The Bath-towel of Mosey

Arrr, I be a pirate!

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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby Cap'n Mitebe Lorst on Thu May 27, 2010 9:14 am

Souse me fer a gurnet, sez oi!
If I wuz to 'ang it on a wall then peepil cud see it for free! Whaar wud oi get me tuppences?

Onywayz, I thort the Benbow had closed?

But stay me. If'n ye want thee Holey Bath-towel o' Mosey fer yon Inn then mebbe oi cud trade it for sum of the Benbow's best cone-yak?

T'wud 'ave to be a fair trade, tho. Thee towel is defernatly vurry special. K.P.S. La Bouche sez that wen she wuz gropin' 'er ways thru the darkened gundeck wiv "Ironballs" Johnson she felt the touch of a noodly appendage 'an 'ad to fall to her knees.
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby black bart on Thu May 27, 2010 9:56 am

Arrr thar be plenny o dark corners in thee Benbow. :lech:
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby Cap'n Mitebe Lorst on Thu May 27, 2010 10:18 am

"Rite! Oi'll try me luck at thee Inn.
Yer obviously a reggeler round these parts, Black Bart. Cud you point me cumpass in the direcshun of the Benbow?
No, ... 'ang on a minnit. Tell me sea artist. Ees better at navigatin' than oi am.
Higgs! - send the Spanishy up 'ere."

"Axept me pologies, Black Bart, yon Spanishy 'as a nawful way o' spikken. Ees 'ard to unnerstand but ees gud wiv charts."

*a noble figure in a wide-brimmed feathered hat and frilly shirt appears at the rail. He gives his thin mustache a twirl*

"Good day to you, sir. *he sweeps off his hat with one hand and bows low* I am the Sailing Master, Señor Naufragios Diecisiete, also known as..."
*he brandishes a rapier to the sky - there's a brief sound of a discordant concertina from below decks*
“El Ciego”

*Cap'n Lorst shrugs and raises his palms* "Jus' tell 'im, Bart"
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby Cap'n Mitebe Lorst on Fri May 28, 2010 6:26 pm

The silence seemed to drag on for … well … days.
Black Bart’s slack-jawed gaze appeared to be focused on K.P.S. La Bouche, who had stretched out on the rope locker to enjoy a delicious banana.
“Garglegarglegargle,” he drooled.

“Did yer get that, Fraggy?” Lorst asked his navigator.
“My sincere apologies, Captain,” replied the Spaniard. “But I am afraid that…” he paused as a loud but tuneless trumpet note sounded from the quayside. “… El Ciego … did not comprehend a single word.”
Lorst frowned and turned to the crew milling aimlessly* about on deck.
“Onywon no wot yon Spanishy sed?” he sighed.
A timid voice piped up. “Scuse me, Cap’n.” It was able seaman Enjoado Diariamente, a Portuguese. “Oi fink ‘e wuz chust sayin’ he didna unnerstan’ the Black fella.”
“Bollox,” exclaimed Lorst. He turned back to the crowds on Gunwharf Quay.
“A penny fer the man oo will take us to the Admiral Benbow!”


*although their movements appeared aimless, some force of gravity seemed to be drawing them all towards the rope locker.
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby Cap'n Mitebe Lorst on Mon May 31, 2010 5:57 am

The silence continued.
“Rum place this’n, Cap’n,” said Higgs. “Why ain’t nobody spikken?”
“Aye, it’s mighty strange, that’s fer sure,” replied the captain. “Oi feels a cold wind blowin’ up me channel. Ask thee naveegator and the gunner to join me. Oi fink we will go fer a stroll.”

Stepping ashore from the “Wanderin’ Penguin”, Captain Lorst and his men strode along the crowded quayside, exchanging greetings with the shoreside wharfmen and window-shopping at the many wenching stations.
Lorst suddenly called out. “Helm a-larbord, shipmates.”
The Captain had halted outside a small shop.
‘Halitosos Jack’ Hackem, Master Gunner on the Penguin, peered through the grimy doorway. “Hoa!” he cried. “But yon hovell stinks loike an ‘orse’s arse. May oi drink a bowl o’ stale grog wi’ a diseased stripper if that ain’t so!”
“I must say that there is a somewhat disagreeable odour, Captain,” said Neufragios. “Do you not agree?”
“Arf parst heleven,” answered the gunner.

