On a dusty street, “Ow!” one dangerous-looking man grumps. “Watch where ye be walkin’ Booty Bates. Them be me new shoes ye be steppin’ on, bumpkin. I’ll run ye thru with me cutlass if’fn ye make that mistake again.”
“Yes, sir, Cap’n Bob,” Booty stutters. He jerks, back, and his beady eyes twitter. “Bob, I…”
“Jes be careful, or, I’ll send ye clean ta Davey Jones Locker,” Bob barks. “Aurgh!”
A feather in his big-brimmed cap, his black-leather boots nearly to his knees, Captain Bob leans; and he grins like a salty sea albatross had snatched a thick minnow.
“Just teasin’ ya buccaneers,” he continues. “Now, hurry. Load more ale. More’s the merry. We stove ammunition so we kin set sail at a moment’s notice if’fn we need ta,” he spouts and waves. “I be Captain Bearded-Bob-the Butcher-Beauman. A notorious pirate o’ the Caribbean an’ Gold Coast, I’ll have me rum an’ guns, mates.”
“Yes, sir,” Booty follows.
“Then, Scurvy Dawg, ye an’ Gangway make haste fer the Bloody Eel.”
The rowdy captain bellows like a bull elephant and he rolls his dead-to-the-bone, dark eyes.
“Tell others ta make ready fer sail the morrow,” he continues. “An’ Deadlights—ye an’ Cut-me finish gathering supplies whils’t I see if I can say me goodbyes ta lassies in the pub. Aurgh. Ho, ha, ha!”