Lie once.

Lie twice.

And thrice more.

Here you are to pay the price.

Your boots made their arrival heard, ringing out a tremulous beat. The gangway rasped in a pained plea for you to leave. Even the frayed fibre tried to cajole you into heaving yourself up the sharp incline on their jagged teeth. No. You would not fall for the devious whispers of the Rising Ghost.

“Out me way!” Simple words welded with power to send the weed tumbling away.

With purpose to match the strongest sea storm you bore down on the first mate; they stamped their status with a single gold hoop. “Tell me w’er yer cap’in is! Or feel me wrath.”

Hoisting themselves to their full drunken height, the first mate hesitated- just for a second. Something dangerous flickered amongst the hazy seas trapped for eternity in their thick head, “Ye don’ ‘ave a weapon- “

“I don’t need one,” Another step, a deliberate move, “Cap’in. Now.”

Stupefied they lurched backwards, intoxicated. It wasn’t cheap drink of the Devil that flowed through this ship, it was your aura of serpentine tentacles that looped darkly through the rigging and bones. Unfazed by the gentle lilt of the ocean song, you lightly move across the deck in the wake of the jagged mountain of taught muscles. Under the cheerful light of the midday sun, you silently memorised every tattoo of filthy ink.

Always know your enemies.

Descending into the bowls of the Rising Ghost, you increased your self-awareness. This wasn’t your ship. It was theirs. Yet no flick of rats’ tails or shifting of dangerous silhouettes could be seen. All that could be heard was the melodic crooning of the shapely planks and harmonising creak of taught rope.

You winced as their heavy fist pounded on a meticulously polished mahogany door, “Cap’ a bilge rat for ye to skin!”

“I ain’ seen no bilge ra’ for ‘wen’y years or more. Sen’ in ‘he bilge ra’ Greg,” A voice wet with whisky emerged through the crack under the door, seeping out on a river of liquid gold.

“Me lady,” Greg opened the door with a flourish, bowing low and gracious. Blistered lips pulled back in a malicious smile, one that you wished to wipe off his smug face. Instead, you swept past cold as the driven snow, and sent the door back into its place with a firm heel.

Inside the Captain’s cabin toxic fumes of burnt cigars embedded themselves deep into the very fabric of the ships’ soul. No lithe figures could be seen dancing in the hearth flirting with the shadows of the past. Somehow the rich ribbons streaming through the delicate stained glass failed to illuminate the ornate scenes. Precariously balanced the dull brass lantern threatened to throw itself finally to deaths waiting arms.

Their contempt was clear beneath their glowering tricorn hat, even their bulbous nose managed to fold itself into something like derision. “I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me!” That final condemning sentence was forced out through gapping gaps and rotten teeth. Beneath their shallow façade lingered a trace of their eloquent and lavish heritage.

You held their weeping gaze. “I s’ill wish t’ see ye dance t’ hempen jig,” Spite poisoned your tongue, “Yet I see no pistol, where’s it at Cap’in?”

Leaning over their personal barrel they tried to look intimidating only to forget their ankles were carefully folded atop the desk. Amused one caterpillar stretched its still back against a pale backdrop. You knew you were on dangerous territory, yet when did prodding the beehive hurt anyone?

A single liver-spotted appendage gravitated towards the holster that hung limply from a straining belt. Nothing. Perhaps the other hip. Nothing. It just failed to reach the abused mouth from which a bluebottle made a hasty escape. “Com’on, surely a Cap’in o’ mighty ship knows where ‘is weap’n is! Really?”

“Shu’ yer trap! Or I ‘ave yer measured fer yer chain’s!” Violently punctuating the empty threat with a slamming of feet returning from the clouds.

“O’ ‘tis much fun t’ wa’ch yer rage. In t’ ol’days yer would ‘ave ma’e me kiss t’ gunners’ daughter, ‘ow times ‘ave changed.”

“Ye know nowt abou’ t’ ol’ days!” He hollered as he flung the contents of the desk across the distressed rug. All manner of things clattered, thumped and bounced into the spotlight or rolled mortified into the corners.

Surveying the items gathered on the floor you muttered wearily, “Still no pistol.”

“Shu’ up!” Bellowed the Rising Ghosts’ captain, turning an alarming shade of puce and his forehead veins threating to commit mutiny. “Why yer even carin’ abo’ me pistol? Who are ye, bilge ‘at an’ why ye ‘ere?” The great gulps of oxygen causing a strange staccato to his words.

Innocently, twisting your plain sleeve cuff you murmur, “O’ me?” Curiously, you tossed your orbs of wonder around the room, before ascertaining that indeed that you were the only one that was being addressed. “Well, I quite like me ship back, Cap’in.”

This caught him on the blindside, momentarily flabbergasted he wove his pillar-like arms in a mysterious configuration with his wobbling jowls gasping like a beached fish. “Your ship?” Was all he could muster, his tough exterior vanishing with the defeated fall of his hands.

“My ship. I wan’ ‘er back, please.”

“Or what?”

“Or I turns ye into fish food… and send ye t’ Davy Jones’ Locker,” you couldn’t help the slight sneer that crept like seaweed across your face.

“How? You don’t even have a weapon.” Childhood anxiety rose like a sea fog, swiftly stealing the seeing eye.

Fast as the northern gannet dives, you wrapped yourself around the portly figure. Nimbly, locking his wrists together with half a yard of rope, you press biting fear to his temple. “I don’ need a weapon, when I am t’ weapon. Like I said I wan’ me Rising Ghost back, and ye stole it. I don’ take kindly to thieves.”

“That is rich coming from a scoundrel.”

“Ye sure?”

“Yes! Untie me at once! Isn’t that my pistol?”

Pretending to meticulously study the firearm, you pause dramatically… “Seems li’e t’is mine too. Shame ‘tis rather pretty.”

Unable to stand his mindless chatter, you shoved him into the sharp point of the mantlepiece. Pressing against him, you freed your right hand which shoved an oily rag into his mouth. You felt a nub of repulsive pus break free of the gag, “Pick tha’ up, now.”

Stepping away you gave him ample space to retrieve his foul tooth, you tracked his movement with a sharp gaze. Waiting loyally by your side your pistol imperceptivity quivered with apprehension, delighted to be returned to its mistress’ skilled hands.

“Inhale it- now.”