Lorst was studying the sign above the door. ‘Ye olde Skwirril Shoppe’ it announced, in faded yellow text, ‘Prop. Nasir Al Sinjab, Licensed Purveyor of ye Fynest Arabian Skwirrils’.

Lorst entered the unlit shop, followed reluctantly by his men. Inside, the walls were lined with small cages, each filled with a small grey rodent. The stink had caused Lorst’s aged parrot to shrink against his owner’s neck and bury its beak within his bandanna.
The Captain tapped at the bars of the nearest cage and examined the animal within. “Akcherly, oi do fink dat’s a rat,” he murmured.

A swarthy man with black hair, dressed in a long yellowish gown and sandals, appeared at the counter.
“Gud forchoon attend ye, gents,” he cried. “Thars nobberdy more welcome than yerself. ‘Ave yer cum to buy a fine ra… Harabian skwirril?”

The sailing master stepped forward and bowed. “Good day to you, shopkeep”, he declared. “I am Señor Naufragios Diecisiete, also known as..."
He drew his rapier and brandished it towards the ceiling. The sudden movement startled the caged animals which, as one, gave a discordant scream.
“... El Ciego!”

“Yes, yes,” said Lorst impatiently. “Can yer stop ‘im from doin’ that, Mister Hackem? Nex time e duzzit it’s your nuts on a skewer.”
He turned to the shopkeeper. “Oi want a gude skwirril t’be me companiun”.
Nasir, the shopkeeper, rubbed his hands together and smiled, displaying two gold teeth but very little else. “Oi has chust the thing fer ye, Cap’n. Fust class pedigree an’ all. But…” Nasir indicated the parrot cowering on Lorst’s shoulder. “fergiv me fer statin’ the bluddy obvious, yer seem to ‘ave sumthin all reddy?”

Captain Lorst appeared startled for a moment as he turned to look at his left shoulder.
“So oi duz,” he said, and marched swiftly out into the street.
There was a sharp sound of a flintlock key opening the gates to heaven, then Lorst strode back into the shop, brushing stray feathers off his jacket.
“Now oi is companionless, an oi need a skwirril.” The Captain raised his pistol and pointed it between Nasir’s eyes. “An Inglish skwirril, mind. Not, … fer example, … an ‘ole rat pretendin’ to be a Harabian skwirril. A pity that wud be.”

Nasir, now sweating, raised his hands. “Fer you Cap’n, I has sumthin veeeery special.” He scuttled off to the back of the shop and returned with a bright, clean cage. “Yon little red feller cums fra’ thee Isle o’ White. A pure pedigree Inglish skwirril if ever there wuz wun.” He opened the cage and lifted the animal onto Lorst’s arm. It immediately ran up to his shoulder and sat there contentedly.
“Ow much?” asked the Captain

“Well now sur,” said Nasir, leaning heavily upon the counter-top. “Seein’ as you is Cap’n Mitebe Lorst, oi wud be willin’ to let yer ‘ave the animal fer free.”
Cap’n Lorst leaned heavily upon the shopkeeper. “An why wud that be, oi axe?”

“Beggin yer pardon Cap’n,” gasped Nasir, “but cud oi be allowed to breeve? Thank you. Well, oi’ve ‘eard all about yer advenchures, of corse, and oi’ve ‘eard tales about some o’ yer crew…”
Nasir’s eyes glazed over and he seemed to be temporarily in another world. Lorst gave him a nudge with a cutlass point.
Nasir shook himself. “Yes sur, some of yer crew… but oi has a desire to go on account and wud loike to join yer.”

“Burn and sink me, oi is allus lookin’ fer crew,” said Lorst. “Scupper yer hide outa here an get yerself down to me ‘Wandrin’ Penguin’. Chust axe fer Pegnose, me quartermaster, an’ put yer hand to his artickles.”
The captain thought for a moment. “An when oi sez ‘artickles’ oi means papers. Don’t let ‘im convince yer it’s anyfing else.”

