Gaaargh, after months o’ plunderin’ an’ the holin’ o’ many hulls, we was lookin’ forwards to the King of Tarsus’ hospitality. To grease is wheels o’ benevolence, we’d brung ‘is ‘ighness a chest o’ lacquered limpets to brighten ‘is cave o’ fancy tat.
Alas, Tarsus were not so friendly. The fishin’ boats what plagued ye harbour were gone, and the king’s flag’d been crudely enhanced with a violent pink squid. Either there were a new king in town or ‘e were off on some new folly. The King‘s enthusiasm be both a blessin’ and a curse for ‘is subjects. For example, the wearin’ o’ jellyfish as live prophylactics. Doubtless, they be effective, but I feels for ‘is wives – gaargh.
The lads were in dire need o’ bathin’ and duty-free shopping, so we docked anyways. We’d scarcely shaken the salt from our beards when we were accosted by a swarm o’ pinkly-clad clergical fellows. They boarded the Lollipop and officiously rooted through me cabins. Rage grew within me, an’ I exorcised me demon through the medium o’ a crossbow bolt. The rosy little friar tumbled off ye pier with a satisfyin’ splash, though it slowed the slew of ‘em not a jot.
Yarr, they confiscatered me booty and dragged it from me ship – we could not contest it, for me hasty shot’d caused ‘em to direct their arsenal upon us. To break ye awkward moment, I enquired after the manner o’ their faith, for their robes be more lurid than Barry’s pullin’ frock. The mad-eyed monks dropped to their knees, waggled their arms and declared ‘emselves “pliant tentacles in human form”. The bureaucratic brothers gave me a receipt for me tithes and a fistful o’ hysterical pamphlets before flouncin’ off. Yarr, how swiftly ye can go from convert to cretin...
Our anchors were locked and me cannons impounded, all on ye King’s orders. Gaargh, I felt more impotent than the eunuch singin’ gibbon who tidied me cabin. I be distrustful o’ priests with pistols, so I dispatched the young simian t’investigorate the state of ye kingdom. Off ‘e scampered, chitterin’ in ‘is gibbous tongue, arms a-flail.
There were little for the rest of us to do but drink rum an’ play deck games. The lads’d lost interest in curlin’, an’ had found favour in ye ancient game o’ Hopscotch, or Hop over ye Scot from which it derives. We took turns to hurdle the inebriate mass o’ Hamish McMuffin, a man prone to ire and deep-fried squid rings. Barry’d tripped over the slumberin’ Scotsman and were bein’ battered about ye deck when me freakish cabin-lad returned.
Gaaargh, I’d neglected to send a crewman with the gift o’ speech, so we endured an hour o’ monkey-mime to learn that an evil Greek (be there any other kind?) named Testicles the Canker had tainted ye King’s mind and taken over the kingdom with ‘is Church of the Hysterical Cuttlefish. The leaflets showed much leapin’ on furniture and evangelisin’ o’ an inventively ludicrous nature. We’d even encountered one such band o’ loons swimmin’ with cuttlefish in hopes of savin’ ‘em from killer whales… ‘Twere a pleasin’ diversion from a tedious day’s sailin’.
Testicles’ first edict were the executin’ o’ all budgies guilty o’ gnawin’ upon the holy husks ‘twixt the bars o’ their cages. ‘E then embarked on a campaign to educate ye fishermen in the preservation of the sacred cuttlefish. Ye Tarsian fisherfolk be none too bright and after picklin’ their catch, were now residin’ in ye dungeon. Gaaargh, I be no fan o’ such zealotry, or schoolin’. Plus the lads were most aggrieved at bein’ unwhored, so we made our plans with care.
The great storm what’d pursued us across the ocean cast its shadow upon Tarsus that night. We’d raided Barry’s wardrobe for dresses an’ body-stockin’s o’ general pinkitude and sneaked ashore. As we slew the dock-guardin’ dullards I noted the lads’d acquired somewhat more ladies’ garb than were strictly necessary for disguise, though the glitter were awful sparkly in the lightnin’ flashes.
From ye palace could be heard a vigorous hoonin’, above the rumble o’ thunder. We snuck forth with a tad more caution than usual, given the crackers creed this lot’d subscribed to. ‘Tis hard to describe the vision we espied, but I’ll try. ‘Twere an undulatin’ mass o’ pink priestly limbs, with High Priest’s tellin’ how the Cuttlefish made ye world. Yarr, the sight were queasifying – like a room full o’ amorous octopi. Even ‘is majesty were thrashin’ limply with the rest o’ ye deranged devotees. Gaaargh.
We leapt into the flock of fools, unnoticed at first. I think it were the stabbin’ and stockin’s what gave us away in the end. The monks soon ceased to turn ye other cheek an’ their faith faltered in the face o’ steel borne by such crudely caparisoned corsairs - as Barry bemoaned: we’d not taken the time to accessorise properly. Me gibbon’d brought a jar o’ pickled squids and were addin’ to ye hysterics by flingin’ ‘em into the crowd. Yarrr, one slimy squid slapped the King out of his religious reverie.
Gaargh, enlightenment be a grand thing to shine in a man’s eyes. The King seized ‘is favourite sword an’ set to a fine swashbucklin’ duel with the Hellenic heretic Testicles. Barry found ye could tell the real monks from ye locals as the latter wore blankets dyed with offal. Them we spared (if we’d not already slain ‘em) an’ mopped up the last o’ the parasitic parishioners. The evil Greek fought on, face flushed in the manner of ‘is favoured cuttlefish. With a dramatic spurtin’, the king castrated him to polite applause, since we’d no desire to unhinge him further. It seemed the king were in the pink, for ‘e ordered the monks stripped and their fine silks hung in the courtesans’ quarters whence ‘e bade us all retire.
Around midnight, when the storm’d passed, I heard Testicles a-wailin’ for his, um, testicles, and were soon joined by the sympathetic tones o’ me gibbon. ‘Twere quite a castrati lullaby, for I fell sound asleep. O’ course the next mornin’ I awokes to find meself securely knotted to the mast o’ me ship. But that be another tale an’ never did dim the memory of me night in a king’s harem – gaaargh!
