Captain Bad Trousers

He turned and barreled over to the occupied table in the corner. The sailors stopped talking and stared up at him in an unfriendly manner.

There were four of them. Encouragingly they all had the look of experienced seamen about them. Bandanas, scars, tattoos, missing limbs, eye patches. One of them even had a parrot, albeit rather shabby looking. It was like a special Pirates Edition of Guess Who.

“Ahem,” Bad Trousers cleared his throat as way of an ice breaker. This triggered a genuine coughing fit and the Captain then spent the next two minutes doubled up red faced coughing and wheezing away as one of the sailors pounded him on the back, genuinely concerned that he would pass away and they’d be accused of causing his death in some way.

Eventually the fit subsided and Bad Trouser collapsed down in a spare seat, glugging some strong grog in an effort to keep the coughing at bay.

He attempted to continue: “Well met my fellow seafaring friends! You looking like a merry band of brave sailors in search of adventure and riches. Am I right?” He took there silence as agreement and so continued.

“Erm …well … what are the chances, eh? You really are most fortunate. I am Horatio Montgomery Wellesley Bad Trousers, Captain of the finest privateering vessel west of Skull Island,” he declared in his most booming and impressive voice.

“And I just happen to have four berths that have opened up on board very recently. All across the islands of the Indies, blood-thirsty privateers are on a waiting list to join my …”

“It’s west of here,” interrupted one of the sailors. A serious-looking girl with an eye patch and a long sailor’s queue ponytail.

“Huh?” responded Bad Trousers.

“Skull Island is to the west of Port Royale,” the serious sailor continued. “If you think your ship is 3,000 leagues west of its current position then you’re in need of a navigator as well as ordinary seaman.”

“Umm .. well spotted,” the Captain recovered with only a moment’s hesitation. “A test only a true navigator would spot! You’re in luck too, clever lass. I’ve a space for a sharp first mate such as you. Double pay and your own cabin! Waddya say?”

The sailors looked at each other and began a heated whispered conversation. At the moment, Ol’ Bill creaked over and plonked a bowl of something hot and steaming in front of Bad Trousers followed by a brown hunk of bread, before shuffling off without a word.

The Captain agitated the broth dubiously. The Rusty Porthole was not famous for its cuisine. The normal approach was to breath through your mouth and get the substance down your throat in the shortest space of time possible in order to limit the tasting part of eating.

He tentatively slurped a spoonful, whilst the sailors continued to debate his proposition. The broth took him by surprise. It wasn’t awful! However, it wasn’t normal either. But most importantly it was edible. He could even identify the flavours of actual ingredients. The odd thing was that none of the ingredients would be ones you’d normally put together. The meal appeared to be garlic squid & buttered chicken soup, with pickled chickpea wontons, and spinach dumplings, served with crusty banana bread.

He gulped it down trying to untangle his tastebuds.

Meanwhile, the sailors seemed to have reached a decision.