“Now jump lively lads, stand by to go about. We has to visit thee Benbow.”
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby Cap'n Mitebe Lorst on Wed Jun 02, 2010 2:59 pm

Image

As they left ye olde skwirril shoppe, a comely wench approached the Captain and pressed a piece of paper into his hand. “From a friend”, she whispered, patting his lunch-box. Lorst let out a high-pitched scream, dropped the paper, and shrank back into the doorway. His newly acquired squirrel disappeared into his shirt.
“Wots up, Cap’n?” asked the gunner. “Yer be hembarrasin’ us’n all wiv yer girly axshuns.”
Wild-eyed, Lorst pointed a trembling finger at the crumpled paper.
“Billy Bones, Billy Bones. ‘Tis the black spot. Oi nivver thort oi’d be the one. ‘Tis Davy Jones’ fer me. Mebbe that’s why nobody has been spikken to us.”

Neufragios picked up the paper and unfolded it. “I can confirm, sir, that this is not a fictional literary device. It is a message from the Captain of the Madde Moggies Revenge. A certain lady by the name of Pieces O’Nine. It states: “Oi be expectin’ yer at th’ Benbow in Penny Street.”
Lorst’s mood lifted. “Arrr, Oi unnerstud thee last bit. Weigh anchor lads.”

Turning off the Gunwharf Road, the streets became narrow, cobbled, and slippery with the slime of refuse. The buildings were crammed together, and dark furtive alleys slinked away in all directions. Above them rose houses of blackened timber and peeling plaster. They were three or sometimes four storeys high, and each storey projected over the lower one.
In a street of some width, the effect would doubtless be picturesque. But most of the streets here were narrow lanes, and the projecting buildings from each side almost met at their top storeys, making the street itself gloomy and airless.
Penny Street was badly paved, and the middle of it was little better than an open sewer. The dirt, refuse and chamber-pot contents from the houses were thrown out into the street; one reason for the projection of the upper storeys. The pavement, such as it was, was raised at the sides of the road so as to make it possible to walk clear of too much mud.

It was a street of loud noises – hooves and raw coach wheels on the cobbles, the yells of traders, the brawling of apprentices, cries of “garde l’eau” and scuffles to keep to the wall and not be thrown into the oozy kennel.
“Oi don’t see a sign anywheres,” said the Captain.
Close by there was a loud, angry shout and the sound of breaking glass. A body flew out through a window, splashed through the open sewer in a shower of glass splinters and crumpled into an untidy heap onto the cobblestones.

Hackem glanced through the broken window. “I fink this must be it, Cap’n.”

The sailing master stepped forward and doffed his hat. The crumpled figure on the ground was female. “Greetings, madam”, he declared. “I am Señor N... Ooooof!!

Neufragios had also fallen to the ground. Hackem quickly put away his heavy leather cosh whilst a nearby accordionist looked somewhat disappointed.

Lorst nodded approvingly.

The wet and filthy pirate stood up and brushed herself down. “Cap’n Lorst! Oi be Pieces O’Nine. Welcome to thee Benbow. Oi has been expecting yer and has just ordered yer a cone-yak on Black Bart’s tab.”
She wiped away a trickle of blood from her lip. “As yer can see.”
Pieces invited the men into the Inn.

As they entered the dimly lit alehouse it was obvious that Lorst was not impressed.

Pieces noticed his scowl. “Yar. Oi knows. Dis place used to be a bit hoity-toity, but luckily it degenerated into a stinkin’ dive o’ notoriety and became very poppler. Tho’ it still has sum way to go afore it will feel truly cumfterbul.”

At that moment a storm-lantern was lit and directed towards the bar.
“Ohh, take a seat Cap’n, the entertainment is about to begin.”

“Laydeez and gennelmun, Oi is da M.C. Arseburn O’Leary. Perleese put yer hooks togevver an’ give it up for the faymus Oirish wench Betty Burke.”
Betty emerged from behind the bar.

“Odd’s* fish,” gasped Halitosis Jack, “that’s the ugliest woman oi’ve ivver seen. She ‘as the thews o’ a Liverpule docker – and the beard to match.”
As the noisy clinking of hooks and stamping of feet died down, Arseburn continued. “Betty will be singin’ thee foine Oirish chantey ‘Mo Ghile Mear’ which she sez is abaht some posh covey by the name o’ Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

An angry roar erupted from a table in the darkest corner of the inn.
Pieces nudged Lorst and grinned. “This shud be gude. Daftbeaker‘ll ‘ave a corronry.”

“Damn yer gizzards, Arseburn.” Daftbeaker jumped up onto the table and waved his cutlass wildly. “Oi’ll choke those wurds down yer throat, yer false-tongued bilge-suckin’ weevil.”

