On 4 Jan 2017, these three words were chosen:
And these blurbs were written within five minutes….Enjoy!
Shanty sat up and yawned wiping the sleep from his eyes he heard it more clearly “….. cheat…. die….. friends”. Was this a female? Shanty grabbed his tunic and slid it over his head and then attached his peg-leg with a practiced move and started to head up the stairs from the sleeping area.
More screaming, curses and then something large slammed into the ship which caused it to lurch and tip. He almost lost his footing and went tumbling. What in the hell was going on he thought.
As he opened the hatch leading to the main deck he was almost struck in the head by some kind of flying debris. When his eyes adjusted to the starlight he realized the situation was way worse.
As he looked he found the source of the screams. His captain was being held upside down by a rather large squid tentacle as a very buxom mermaid was assaulting him.
Shanty sighed and pulled out his pistol. He had warned him to not mess with the merfolk.
Lon looked up at the sign. Pegleg and Yawn. He hoped this place was better than the last. The name was lost on him even though he’d stayed there just last name but the smell. The smell might haunt him for the next week. If his situation wasn’t bleak enough already, he’d found the only inn in the four cities to have a dead wench covered up by floor boards in his room. At least he’d found it while the water boy was there. Otherwise he just might be in jail right now. And that would be despite the fact that the body was easily 4 days old, maybe more.
Walking in the bar, his first sight was a crowded room and then the tantalizing scent of roast meat of some kind curled around his nose and pulled him the remaining steps through the door. Now this was a proper inn. The bar in the back had two empty stools and Lon made his way quickly to claim one. The bartender, a tall, thin man looked down at his through bespectacled eyes.
“What’s for ya?” he asked in an odd accent.
“A pint, please of your best draught.”
“Hey Pegleg, get over here,” yelled Shamus.
“I hate it when you call me that,” Griffin grumbled back as he hobbled over.
“Stop you’re complain’n’. It’s not like it isn’t true,” Shamus argued.
“That’s not really the point,” Griffin scolded. It took him a few minutes to make it over to Shamus, who was standing next to the vault.
“Now crack it open,” Shamus commanded. Griffin looked at the combination lock and stifled a yawn. This was going to be too easy, he thought to himself. Griffin longed for a challenging situation, one where he could actually utilize his advanced safe cracking skills.
Pegleg could not be more unimpressed with this whole situation. He fought the urge to let out a huge yawn, because that would get him clouted at best, and sent out beyond the wall at worst. The others continued to argue, the fine kings in their satins and cloth of gold, with silver swords hanging from their belts, and jeweled crowns on their brows. The yelled and muttered and cursed, about the advancing hordes, and the placement of troops, and the division of supplies, and who was to blame for the losses.
Pegleg stood behind his king, King Rudrun the king of the dwarves, and tried to shift his position so the blood-flow could get more easily to his feet and ease the numb throbbing in his heels. All this talk, and no one using their eyes, Pegleg sighed to himself. It would be so much better if they went out to the wall and actually had a look. The room gradually fell silent, and when the young dwarf looked up, he was horrified to find all eyes on him. He clapped a hand to his mouth, his whole face going red as he realized he had spoken the words aloud.
He wondered what would be a worse punishment than going beyond the wall, and he couldn’t think of what it could be, but he was sure he was going to get it.
This was the situation. One man on a plank of wood, the other with a gun and a peg leg, and the third with a yawn. The two embroiled in the act of standard pirate tomfoolery were not the focus of the tale.
No, that would be me. The guy off to side, who’s seen this about ten times today. I am the real victim here. Not Sir falls-in-the-shark-water-a-lot. He died, like, eight billion years ago, or some such nonsense. I didn’t care about him.
But I did care about the broken handle on the time device, because now I don’t know how to stop watching this scene all over again.
“No, please,” cried the about-to-die pirate, and I mouthed his words in tandem. I think this is my least favorite part.
Shoot, off the plank, down in the water.
My device is next to me. We are out of phase, so I can’t even ask the guy with the sword on his hip to give me a good stab to end this. Nope. Another examination of the device shows what I already know, the lever is busted, the phase regulator chugging along—despite me throwing the thing around a few times after the handle broke—and the date still stuck to this backwater world of water and smelly alcoholics, who were smelly before they went out to sea.