tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78507462011-09-19T12:05:41.929-07:00An occasional blog by the guys who brought you International Talk Like A Pirate Day, September 19th. Pat Kighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14187288533769750543noreply@blogger.comBlogger292125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-73034949141351761422011-08-07T08:19:00.000-07:002011-08-07T08:20:12.625-07:00

Cap’n Slappy breathed in deeply.Memories began flooding his mind … a trip to Wales as a child with his brother, Thomas. It was winter and snow capped the hills around Cardiff – a tempting playground for two boys and a toboggan.“Tom, are ye sure this is goin’ to work?” young Mortimer asked his older brother – fear and frosty air cracking his soprano boy-voice.“Of course it’s going to work!” Thomas

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-12455430572263126862011-07-26T15:36:00.001-07:002011-07-26T15:47:14.717-07:00

(Okay. Let's get this going. We started this so long ago it's hard to remember when. We're going to finish, and we'll do so before August ends. So here we go.)The cart trundled slowly up the hills. For Luc, the downhill was actually harder. If he hopped aboard and let it roll, there would be no way to steer. And if he stayed in the traces, the ungainly vehicle bore down on him from behind. All he

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-18128461679123817532010-12-21T08:49:00.000-08:002010-12-21T08:56:24.247-08:00

Anyone who has ever been in close proximity to an exploding governor’s mansion will know that after the noise comes the rain of debris. This was Luc’s first state residence explosion – but it was Slappy’s third (actually, fourth, if you count the unfortunate events of the “party” at Henry Morgan’s celebrating the buccaneer's appoinment as lieutenant governor of Jamaica, but that sort of thing was

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-18885951613176254682010-12-02T04:06:00.000-08:002010-12-02T04:08:41.671-08:00

Minutes earlier in the governor's mansion:A shot rang out. Everyone in the entryway standoff – the governor, Mad Sally, Ol' Chumbucket, the guards – froze, looking up, surprised. Then they all looked down, and satisfied that they weren't bleeding anywhere, looked around again for the source of the shot.At the entrance to the main hall a cloud of white smoke cleared and revealed a young,

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-17620650291175120382010-11-15T04:36:00.000-08:002010-11-15T04:44:54.692-08:00

“Well, Sloopy you go to the governor’s mansion and rescue your Scumbucket and Luc and I will find Hamnquist and the very mysterious Messier Jeffries.” LeFleur suggested confidently.“Since when do I take orders from you, Froofie?”Fifi LeFleur gasped at Slappy’s impromptu new nickname. Slappy was clearly satisfied with the reaction.“You drop a Sloopy and a Scumbucket and you’ll get a Froofie every

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-16011434484157399242010-11-02T05:47:00.001-07:002010-11-02T06:10:49.063-07:00

The guards thrust Ol' Chumbucket and Mad Sally into a small room off the governor's office. While the office was a grand room with French windows opening onto the square, the room the two pirates found themselves pushed into was not much larger than a closet, with no windows.They were shoved roughly through the doorway and heard the door slam and the lock turn before they could even turn around.

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-64264148882501434742010-10-29T05:17:00.000-07:002010-10-29T05:20:24.148-07:00

About a hundred yards from the cathedral and the governor’s mansion, forming a sort of “town triangle” was a fountain that depicted the shepherd boy, David, defeating the giant Goliath. It was a work of art on a grand scale, commissioned by the famous sculptor and fountain enthusiast Emil Van Houghton. It captures the very moment the stone entered the giant’s skull – with water, not blood,

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-41595729041212621422010-10-27T05:17:00.000-07:002010-10-27T05:24:46.047-07:00

The guard led the way down the darkened hallway, trailed by the two monks and the enormous woman with the infant. "Down one more flight o'stairs and through the door there. I'll let you in," he said, flourishing the large ring of heavy iron keys, "but when you're ready to leave, you'll have to be patient, the guard detail has been called to the cathedral, so there's only the one man left on the

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-59794326414861515742010-10-25T05:16:00.000-07:002010-10-25T05:21:40.235-07:00