Betty ducked down behind the bar and began to remove the grog bottles to a safe place, which mostly seemed to be her own apron pocket.

“What maggot’s burrowin’ under your periwig, Daftbeaker?” retorted Arseburn.

“That Prince Charlie is a jug-eared tosspot who sells overpriced biskits an’ I won’t ‘ave his name menchuned ‘ere.”

“Sit down,” shouted O’Leary, drawing out a stiletto, “or I’ll peel yer skin like a mango.”

In an instant, Daftbeaker and his entire crew joined with O’Leary and his ‘doormen’. The fracas lasted hardly five minutes before both sides retired happy amongst the blood, spilt grog and broken furniture.

“Well,” said Pieces. “Oi fink we is all cumfterbul now.”

Pieces ushered the men into a back room.
“Oi’ve telt everybody about thee bath-towel o’ Mosey,” said Pieces. “An’ thaars a kew fer havin’ a skeet at it.”
“It’s a very small kew,” said Lorst dismally. “P’raps we shud’ve brought La Bouche. Oi fink the kew would be longer then.
Ahh well, open the lunch-box, Jack.”

Halitosis Jack prised open the lid of the ‘Little Princess’® lunch box and jumped back in shock. The towel was not there.

“A plague on yer scurvy head, Jack Hackem, yer fergot the towel!” thundered Lorst. “Ye’ve got no more brain than a sea-turtle.”

“Nay, Cap’n, nay!” protested the gunner. “It were there. I garrantee it. Yon lunch-box ain’t bin out o’ my care since we… Ohh! … except fur a breef moment outside the skwirril shoppe.”
"Odd’s bodkins!* Me towel’s been stole! Sum thievin’ blaggerd must’ve taken it. The crime must’ve occurred at about the time of the death of Arfur."
“Oos Arfur?” asked O’Nine
“Arfur. Me ‘ole parrit.”
“Oh, … aye.”

“Barkeep,” shouted the Captain, “bring me a mug of 100% proof Sangreal. I need to soothe me nerves.”
Lorst takes a big gulp of the fiery liquid.
“Who cud’ve done this?”

Pieces O’Nine moved closer to Lorst and lowered her voice. “Cap’n,” she said conspiratorially, “Oi suspects it may have bin the Covinous, also known as ‘the deceitful’, a sect devoted to spreading misinformation about the FSM. If they ‘eard about the bath-towel they wud want to remove it to prevent us from proovin’ that his noodleyness exists.
Oi thinks the best place to start is the Domus Monasteriense, a hospice for pasta pilgrims just down the street. The sect members often leave signs to their members which tell which way they have gone.
Seek out their mark.”

Cap’n Lorst stood and drew his cutlass.
“Shipmates, we have a quest. We must seek the Mark of the Covinous.”



*Captain Oswald (Odd) Stoatfondler.
Leader, sole member and martyr of the Jack Bean Uprising of ’45, an attempt to introduce jack beans (canavalia) and fish heads as a delicacy. The beans turned out to be psychoactive. Oswald died when he dived off the Round Tower in Broad Street, insisting that his pink tutu and fairy wings would keep him aloft.

*Bodkins – small frilly knickers. Found on Oswald’s body after his fatal leap.
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby pieces o'nine on Wed Jun 02, 2010 5:27 pm

* pieces smiled evilly as thee pyrates set off on their quest *

* she then retired to thee Madde Moggies Revenge for a hot shower and change into respectable gear, ordering a cone-yak to go on the way out *
I will honor Monkey in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.
~Charles "Darwin" Dickens
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby Cap'n Mitebe Lorst on Mon Jun 07, 2010 6:37 am

‘Halitosos Jack’ and Naufragios Diecisiete followed Captain Lorst towards the front door of the Inn, completely unaware of the dark and shifty gaze of Pieces O’Nine. Silently, Pieces gathered up her weapons and her cone-yak and slipped out a side door.

But, as Lorst was about to leave, a hand was laid on his arm. He turned. It was Saucy Gert, head alewench and landlady of the Admiral Benbow.
“Cap’n, afore ye go, cud oi offer ye the speshulty o’ thee ‘ouse.”
“Thanks Gert,” said Lorst, “but oi’ve alreddy bin to Madame Fifi’s.”
“Oi meanz a mug o’ Captain’s Delight wi’ a Brasso chaser.” Gert lowered her voice to a husky whisper.
“Oi ‘ave summat to say to ‘ee.”

