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Swift Judgement

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Twirling a lock of golden blonde hair around her finger, Kelly sighed.

"Wanna supersize that?" she asked, the question mechanical.

"Uhh... sure." the fat balding man dropped a crumpled ten into her outstretched hand.

"Need a number three!" she shouted over her shoulder.

Counting his change, she turned her attention back to her customer only to find him blatently staring at her chest. Disgusted, she spilled his change all over the counter, folding her slender arms over her breasts. Sure, she was sporting a generous amount of cleavage- but still! What a creep!

The man's face turned a deep shade of red.

"I'm sorry- I didn't mean to-" his frightened eyes dropped to his muddy sneakers.

"I'm 19 years old you freak!" she shouted, causing a few heads to turn in the resturant.

Too embarrassed even to collect his scattered change, the blushing, balding fat man fled out the nearest exit, his car started before the automatic doors closed.

Stifling a giggle, Kelly pocketed the man's forgotten change.

Approaching the counter was a man who looked to be in his mid 40's. Dark bags hung from his red rimmed eyes. He looked tired, thin, and worn.

'Probably some junkie who's gonna sneak a peak like all these other slobs.' she thought as she let out a broad smile, revealing her perfectly white teeth. Palms on the counter, pushing her shoulders back, she almost popped yet another button off her blouse.

"Can I help you, sir?" softly raising an eyebrow.The man looked distracted and confused, eyes locked on the counter.

"Sir?" a little louder this time.

"Y-Yeah." he sounded distant, preoccupied. "Cheeseburger and a coke."

"For here or-"

"To go." he interrupted, rubbing his sleepless eyes.

"Dick." she muttered, flicking her blue eyes to the 'junkie' who was now glancing at his watch.

She dropped the grease saturated paper bag in front of him.

"That'll be $3.60."

He dropped 4 one's on the counter.

"No change." he grunted, swiping the bag and heading out to the parking lot.

"What an **** she mumbled, unsure if she was upset due to his curtness or the fact that he paid her absolutely no attention. 'whatever, probably a **** or something.' she thought as she put his 40 cents into her pocket.


Tossing his empty cup and half-eaten cheeseburger into the hospital garbage can, a group of medics pushing a gurney almost bowled him over. He caught a glimpse of the balding fat man on the gurney, his wrists wrapped in blood soaked gauze and his face looking ghostly white.

Scratching his unshaven face, he walked down to the end of the hospital corridor, heels clicking softly off the freshly waxed linolium floor. Turning left, he entered a small room- completely silent save the soft beeping of a heart monitor, the only sign of life he could expect any time soon. A completely bald skeleton of a man- testemant to the cancer and inevitable kemotherepy treatment- lay still on the bed. Gripping the old man's hand in his own, he spoke.

"I'm back, dad. I'm here now."


The following day, in the breakroom, Kelly paged through a celebrity tabloid chewing a piece of bubblegum. Had she been paying attention, she might have recognized the face on the cover of the local newspaper, the face right below the grim headline "Medics Unable to Save Suicide Victim," The face that was a fat, balding man. It seemed he was a manic depressant with no family and no friends. It also seemed evident that Kelly's performance the day prior had set him a bit over the edge.

"Hey Kel! You're 15 over on your lunch!"

Rolling her eyes, she went out to her cash register. The first person in line was a young black woman dressed in sweatpants and a teeshirt. 'It's true- hobos do love fast food.' she thought with a smile.

"Can I help you, m'am?"


Scent of Mahogany, Part 2

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"Scent of Mahogany, Part 2"

******rough draft*****

Note: This is in 2 parts due to max char lengths in blog posting.

December 11, Sunday 4:29pm

Brian Saetia was not your typical 38 year old man. Unmarried, childless, and practically homeless, Brian's life seemed to fit perfectly into Webster's definition of 'meaningless.' Brian didn't see it that way at all. In his own mind, he was one of the few people in this materialistic society that was free- totally and completely. With no restaints, he wandered where and when he pleased, careful never to stay in one spot for too long lest the slavedriver of routine found him. Gripping the steering wheel of his 1982 Ford Pinto, he smiled. Life was good.

