It took hundreds of cannonballs to finally hole the Anglo Pearl below the waterline, but it’s fair to say that without the firepower of HMS Financial Times, this obscene thing might prowl our oceans for generations, sinking honest traders at every whim.
Finally, it seems, there are signs that Cowen’s band of jolly Jack Tars are beginning to mutiny. As we speak, the Green crewmen are huddled in the fo’cs’le of the good ship Biffo, swilling grog and plotting sedition. No longer do they fear Lenihan’s cat o’ nine tails. No longer do they quake at the thought of a keel-hauling or a walk of the plank. Cap’n Brian’s rusty old cutlass has broken off at the hilt and Davy Jones’s locker seems a far more welcoming place than the stump come next election time.
Treasure Island is running out of doubloons to pay the Ship of the Damned, and the natives are running out of patience. As the Biffo swings at anchor in the lagoon, beneath a tropical moon, you can hear the heathen native drums a-beating in the jungle, and it don’t sound right, Cap’n, if ye’ll forgive me sayin’ so.
If I were thee, Cap’n, I’d be lockin’ down the rum and postin’ a double watch tonight. Aye. That I would.
If ever you saw a sign, me ol’ matey, that things isn’t what they oughter be in the Capn’s quarters, just take a look at Ensign Willie, recently cashiered from the service for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.
If I were still at the Cap’n’s table, he says, I’d be askin’ him to hunt down these privateers and buccaneers on the Anglo Pearl and the Finger of Fortune. I’d chase them all the way from Tortuga to Tierra del Fuego. That I would.
Aye, Willie. We believes ya.
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