She led the men to a table in the dark corner recently vacated by Captain Daftbeaker and his crew. Taking out a soiled napkin she mopped the blood from a stool before seating herself down
“Oi over’eard yon strumpet, Pieces O’Nine, tellin’ ye a tale of tha Mark of tha Covinous.”
“Indeed, yes, my good lady,” said Naufragios, “Astonishing news, is it not? We are momentarily set to embark upon a great quest in search of the Holey Towel.”
Saucy Gert frowned in confusion. The Benbow’s resident kazoo band rushed onto the stage as the gunner slipped his cosh out of his pocket, but Lorst motioned Hackem to stay seated.
“Onyways,” continued Gert, “Wot oi sez ter ye is, there ain’t no such fing as thee Mark of ye Covinous.”
“Wot!” gasped Lorst, rocking back in his chair.
“Yaaar. Peeple bin sarchin’ fer the Mark fer senchuries. Its wot they call a Hur bin* Myth. Pieces be tryin’ to throw ye off course.”
“But… why?” asked the astonished captain.
“Oi reckin she ‘as thee towel. ‘Ave yer bin approached by any wench lately – other than at Madame Fifi’s?”
Lorst’s eyes widened as he recalled the shapely petticoat who had given his lunch box a squeeze and frightened his squirrel.
“Aye.” Gert nodded. “That wud be Arfinch Moll, wun o’ Pieces’ bosom buddies.”
The men leered and huddled closer.
“‘Pon me lyfe! Oi means a crony, a haccumpliss, yer notty, notty boys.”
Lorst sat back and sipped at his Brasso, considering this new information.

“Why are ye helpin’ us, Gert? Why shud we believe yer?”
“Well, oi tell ye plain. Oi ‘as a grudge agin that vixen. She wuz hinvolved wiv me former luvmate Mayor Keith Liversausage.”
Gert sighed and clutched at her ample bosom.*
“Hits all a bit compleecated. Me Keefy Cuddlekins…”
At these words, Hackem lost his lunch*
“… ‘ad a meetin’ at the Wintergait Tavern wi’ Pieces and sum unknown bilge-rat from Bart Industries. There wuz a scandal,” Gert blushed, “an Keefy wuz deposed by the new Mayor, Boorish Jobsworth.
A tear trickled down Gert’s face.
“Keefy never recovered from the shame.” She took out her bloodstained napkin and mopped at her eyes.
“‘Ave a wurd wiv Frank “Whinger” Snoggins. ‘Ees a reporter wiv the Ole Portsmuff Guardian. Axe ‘im abaht Pieces. Oi wud wager an andsum venture that yer get a clew abaht the whereabouts of yer towel.”

*The Rubaiyat of Hur bin Hokum – a collection of ancient myths that are believed by many to be true stories. It’s become a bit of a religion, apparently.

*[Editor: What’s all this fascination with bosoms?]

*It was a steaming bowl of fish-head stew, but he realised he hadn’t lost it, he’d left it on the other table.
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby black bart on Mon Jun 07, 2010 7:17 am

Be ye sure ye aint no realshun o thee infamous 'Walktheplank' matey?

Jus as a warnin ta ye...ave ye read 'The Lost library of Los Windos' in thee Far fetched Annecdote thread?

Tis a salutoree tale an no mistake:

Captain Bungo and The Lost Library of Los Windos

Many years after the Spanish Conquistador Hernan Cortez had wiped the Aztec Empire off the map we sailed to South America in search of Eldorado.

The Captain's Log

Day 12

Jungle to the left, swamps to the right, men falling to the left and right, some from poisoned darts but most from the worst case of the shits I've ever seen...we should never have eaten those fishy Tacos!

How did Cortez do it?

Day 14

Discovered the skeleton of an old conquistador which seemed to be pointing the way to Eldorado with it's bony outstretched arm. A sign sticking out of the skeleton's teeth read:

'This way to The Land that Time forgot...Don't eat the fishy tacos or the gristle sandwiches.'


Day 16

At last we emerged from the terrible jungle onto a plateau. Here we found an amazing 'land that time forgot.' The villagers had never seen a white man and it was clear they had the blood of Montezuma running in their veins...as unfortunately did most of my men after eating those tacos!