A curious rattle escaped from under the hood yet again, bringing Brian out of his trance. Every time he heard it, it sounded less and less healthy. Caressing the dashboard, he tried to coerce his failing vehicle back to health. He needed to get it checked out, and fast. He had the engine tuned just last Friday. Mechanics were thieves, but necessary, as far as Brian was concerned. Looking at exit signs along the interstate, one screamed out to him: "Ruchstown: 10m" 'My old town! It's been years!' he thought to himself, excited to see his old neighborhood.

Entering town, he realized not much had changed. Other than a new Walmart, the town looked just as plain and boring as he'd left it. The soft rattle under the hood quickly became a violent rattle. 'Better find a mechanic.' he thought. Rounding a bend, the glowing beacon that marked '7-11' lit up the sky. Gas stations were the nations best source for directions, so he headed in that direction.

Bells chiming to announce his entry, Brian grabbed a Coke and headed to the checkout. The small shoppette was empty save himself, the clerk, and a painfully familiar woman. Holding a small shopping basket, she browsed the meager supply. Her face gave Brian the most overwhelming sense of deja-vu. The clouds parted as something clicked in his brain.

"Rachel?" he asked timidly, hoping he hadn't made an embarassing mistake.

She turned toward him, eyebrows raised. "Yes?"

"It's me, Brian! Junior High... math ****.. remember?" he asked with an expectant smile. She looked puzzled for a moment, and then recognition bloomed on here face. She squeeled in delight, wrapping her slender arms around his neck.

"Brian! It's been years! Clauser's Diner is still open across the street. I'll buy you a cup of coffee?" her smile was radiant.

In the depths of her purse, Rachel's cell phone battery died.

December 9, Friday 3:41pm

Jim was getting tired of being under the hood of this 1982 Pinto. He had been working at this car care center for 4 years now, and he never got used to some of the scrap metal that rolled in.

"This guy wants his car tip-top, he's goin' on a road trip," Craig had said, handing over the keys. "He needs it back by early evening. Now get to it!"

Jim glanced at his greasy **** 3:41pm. His doctor's appointment was at 4:00. 'This would have to do for "Brian."' Needs to junk this piece anyways.' he thought, closing the hood. Caughing a ball of phlem, he forgot about the Pinto and hoped the doctor would give him decent medication for this flu.

"Later, Craig. Pinto's good to go. Gotta catch this appointment, see you Monday." Jim said, tossing the keys to his boss. Strolling out the door, he whistled to himself.

End Note: We, along with every living organism in existance, are completely helpless victims of circumstance. Our lives are governed by seemingly insignificant triggers of cause and effect. Sometimes nothing comes of these triggers, but sometimes we unknowingly create an avalanche that will inadvertantly alter the course of someone else's life completely. Arrogant, self centered, foolish people, we continue to ignore this obvious and simple fact: Fate and Circumstance are completely synonomous. If Jim never came down with the flu, he would have properly tuned Brian's car. Brian never would have needed to stop in that town to find a mechanic, so his meeting with Rachel would have never happened. Rachel would have arrived home right on time, and still be married to Bob. Bob would not have shown up to work late or looked unpresentable, and would still be employed at LuciTech. Scott, Emily, and all of Bob's victims would still be alive. Tom wouldn't be awake at 3:04am, and the smell of a casket wouldn't be in his nostrails. Tread lightly, you don't know what your next action might trigger...

Scent of Mahogany, Part 1

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"Scent of Mahogany, Part 1"

******rough draft*****

Note: This is in 2 parts due to max char lengths in blog posting.

December 13, Tuesday 3:04am

The digital Sony clock cut a dim red haze through the sparsely furnished apartment. Thomas squeezed shut his red rimmed eyes. The nausiating weight in the back of his throat lifted, temporarily. Wiping the cold sweat off his brow, he sighed deeply. With a shaky hand, his fingers prodded the thick darkness until he found his tattered pack of Marlboros. Lighting the ciggerette, his mind frantically wandered.

