Captain Bad Trousers

It was dark and dingy inside the inn, and it smelt bad – of smoke, fish, and sweaty pirates – not a nice combination. But it was one of the few taverns where Bad Trousers could come and drink and not be sniggered at by the other pirates.

There were a few grizzly-looking sailors sitting in the corner, but other than that the room was empty. They glanced at Bad Trousers briefly as he swaggered across the room and crashed his beefy fist down on the bar.

“GRAAWWGGG!” He blasted into the deserted space behind the bar. “I need grog!! You lazy land lubber!”

The barman – known as Ol’ Barney Bill – emerged from the back room, his wrinkled face – looking like a sun-dried fig – squinting at the disturbance.

“Who’s shouting like to wake up the kracken?” He wheezed. “Oh Trousers. It’s you. I should’ve known. What do you want?”

“Grog, you fish-breathed fool! Didn’t you hear me the first time?” snapped Bad Trousers. “I need to drown me sorrows. It’s been twenty days since my mutinous crew left me. If I don’t get out to sea soon I’m gonna start growing roots.”

Bill rolled his eyes and poured the grog – a local brew called Muzzle Flash. He’d heard the same moan from Bad Trousers everyday since the Captain’s crew left him. He hoped for everyone’s sake Bad Trousers found some seaman stupid enough to sign up with TheThirsty Pig soon. The Captain was like an unlucky albatros for Port Royale, moping and cursing around town. There’d been nothing but storms and poor catches since The Thirsty Pig returned, and the island’s volcano – Devil’s Peak – had even started to smoke and grumble. To add insult, the Captain’s leaky ship was taking up valuable space on the dockside. Space that could be used by richer and nicer smelling customers.

“Why don’t you see if any of them fellas are looking for a ship?” Said Bill, tipping his head towards the occupied table. “Them’s fresh into port today.”

“Hmmm … maybe,” muttered the Captain. But then his stomach issued a loud gurgle sounding for all the world like an unwell walrus. “Barney, what grub you got on the boil at the moment?”

The wrinkled landlord looked evasive. “Well … ,” he hesitated. “Not sure you’ll like it, Trousers. Got a new cook and they’re a bit … experimental. It’s not everyone’s cuppa tea. No sign of Stargazy pie, no more. It’s all LobsterConsommé this and Wild Samphire that. Never heard of half of it. Might have to let her go.”

“Stop blathering, you crusty crab’s claw and just bring me a bowl. I’m gonna recruit me some sailors!” Bad Trousers declared optimistically.