Day 17

The villagers offered us a day trip to Cancun including lunch and all the cocktails we could drink. The men were up for it but I reminded them we had come for GOLD and Riches beyond our wildest dreams!

Day 18

I cannot understand why Cortez treated this people with such cruelty, they are wonderful hosts and have promised to show us their secret temple...which surely must be where they keep the GOLD!

Day 19

The villagers put on a display of exotic nude dancing. The grace and elegance of the dance was only matched by the flowing silky hair...all down their backs, none on their heads.

I asked chief Tescoquetzaltaco: "Are the women as graceful?"

Tescoquetzaltaco: "These ARE the women. They are bald so they can wear 'The Wigs of the great god Walkatoplanktl Tomorrow we will wear the sacred wigs."

"That's lovely" said I, "when can we see the GOLD...er...the secret temple?"

Tescoquetzaltaco: Tomorrow.

That night I could hardly sleep...tomorrow we would get the Gold! Why oh why did Cortez destroy this wonderful civilization?

Day 20

Chief Tescoquetzaltaco led us up into the mountains. The villagers were all bedecked with the most outlandish wigs I've ever seen. The procession came to a halt high above the village and there, set into the living rock, were two Great doors carved with elaborate Aztec figures. With the sounding of a great Aztec horn and by some mechanism unseen, the huge doors opened.

"Behold the Temple of Walkatoplanktl cried the chief. "We have saved all this from the murderous hands of the Spanish invaders."

"Marvelous." said I, and the men and I rushed in to grab the Gold.

Inside the mountain was a fantastic hall, with stone pillars and galleries, lit by huge torches. I could see no gold but on the walls were rank after rank of stone shelves covered in countless thousands of books.

I couldn't believe it, the legends were true...we had found 'The Lost Library of Los Windos'...

I picked up one of the books and began reading:

library fragments wrote:"I emerged from my cabin and did up my frockcoat. It was fashioned from a dark blue material, serge perhaps, and had turned back cuffs which were decorated with small clusters of gold beads which were sewn between the parallel piping which was also of a golden hue. When I did up my coat, it was by pulling the left front flap of my coat toward my right breast, and holding it in position while fastening the coat shut with five brass buttons, each of which was inserted into a corresponding buttonhole. At this point, I could release my grip on the coat, as friction alone would prevent the garment from coming undone."



Luckily, the chief roused me from my sudden torpor...

"Neptune save us...what utter drivel!"

I turned to Tescoquetzaltacky and asked: "How many more of these books have you got on these shelves?" and he replied "150,000 all written by the hand of the great god Walkatoplanktl"

I turned to my men and said "Kill them, kill them all...and burn the frickin library to the ground!"

Day 43

Our search for the Gold continued, although we now do a nice line in exotic wigs.
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby Cap'n Mitebe Lorst on Tue Jun 08, 2010 5:35 am

Back aboard the ‘Wandrin’ Penguin’, Captain Lorst was pensively considering all that had occurred that day, when there came a timid knock at the cabin door.
It was the ship’s carpenter, surgeon and cosmetologist, William “Barbara” Seville.
“Ping! You’ve got threats!” he trilled.

Lorst waved his hand impatiently. “Anuvver! Wot’s this wun sayin’ then?”

Barbara peered myopically at the scrap of paper. “Seems ter be a thinly veiled threat from yon Black Bart cove,” he suggested. “Summat abaht Captain Bingo?”

“Oi’ve nivver ‘eard o’ Bingo,” snarled the Captain, snatching the paper from Barbara’s grasp. “An oi bain’t innerested in any tippytoe malices.”
Lorst glanced at the message.
“This’n makes abaht as much sense as Spanishy’s forrin ramblins. Send this…wotsisname… Bert… a pikchure of La Bouche. That’ll keep ‘im droolin’ loike a babby fer a whiles.”

“Wot shud oi rite on ther pikchure, Cap’n,” asked Seville, pulling a quill from his hat and licking the end.

“Errr… ‘Dearest Berty, you ‘ave the largest weevil oi’ve ivver seen. Luv Kissi.’
That’ll do it”
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby black bart on Tue Jun 08, 2010 8:43 am

Arrr ye be roight...I has got a big weevil...now thee tale about how I got such a wopper be anuther story...