" I can't believe she's really gone," he said to the lonely apartment, caressing his wife's pillow. "Oh... Emily..." the scent of her mahogony coffin still lingered in his nostrails.

December 12, Monday 2:47pm

"How was your weekend, Sarah?" asked Emily, unconciously twisting a lock of hair around her finger. Sarah ceased her incessant typing, spinning her corporate office ****chair to face Emily. Their knees brushed lightly due to the obnoxious confines of their shared cubicle.

Pulling off her heels with a soft grunt, Sarah gently massaged her aching feet. "Oh, you know, the usual. Finally got to play a little catch up at the house. Cleaning here and there, helped Bobby study for Friday's big spelling bee! He's becoming quite the competitive young man, just like his father." she smiled, revealing two rows of perfectly formed teeth. "Mike and I found a sitter for the little guy, and we went out to dinner. The first time in.. oh must have been months!" her laugh was beautiful. "How about you, Emily? How'd your weekend go?"

Emily smiled. "Well, actually-" she stopped abruptly as a shotgun blast thundered through the office, followed by screams of pain, terror, or both. Kelly and Emily froze, eyes wide. Another blast rocked the complex, followed by more screams. Emily's teary eyes were locked on Kelly's. Gathering all the courage she could muster, Emily rose onto unsteady legs and cautiously peered over the white cardboard wall. Anxiety tore at her pumping heart and churning stomache.

She saw a man in a nondescript business suit- Scott was his name, one of the company's consultants- plead for his life down the barrel of a .12 gauge pump action Remmington shotgun.

"B.. Bob. It's me. Sc..Scott. D..d...don't do this," Scott was stuttering, and having a great difficulty standing. "It.. It's me, b..buddy. Our.. our w..w..wives go shopping togethe-" Emily watched in sheer horror as everything above Scott's shoulders vaporized. She tried to scream, but the only thing that came out was an odd clicking noise. She could smell burning hair.

Bob's periwinkle blue button down shirt was dotted with blood, like so many stars in the night sky. His face was so contorted in hate, rage, and total insanity that Emily didn't even recognize him. Slowly looking up from Scott's mutilated corpse, Bob's blank stare met Emily's. Her legs gave out, and as she hit the ground she realized she had urinated on herself. She couldn't get rid of that smell of burning hair. Grabbing a trashcan, she vomited.

Sarah was under her desk, knees pulled tight against her chest. Rocking back and forth, she muttered some Christian prayer over and over again. Another blast cracked the air and Sarah lost conciousness.

Emily, weeping silently, knew that she was going to die today. The realization of this fact left her feeling numb. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. In an almost etheral state, she thought about how she was supposed to make dinner tonight for Thomas. Behind her, she heard heavy breathing. A cold finger ran down her spine as blood rushed to her head. Rapidly losing her grip on conciousness, she slowly turned her head.

The shotgun was resting casually on Bob's shoulder, his eyes screamed raw insanity. He was smiling so wide it looked painful. His blue shirt was now deep maroon red. Emily tried to choke out a plea, but only a soft whimper escaped her lips. Closing her eyes, she waited for the release from this nightmare that only death offered.

Hours later, a Baltimore forensic scientist matched the teeth found to Emily Lockhardt's dental records.

December 12, Monday 10:39am

The soft but harsh shrieking pierced Bob's sensitive ears as he twisted a lightbulb gently into the socket. He squinted against the brilliant light as it clicked home.

"Hey Bob." said a passing voice. Robert Pierson was known as "Bob the Maintinance Man" here at LuciTech Corp., a highly respected software firm.

"Hey, Scott." Bob said absently, climbing down the rickety ladder. The company had enough money to justify 4 shipments of leather furniture, yet Bob was still using this same ladder for over 8 years. Tucking in his shirt, he spun around and nearly knocked over Preston Braun. Preston was head CEO of LuciTech, overlord of this corporate concentration camp. His peons swarmed the beehive of cubicles, performing their mundane tasks in a mechanical and emotionless manner.

