Hey babes, I’m a gun for hire. I’ll fix your colour and your contrast. Call me.
…ehmm, ‘Captain Kidney’ narration.
Okay, opening is rop(e)y. First line – so bad she had to go…
‘The name is Captain Kidd’ I said to the sailor man.
Sensing a sneer I jabbed him, up from his sky, down to my sea level.
Spiked him good, no doubt of fact.
I withdrew dirk from a streaming eyeball, it leeched on my deck. But to [wizened] amazement of all spectators the eye skittered – away, bobbled along planks in the roll of ocean. Was there life remaining in an eyeball?
– ‘Eyeball,’ I announced, ‘make your grotesque, your dance, a jig alone, a shanty eye or hop.’
[And] gingerly, stepped cross the dancing eye, touched in a satisfaction the steel of blade held in my palm. I wiped it certainly, and wiped it indeed, on my boot leather. White metal gleamed like a newborn’s teeth – under this terrible and boiling hot sun of the Atlantic waterway.
The assailant, jack tar, American – only writhed upon our planks. His earthy hand reached, and clutched for something absent over that cheek bone. [surely, brothers, you know what he sought]. Only I followed course, by sextant or no, of the eye. But our Third mate – hearing commotion – of the combat sword – he stepped to, scrambled ‘sprit netting, and witnessed the horror vision still bounce on forecastle. Decisively, my Mate kicked eye [in a soup now] overboard, parabola of eye washed to sea. Dolphins circled our vessel, titbit treat, aye, aye, aye aye aye they cried. Meanwhile, this, my, the sympathetic mate fellow, he splashed a bucket of salt water upon that cheek – of the invalid buccaneer. You see, he bubbled blood from socket.
And rapscallion screamed one final time, a high shriek – irritating to my command of sailormen.
‘Go then, you. Go leap ye yonder, ‘ I said, ‘seek the shoreline of Newfoundland,’ I said it, or repeated – possibly, the words – and said, ‘Save the one jelly while ye have the one jelly remaining,’ t’was my philosophy.
And he rose, this Cyclops under a bonnet, and staggered, tumbled over bulwark rail. In mercy I tossed fiddle over the side, for the flotsam steady. Unfortunate to see fiddle sink under rising keel, and know sailors cannot swim, by tradition.
All episode complete, I slid steel, down aside my belted hip.
‘Next man devours the captain’s grog, or gives me a looking – I shall slash his ears, poke out eyes, and swallow a tongue for the digestive exercise.’ I nodded – mannish, rogue – listen up, [ye] lady friendlies.
From the rigging, boys listened, and they [too] swallowed, swallowed hard lines.
‘Set course for Bermuda,’ I cried, an example set for community. Helmsman Rafferty tipped his cap, swung the wheel in those steady, and big hands.