It were a dark and stormy night and an e mail came in on me newly purchased Scumsoft Iplank:

'Make thee wenches scream wiv delight wiv an extra 4 inches on yer plank'

I tried to stroke thee widget for 'Junk Mail' but it be a devil usin a touch screen wiv an hook an I haccidentaly stroked thee Widget for 'Buy,Buy,Buy'!

Anyway four weeks later I sailed into Tortuga wiv an appointment ta see Dr Wan Hung Low who's offices were in a dark back alley swarmin wiv mutinous lookin dogs.

I walks in and dropped me pants and said "I've come about me plank"...the recepshonist screamed an fainted an Dr Low said: "what the hell do you think you are doing, I am a carpenter!'

Ah well...the extra long gang plank makes torturin Spanish maidens all thee more fun and I bought my huge pet Weevil 'Gilbert' from the Tortuga branch of 'Weevils-R-us'.
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby Cap'n Mitebe Lorst on Wed Jun 09, 2010 12:57 pm

Image


Hours passed as Captain Lorst sat alone in his cabin, pondering his situation. The Holey Bath-towel had been stolen and, as its self-proclaimed Protector, he must make every effort to secure its safe return.
The people he had met so far were certainly a strange and unusual bunch, but as yet he really didn’t know who he could trust.
As the fifth candle burned down to a stub and guttered in a pool of molten yellow ear-wax, Lorst came to a decision.

“Higgs, La Bouche,” he shouted, “We’re goin’ ter see the Watch.”
“The Watch, Cap’n?” enquired Higgs. “Wot be that?”
Cap’n Lorst handed over a page torn from one of his library books.

©Encyclopaedia Pyratica

Ye Blakke Watch

Background: Also known as the Nightwalkers, the Blakke Watch was originally raised from disaffected female members of the great culinary families of Caledonia – the Campbells (Scotch Broth), the Grants (Whisky) and the Frasers (Haggis).
The Regiment was formed in 1602 for the purpose of protecting Caledonia from the invading McBlaggards clan and their sept, the McNuggets, who wished to take over the country’s deep-fried Mars bar concessions. The Watch were roundly defeated in 1602¼ and thereafter transformed themselves into elite teams of close protection officers available for private hire. Their impressive client list has included: George Villiers of No.11 High Street, Martin Luther King Jr., the Kennedy brothers, John Lennon and Alexander Litvinenko.
The majority of the Watch are currently employed by Mayor Boorish Jobsworth of Portsmouth to protect the elected members of the Council from kidnap by pirates, and to provide the Mayor with plenty of ‘eye-can-dee’ (trans: I can do it! A program of leadership spirit and team bonding).

Motto: Ye’ll get yer heid in yer hauns an yer lugs ti play wi’, pal.
Trans: Please take your hand off my bosom.*

Uniform: For ease of movement in combat situations the Watch wear the traditional black mini-kilt and gartered black stockings, tight black waistcott and open-necked white sark, with a black-and-white striped tie knotted loose and askew. In formal situations they wear a straw bonnet and may tie their hair in pigtailes.

Battle Cries: Watch Out! Watch Out!
Watch yer back, matey!
Runne away!

Fanfarebläster Corps: The Watch are generally led into combat by the Fanfarebläster Corps who play frightening sounds and skirls on the Portsmouth Kazoo (the shawm), a 4ft. mahogany and leather contraption which, of course, is very different to the traditional tavern instrument.


PAID ADVERTISEMENT
Haggis – It’s delicious and that’s official!
Now available from Big Ron’s Butchers Shoppe and Wart Removal Emporium.
1 penny each or 4 for a groat.
Proprietor Big Ron said “Yaaar, oi is introdusin’ this dellykussy due ter me reesint discuvvery that ‘aggis is made frum sheeps stummick an’ lungs, an oi ave a great growin’ pile o’ that muck which ‘as bin festerin’ out the back since me granddad wuz a lad. Oi ‘ad no idea that people wud eat it. If oi pick out most ov thee bugs it’ll be foine.”
Chiffray Montblanc, Cook on the ‘Wandrin’ Penguin’ said, when threatened with a plateful, “Mmmm, I’m sure it must have an excellent nutty texture and a delicious savoury flavour, but honest, I’ve just had a big lunch and I couldn’t eat another morsel. By the way, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it seems to be moving.”
[/ADVERTISEMENT]

“Fust things fust,” said the Captain. “We’ll ‘ave a word wiv the Watch then mebbe we’ll go ter see the noospepper man loike Gert serjested. I ain’t gonna send a murderus boardin’ party over ter the Madde Moggies Revenge until I’m sure that me towel is thar.”