"Sorry Mr. Braun, didn't see you there. I was just-"

"Bob, we need to have ourselves a little chat." Adjusting his silk tie under his three piece italian designer suit, which was worth more than Bob's entire wardrobe in all probability, Preston cleared his throat arrogantly. Sipping Starbuck's latte' from his generic "#1 Boss" mug, he weighed Bob's blank expression.

"Yes?" Bob offered, wanting to end this awkward silence.

"I'm going to cut this right to the point, Bob. I was never a man of foreplay." Bob ignored the tasteless humor in his remark. "You know about last year's IG team, correct?"

Bob pretended to think. Nobody could forget the inspection team, who put more than 30% of LuciTech's employees out on the streets. The inspectors called their job titles "expendable."

Bob's palms began to sweat. "Well, Bob, this year they asked if I'd do a preliminary inspection prior to their arrival, save some time this year you follow?" Preston glanced at his Rolex.

"Yes, sir..." Bob could feel the color drain from his face.

"Bob, you're a good guy, but you know the fix I'm in. We have to cut corners. Bob, I'm going to be as frank as possible. Your appearance is simply unpresentable. You were late to work today, by several hours. I'm sorry Bob, I have to let you go. I'm sorry, and good luck." before Bob could even begin to rebut, Preston was strolling down the right aisles in the honeycomb of cubicles.

Standing next to the old ladder, Bob's mouth hung wide. Something in his head broke, he felt it, almost as if a tiny wall crumbled. 'Late this morning?' he thought, in a rage he had never before felt. 'That bastard Preston knows about my wife last night! He knows about the divorce!' Bob felt nothing. He didn't feel his feet touch the ground as he walked out to his car. He only knew one thing. He knew what he had to do.

December 11, Sunday 8:14pm

Bob began pacing the room, not paying attention to the blaring television. His stomache was growling, from both hunger and anxiety. There was still no sign of his wife- or dinner. Picking up the phone with a sweaty hand, he hit redial again. The familiar answering machine service greeted his ear. He could vividly see her broken body wrapped around the steering wheel, in a ditch somewhere. Flinging the cordless phone against the wall, plastic schrapnel flew in every direction. He wiped the cold sweat off his brow with an unsteady hand and turned off the T.V.

As if on cue, the front door opened and with it came a wave of relief as the crippling anxiety lifted, followed by anger. Balling his hands into fists, he walked toward the kitchen where he could hear her unpacking groceries. She saw him as he rounded the corner.

"Bob. I'm sorry I'm late but you won't believe who I-" their eyes locked. "Bob, what's wrong?"

"Three hours, Rachel. Three God damned hours! I've been worried sick! Where were you?! Why isn't your phone turned on?! Is a call too much to ask from you?!" his face flushed, veins popping out of his throat and forhead.

Rachel's mouth hung open. "Bob... I... I'm sorry. I didn't-"

"Yeah you're always sorry, aren't you?! You know how much I worry! HOW MANY TIME DO I HAVE TO SAY IT?!"

"Bob, calm down. I'm sorry. I ran into an old friend, you remember-"

"Always with the damned excuses, Rachel." breathing heavily, he was dangerously near the brink of losing control. Rachel, a petite woman, cowered in the presence of her husband's rage like so many times before. Bob's severe anxiety problem mainly focused around her. He had to know exactly where she was going and when she would be home every time she left the house, and he would still call her cell phone, completely out of breath, asking if she was okay. As the years passed, Rachel slowly came to the harsh realization that this wasn't simply just a phase he was going through.

Rachel narrowed her eyebrows, determined. She had been kept prisoner in her own home for too many years. Folding her arms across her chest, her mouth tightened. Bob seemed to recognize this text book image of defiance as his yelling ceased. He read everything in her eyes, and the color slowly drained from his face.

"Rachel..." his voice now soft, but hoarse.

"No, Bob. Now it's your turn to shut up. This... your obsession... Bob, you have a problem. A very serious one, and you need to get help. I can't stay here anymore. Not for another minute. I'm sorry, Bob. My attorney will be in touch." Now it was Bob's mouth that hung open as the door closed behind Rachel. Somehow he knew that he'd never see her again. He had inflicted a wound that could not heal.