At the main entrance to Willemstad's gaol stood an unusual looking party of four. Two men in monk's robes led the way, followed by a gigantic figure pushing a perambulator. Someone glancing at the large form would have assumed it was a woman – the biggest, oddest looking woman they had ever seen. Someone giving longer than a glance might have gone blind, but if they somehow managed to retain

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-50340487920964078462010-06-01T05:25:00.000-07:002010-06-01T05:41:34.580-07:00

So here we are again, months after the last post. A lot of water under the bridge. But we are determined to finish the story now, if for no other reason than to satisfy Butch of South Carolina, our constant reader, who has been worried about the crew locked in the smelly - albeit freshly painted - gaol. The story has reached its climax and we're ready to push home to the closing.We also want to

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-69731088352201592492009-11-02T17:02:00.000-08:002009-11-02T17:03:17.055-08:00

Chapter 36“It stinks in here.”Cap’n Slappy slowly turned his head toward Sawbones Burgess in a move not unlike a slow alligator about to take a bite out of an unsuspecting goat. But Slappy was too tired to snap.“Aye.” He replied accentuating the obvious. “A fetid dungeon wherein dozens of filthy pirates do naught but make more filth and wait for death … bound to be a bit on the ‘stinky’ side.”

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-65517803220845178072009-10-28T05:53:00.000-07:002009-10-28T06:05:59.085-07:00

A note from the authors – Yes, we're slugs, probably also terrible, terrible people. It's been two months since we wrote the last chapter, leaving Slappy and the crew right on the edge of the gallows! Unconscionable, we know. What can we say? Not much except sorry, and point out that it WAS Talk Like a Pirate Day, and we got busy, and then ... hmmmm. The sun got in our eyes? The ball took a bad

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-77346396780556852162009-08-25T05:07:00.000-07:002009-08-25T05:34:48.170-07:00

“Go on, Luc, he says! You take these last meals to la prison! And make sure you get ol’ Hamnquist to tell us where his treasure is hidden! – PWAH!” Luc Duvall spat as he pulled the cart of covered dinner trays across the cobblestone streets of Willemstad toward the gaol doing his most disrespectful impersonation of Fifi LeFleur. “Imbecile! He says – TO ME! Imbecile! I cannot cater the most

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-50181133751370832752009-08-24T15:00:00.000-07:002009-08-24T15:16:52.738-07:00

"Where could he be?" Mad Sally asked, not for the first time."I can go look again, if you think that would help, but he wasn't anywhere to be found between here and the jail the last two times I looked," her redheaded companion said.Sally gave a short shake of her head. She had sent Ensign Ericsson to find out about Hamnquist six hours ago. He should have been back – must have been back – long

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-31798705711000936002009-08-13T14:00:00.000-07:002009-08-13T14:23:26.755-07:00

“I can’t breathe!”“Did you say, ‘TIGHTER!’? I thought I heard you say – ‘TIGHTER!’”“Stop! I’m almost dead!”“So? ‘Almost’ isn’t actually ‘dead’ now, is it?”The ingénue at the dressing room door signaled for two of the contract painters to come hither for assistance. “Somebody is killing somebody in there.” She whispered in a breathless panic.The two painters listened at the door.“Sweet Neptune’s

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-23743217346897184122009-08-06T08:19:00.001-07:002009-08-06T08:24:53.251-07:00

“Now, how do I paint clouds?” Cap’n Slappy asked.Oscar breathed a sigh.“Sir, with all due respect, you don’t. I’ll paint the clouds. You’re a little – “ he thought of saying heavy handed, but decided against it – “a little too important for painting clouds.”“Then could I help Jim paint the interior walls of the library set?” Slappy asked. “All those book spines? I love making up obscene titles

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-48621426192071207592009-07-15T10:17:00.000-07:002009-07-15T10:19:04.572-07:00

“Where are you going, Uncle Fifi?”“I’m going to the theatre! If we are to make the cake for the Governor’s command performance of the opera, it would do us well to know what the story is.”Young Jacques continued mixing frosting. “But we’ve got the D’Agustino wedding and the Shapiro Bar Mitzvah to finish this afternoon!”“Sheet cakes and matzo balls! Simple! You and Luc have things under control.

