark hook. He licked his lips and peered into the glaring sunlight through phantom eyepatches.
‘I didst truly, for their ears, a heartiest beseech a-cry — yet for what, mine selfless plunder? Yon Blog Of The Century Award? Yon luxury cruise?’
Evil dashed the parrot’s brains against the hull with the relentless rhythm of Johnny Depp testing his lips for puckeriness in a mirror.
Then he was sick, empty saliva sick.
Ten years to train that bird.
Wiping his mouth, Evil turned to face the island.
‘Brigands of the night, I say: thou wilt not take them. Thou wilt not, into thy sargassoes foul, subsume mine only cargo.’
He called out again and again, till his whispers floated as flotsam and jetsam on the silence. In the lifeboat’s lurid husk, he breathed his final shanty.