Slowly, as if in a dream, he guided himself into the living room. He felt strange- detatched, as if he were outside his own body and simply a spectator. Collapsing onto the couch, he began to weep silently.

The Hopeless Novel

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Pen against the naked, mocking paper, his hand froze. The pen simply wouldn't move. 'Come on, Tom. You can do this. Focus.' Lighting a Marlboro, he stared at the paper in the same manner a boxer stares down his opponent before a fight. The sounds of the diner- soft convorsation, an infant crying, the occasional breaking glass- faded into a dull drone.


The immobile bic ballpoint, refusing to budge, was now angrily pressing an indent into the page, and many previous pages that contained no more than a few opening sentences or title ideas, all scribbled out. In truth, this manuscript had more coffee stains than ink.

'Focus.' He closed his eyes, taking a deep drag of his ciggerette.

'I'm Hungry.'

'Maybe I'll get a bagel.'


'Cream cheese is good on bagels.'

'I hope my waitress is hot.'


'Didn't Ghandi say fasting helped to clarify the mind?'

'Or was it Abe Lincon?'


'Abe. Babe.'

'I hope my waitress is a babe.'

Frustrated, he dropped the pen to find his hand throbbing. It probably wouldn't be aching if it got more excersise. Tom's mind, like the mind of most writers, was in utter chaos. It was a massive electrical storm, not a single bolt of lightning ever striking anything- a swarming beehive with no honey to collect. Rubbing his eyes, he groaned softly.

When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by those of a middle aged woman, stringy brown hair thrown into a worn hair net.

"Still workin' on that novel, Thomas?" she asked, pouring fresh coffee into his empty ceramic mug. Crushing out his ciggerette into the round glass ash tray, he simply nodded.

'Kathy must have been working here for fifteen plus years. Doubt she dreamed of becoming a 24 hour diner waitress as a young girl. Probably hoped to be a dancer, or a movie god. Maybe a famous musician.' he thought, watching her wipe off an abandoned table.

Staring back down at the empty notebook, Tom wondered for the first time where he'd end up if his writing didn't take off as planned. Maybe it all wouldn't work. Maybe he'd end up in a Mc'Donalds drive through, or roofing houses with illegal immigrants and ex convicts. Lighting another smoke, Tom smiled and pushed those thoughts out of his mind, for he knew one thing:

It's better to have dreams crushed than to not dream at all.

- End.


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Gazing out of his fifth floor apartment window, the old man watched a young boy feed pigeons at a small park. It was a typical November morning in Philadelphia, a thin sheet of gray clouds covering all but a few scattered flecks of blue. The milky white light was harsh on the old man's eyes.

He took a deep breath, followed by the familiar coughing and gasping, testament to his tarred and diseased lungs. Lighting an unfiltered Pall Mall, he reflected upon his own childhood as he watched the young boy run to and fro among the pigeons.

His vision blurred, and he quickly wiped away the premature tears. Turning from the window, he walked through his sparsely furnished one bedroom apartment- stopping at the liquor cabinet. After a generous shot of expensive vodka, he refilled the glass with cheap orange juice. The breakfast of choice for the depressed and weary.

Edward Lockhardt set the empty glass down with a soft clink and glanced at the clock: 9:42 am. Every day was longer, every day was less important than the last.

Reluctantly he shifted his eyes to his dusty answering machine only to find the all too familiar digital zero glaring back at him. His son had stopped calling a few years back, yet Edward still held some vague sense of hope.

Grabbing his cheap leather jacket from it's hook he walked out the door, locking it behind him.

Out on the street, looking up at this plain apartment complex Edward was glad he decided to go out. He walked down the sidewalk with his head down, not meeting anyone's eyes. This city wasn't what it used to be, not at all.

He stopped at a small convenience store, bells chiming to announce his entry. Filling a styrophome cup with steaming coffee that smelled stale, he looked over his shoulder. The shop appeared to be empty save himself and the clerk- a fat african american woman engrossed in a celebrity tabloid. He nearly overfilled the cup and burned his hand before he averted his attention back to it. Foolish old man.