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-46437845703161856272009-07-04T09:31:00.000-07:002009-07-04T09:35:12.197-07:00

"Any more of that Low Country Sunrise?" "I think there's a quart of it down by the entrance.""A quart? I've got three cells still to finish!""How about Irish Bog? There's still a lot of that.""Are you kidding! That's green! Mix it with Low Country Sunrise? It'd make the prisoners puke!""Well, I don't know what else you can do.""I'm going to go talk to McCormack."Spencer turned from Red Molly and

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-80297710772324775652009-06-16T09:54:00.000-07:002009-06-16T09:57:05.698-07:00

“Uncle, nobody is ever going to believe that we are caterers.”Jacques fidgeted nervously with the cutlery they had used only moments before to dispatch the actual caterers whose identities they now assumed. He wasn’t sure whether to clean the knives or sharpen them so he just kind of handed them back and forth between his left and his right hands.“Nobody would have believed that Duvall here would

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-68700181615437567012009-06-10T05:33:00.001-07:002009-06-10T05:46:09.636-07:00

"Omigod!" the lookout on the Dutch frigate called out."What?" his fellow lookout asked."I … I thought I … saw something, over there," he pointed. "But no, there's nothing there," he said, his mind working overtime to deny the ghastly hued horror that was The Festering Boil."Are you sure?" the colleague asked."Yes, yes, I'm sure. But what's that ship over there? The one on the horizon making way?"

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-75701906628232742502009-05-24T15:04:00.000-07:002009-05-24T15:12:50.013-07:00

“Mon Capitaine.”Luc Duvall spoke only loudly enough to be barely audible as he stood several paces away from Fifi LeFleur. The French pirate captain carefully scoured the port-side cityscape of Willemstad’s harbor.“Mon Capitaine?”Duvall spoke only slightly louder – half hoping not to disturb his mercurial commander with his probably all-too-petty concerns.“In Dutch, Luc.” LeFleur said softly and

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-59103170079006387272009-05-20T05:24:00.000-07:002009-05-20T05:36:13.921-07:00

Mad Sally was a pirate. Always had been.True, that was not always an easy position to maintain in what was typically considered a "man's field." She had long ago lost count of how many times big burly pirates, or even small wimpy ones, had taken it on themselves to "protect the womenfolk," which included her. Or the voyages where, every time it looked as if she'd finally be able to command her

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-23940543346946725382009-05-19T06:29:00.000-07:002009-05-19T06:37:38.682-07:00

“Stack the bustles, darling! Let’s get as many as we can on this cartload!”The deep, raspy voice of Grandmama Jeanette du Bonnier barreled down the gangplank from The Poison Pearl to the women who hefted the cargo of wedding dresses and wedding dress accessories from the ship to the cart and then on to the little boutique they had purchased next to the gaol.“It’s a corset, dear! It’s made of bone

Cap'n Slappyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10841397960711479817noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-25021784717794442202009-05-14T06:02:00.000-07:002009-05-14T06:11:01.509-07:00

Every afternoon Gov. Roelof Van Wubbeldinker stood atop the scaffold, scanning the horizon.“Is that them?" he asked.Bernard Jeffries, the governor's valet and personal assistant, sighed. They'd gone through this every day for two weeks."Begging your lordship’s pardon,” Jeffries replied with a voice that was wearying of the routine, "to which ship are you referring now?""That one over there, to

John "Ol' Chumbucket" Baurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17120550659339089195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7850746.post-10874148888790131062009-05-11T06:01:00.000-07:002009-05-11T06:03:19.243-07:00

In the darkness, a voice.“’allo? Is anybody here? ‘al-low-sie-wosie? I am calling, you … yoo-hoo! ‘allo?”Another voice replies. This voice is deeper, a bit raspy, with just the hint of a Swedish accent.“Go away or I will kill you.”A pause. The first voice replies – losing much, but not all, of its baby-talk quality.“Too?”The raspy voice replied, “Do you mean, ‘two’ as in the number two? Or ‘too’

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