Deep in The South Seas...
Off the shore of this setting's measly island lies an aged schooner. Her creaking deck in tatters and the sails in rags. A summer gust blows across the lighting of a setting sun, calm waters washing against the golden beach. A bonfire sparkles, presenting a burning bright in the growing dark.
Silent are the shore party of boaters making camp at this uncharted location, dining upon a crude supper of game and grog in silence. They are well armed, with steel and a packet of grenades by their small camp. The fire sparkles, the remains of their boar roasting on a spit, yet their mood is sour. One drinks his sating fill from a black bottle, another gorging upon his half-burnt boar's leg. Fatty juice seeps down into his crook-haired beard, wooden teeth tearing at the meat and blackened, crispy skin. Crunching, smacking.
Pink-Eye looks up from his meal with a sour tone, clinched eyes gazing at the gluttonous crewmate. He breaks the silence.
"Oi." He says, facing straight ahead at the glutton.
The Crew all face Pink-Eye, sullen stares at him. The glutton is occupied with his meal. Pink-Eye grinds his teeth, thin fingers trembling with anger.
"Oi, fatso." He says. The glutton looks up.
"Focks yo' problem man?" Crotchbeard responds bewildered, his face laced with the boar's grease.
"Keep ya bloody mouf shut when ya eat would ye?"
"Wot, ya gots a problem wiv the way oi' eat?"
"Aye, oi' do. It's focken disgustin. Ya've go' no respect for the folks around yer?"
"An' who're you ta talk about respect ya skinny lil' prick? Talkin' ta' me loik' tha'."
The crewmen have now ceased their dining. All focus is upon the debate.
"Wot, can't 'andle a bit of criticism ya yellow-bellied gravy-bleeder? Just keep yer dam' mouth shut when ya eat, plonker."
"Oi, you've got some nerve. Afta wot you did back in Blackwater Bay, scrog."
"The fock did you just say?!" Pink-Eye storms from his seat, his supper falling to the sand. The eyes of the mates, even Crotchbeard's, widen.
"Ahahahah, hit the keel, didn't oi? That's right ye bastard. 'oo's idea wos it to steal from the warehouse of Baron Revilgaz 'imself?" Crotchbeard says, now boasting a shit-eating grin.
"Shut your focken mouth!"
"C'mon buckos. Are the lot of ya' just gonna sit there an' let this blaggard spit all this muck on me? This twat tha' nearly 'ad us sunk from three Blackwater Frigates?" Crotchbeard says, looking out to the crew.
"We're not gettin' involved in this, Crotchbeard." says Skunk-breath, not known for brushing his teeth.
"Aye, an' he does 'ave a point about yer table manners." Claims Twig, a tall chap.
"Ya focken lubbers all too yellow-bellied ta stand up to this hook-nosed sneak. Ain't good fo' nothin', ain'cha?"
"That's it! Oi'm gunna teach ya the manners yer mother forgot ta beat into yer!" Pink-Eyed shouts, flying at a surprised Crotchbeard. The fat man is tackled over the bench, the two crashing against the sand. Pink-Eye sends two punches for his ugly, three-chinned, pube-haired face. By now, the tipsy Crewmen form a ring around the two foes, cheering and clapping.
Blood trickles down Crotchbeards nose. He bumps his hips upwards, sending Pink-Eyes chest forward , allowing Crotchbeard to grab him by the sides and send him to the right. The two twirl around in the sand like two ships in storm, beating eachother blue and yellow in tornadoes of fists. The cheers and rants are dulled out by the rush of adrenaline, the two oblivious to the world outside their struggle.
Both end up on their feet. Pink-Eye has fallen against the log, his face bruised. Crotchbeard huffs for air like a dog, pearls of sweat running down his already greasy face.
"Ya always were a lil' twat, ye know tha'?" He says. "Should've done dis times ago..." He stumbles towards the fallen Pink-Eye. The Crewmen gaze intently at the fight's would-be epilogue.