Snapping a plastic lid over the cup, he strolled down the far aisle stopping at the refrigerated section. After a few moments of browsing, he found what he wanted. Opening the glass door, he snatched a bouquet of half a dozen roses. They looked somewhat sickly, but they'd have to do.

Approaching the counter, he put the coffee and roses down and handed the fat woman a crumpled ten dollar bill. As she counted his change, she took another glance at the roses.

"Goin' out on a hot date this mornin, hun?" her raspy voice was laced with sarcasm. He brought up his cold gray eyes to meet her. She shuddered.
"$4.10's your change." She sounded distant, frightened.

Edward continued his walk. A young man wearing a tattered blue windbreaker and a Philly's cap which looked comically too big for his hear cautiously approached Edward. The man looked like he hadn't had a shower or a shave in weeks.

"Got any spare change, brotha?" a blast of liquor infested breath slapped Edward in the face. The man smiled uneasily. Whatever teeth he had left in that festering mouth were yellow and rotting. Edward handed the man two dollars.

"Go buy yourself a damn toothbrush."

"Drop dead, cheap bastard." he replied, and strolled off whistling to himself.

'What a beautiful city,' Edward thought as he continued on his way.

Deep in thought, he nearly walked right past the iron cemetary gates. With a soft push, the gate swung noiselessly inward. Edward always expected it to ominously creak open, but the groundskeepers had the area in good repair- and this wasn't the movies.

The path memorized, he walked purposefully around the rows of gravestones, careful not to step on the dead. Upon reaching his destination he solemnly laid the roses down on the soft earth. He caressed the engraving, eyes swimming.

"Here lies Emily Lockhardt, beloved wife and mother."

Under this was a bible passage, but Edward wouldn't read it. He had given up on God years ago, as God had given up on him.

Sitting on the freshly cut grass, back resting against the cold gravestone, he was flooded with memories of his life, the life he had. The family he had once upon a time. Edward never believed the old saying "Life is short." In his opinion, it was long. So utterly long.

A distant yet powerful voice snapped his attention back to reality. He gazed in the direction of the voice and saw a burial in progress towards the back of the cemetary. On impulse, he rose and walked in that direction, lighting a cigerette. A large group of men, women, and children made a solemn ring around the casket. A priest was reading from the bible, the onlookers heads were bowed.

Slowly circling around the black clad group he got a view of the deceased man's waxy face. He looked young. Very young. Edward guessed the man couldn't have been over 25.

Life could be so strange. Edward himself, an old shriveled man with nothing and one to leave behind, wanted to die. He longed for the release that death promised. But God had taken this young man instead, with his whole life ahead of him- friends and family grieving.

As the grim ceremony reached it's completetion, the morbid group began to disperse. Edward felt a soft tug on his sleeve and looked down. Shocked, he realized he was looking at the same boy he had seen earlier that day, carelessly chasing pigeons at the park. He was now wearing a black suit that looked way too big for his small frame. Edward guessed the suit had belonged to an older brother.

"Why do you look so sad, mister?" he asked, his voice filled with childhood innocence. "I'll miss Bryan too, but at least you and me are still alive. Bryan would want us to be happy, that's what mommy told me." as if on cue, the boy's mother called to him from the street. With a sad smile, the young boy ran off for his mother.

Edward lit another Pall Mall and stuffed his hands into his pockets. 'Damn, the kid' right.' he thought. Sometimes it takes a child's wisdom to open a taciturn old man's eyes.

Back at his apartment, he went right for the liquor cabinet out of sheer habit. His hand froze on the bronze knob. He heard the child's voice again, in his head. "Bryan would want us to be happy..."

Reluctantly, he let his hand drop to his side. Instead, he went for the phone. Hands slightly shaking, he punched in a series of numbers. After a few moments of ringing he nearly placed the phone back down on it's cradle when a tired voice answered the line. With a deep breath, he spoke.

"Son...? Son, how are you?"

45- Fit for a Pirate!

by on

sorry about thestructure, folks. pretty rough copy / paste job.

Note- this story is rediculously stupid. I was in a rediculously stupid mood.

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 ****ble 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!!!