Pink-Eye pulls out a pocket pistol, hidden in his waistcoat. A small gun, often carried by finer strumpets to protect them against the more drunken customer. Pink-Eyes' only weakness has always been whores.
"Not one step closer, ye fat piece o' bacon pie."
Crotchbeard's eyes grow as wide as saucers. He raises his hands, and his voice is now trembling from not only fear, but exhaustion.
"Oh-no-no, take it easey now, Pink-Eye! Y...ye wouldn't shoot yer own mate, now would y-ye?"
Two crewmen rush to Pink-Eye to grab his pistol's arm. "Tha's too far, lay it off, lay it off!" They shout. Pink-Eye uses his last energy to desperately wrestle in defence to still hold his gun.
A fireloque snaps, followed by a gunshot.
One of the crewmen fall on his knees, blood spurting on the sand. Smoke creeps from the barrel and pan of Crotchbeard's piece - he missed.
"You blisterin' idiot! Ya shot Lancey!" The Crewman drops his grip on Pink-Eyes arm. "Oi'm gunna waste ya!" He flies straight at Crotchbeard, leaving Pink-Eye alone in the sand again.
A new brawl ensues at Crotchbeard, this time with the whole crew engaged. Pink-Eye claws at the sand as he crawls away from the scene, panting. Fingers thin clasping desperately for much-needed support.
Rushing footsteps can be heard from behind him. A screaming Twig rushes wild and wide-eyed at Pink-Eye, his boucan knife raised above his head.
"Oi'll gut ye fer this, Pink-Eye! Raaaaaaaahhhh!"
Pink-Eye spins around to fling a handful of sand into Twig's saucer eyes. The man reels back in blindness and pain, shouting with shock. He reaches into his waist-coat where his pocket pistol was, only then realising he dropped it earlier, after his struggle against the two shipmates.
He looks towards the fire, his heartbeat at the rate when he lost his virginity. All the swords have been grabbed by the brawling crewmates before the fisticuff ensued. His eyes lock on the boar's spit, tugged into the now-charcoal carcass of the pig. He gets up on his jelly knees, scurrying to clasp it. By now, an even angrier Twig is back on his sea-legs and high on Pink-Eyes' heels, racing after him to slice open his former shipmate like a sailor cuts a lime to belay the scurvy.
Adrenaline pumping, their eyes lock onto their respective goals. One after the other, they both trip on the makeshift bench. Pink-Eye hits the sand, but the much longer Twig falling face flat into the bonfire. He cries with panic as his skin boils and pops, desperately clasping and clinging like a frenzied animal to get out. As he does, Pink-Eye impales Twig's tarred guts with the boar spit - Twig bleeds horribly, his pained screams turning into a gargle, growing ever more silent before he succumbs.
Pink-Eye collapses again. His legs are weak and his throat is dry, so he reaches out for one of the bottles to drink his fill. As he does, he watches the violent brawl, swords still clashing - two bodies in the sand. Whichever of the teams win will surely not take a liking to him being alive. After all, it was he that caused all of this ruckus. And they're sure to blame his genius for their mess-up in Booty Bay.
He looks around.
The packet of grenades.
"Looks like we're about ta' 'ave some fireworks t'night, mates..."
With the campfire, he lights of one of the iron bombs. He grunts a he throws it.
It's now been fourteen years.
Fourteen years since the flop in Booty Bay.
Fourteen years since their ship was nearly sunk by the Blackwater Raiders.
Fourteen years since his whole crew died.
Fourteen years since he marooned himself.
The crew are nothing but bleached bones in the sand. Pink-Eyes hair has grown long and wild as he wanders the lonesome shores of this island. No ship, no crew, and no bottle of rum. Many ships pass by, many crews lay anchor to gather supplies, never does he shows his face. They will find out his crimes, and they will come for him. So he creeps, hides. Some, he take - drag into the jungle to cut open. Sometimes, he steals from their campfire as they lay asleep. But never do they have sweet, sweet rum with them, for which he thirsts.
Marooned and mad.