Captain Lorst and his crewmates made their way along High Street to the King James’ Gate, where the garrison of the Blakke Watch was located. A heavy oak door with iron straps was set back into the town’s fortified wall. On the door was pinned a note.
‘Ye Black Watch. Villains bludgeoned, Ne’er-do-wells despatched, Lawyers lynched, Pirates exterminated. Open 8 til late. Please knock.’

Higgs grasped Lorst’s hand as he raised it to the door. “Pirates exterminated?” he questioned.
“Weez not pyrates today,” said Lorst, “weez clients.”

The Captain rapped loudly on the door. After a short pause the door creaked open and a willowy blonde stepped into the light. “Hello boys,” she smiled. “I’m the Watch Commander, Chelsea Poshtottie.”
Higgs had trouble with his breathing.

“Gud day ter ye, Miss” said Lorst, raising his hat, “Oi’ve come to axe fer yer assistance.”

Chelsea led the sea-farers into her oak-panelled office and invited them all to sit.
Lorst explained, in detail, the situation about the towel and Arfinch Moll and asked if the Watch could take on a surveillance operation.
“Find out where Arfinch hangs out,” pleaded the Captain.
Higgs sniggered and nudged La Bouche. “Haar, haar. Oi fink ees allreddy discuvvered whaar Moll ‘angs out.” He rolled his eyes suggestively.

After some negotiation the watch commander agreed to Lorsts terms and opened her journal. “Where shall I send the invoice?” she asked.
“Errr.. well… Me name’s Black Bert, that’s B… E… R… T, and yer can send yer hinvoyce to me ship, the Big Brenda. Oi’ll pop round tomorrer ter see if you’m ‘ad any reesults.”

As Chelsea was writing, La Bouche moved seductively towards the watch commander and seated herself on the arm of her chair. She gently brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from Poshtottie’s forehead.
“Nice uniform,” she breathed, stroking her hand sensuously over the intersection between Chelsea’s black stocking and her soft, creamy-white thigh. Her thumb slipped smoothly under the taut garter strap and…

“Rite, rite, that’s enuff o’ that,” said Lorst, jumping to his feet and picking up a sweat-drenched Higgs from the floor.
“We ave a ‘pointmint wiv the noospepper feller.”



* [Editor: See! See! There it is again!]
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby black bart on Fri Jun 11, 2010 6:03 am

Hand on bosom alert...hand on bosom alert!!!!

better than a hand on Boson alert I suppose.
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby Cap'n Mitebe Lorst on Mon Jun 14, 2010 11:29 am

In Captain Lorst’s opinion, Whinger Snoggins was a bit of a ‘dandy’.
He blew into the room wearing an embroidered satin waistcott over a frilled shirt with huge frilly cuffs, like a spinnaker flapping in a nor’easter.
Snoggins leaned back in his chair and took out a small decorated silver box from his waiscott pocket. With a flap of his cuff he snapped open the lid and offered it towards Lorst.
“Best quality dried weevil flakes,” he said, “specially imported for me from Tortuga. This is the finely-ground mentholated type* – much superior to the second-rate merchandise available from the local health food store at the ‘Floating Plankton Market’.” He leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “To be honest I think their weevils come from Big Ron’s”
Lorst took a healthy pinch of the dust and snorted it loudly up his nose. Snoggins followed suit, somewhat more delicately.
“Delicious,” said Lorst, tears streaming from his eyes.
“Yes, it has quite a kick,” coughed Snoggins. The two main sat silently for a moment, as if daring the other to sneeze. But the moment passed.

“Now,” said Snoggins, flicking a lace kerchief across his nostrils. “You were asking about Pieces O’Nine?”
“Yaaar, ennyfink yer can tell me wud be very yoosful,” said Lorst, wiping his runny nose across the sleeve of his jacket.
“I’m sure I have a file on her, let me just go and get it, excuse me.”
Snoggins sailed off into the adjoining room.

Lorst took the opportunity to look around the office. It was smartly decorated and very neat although the oriental organza curtains with tasselled tie-backs were, perhaps, a little overdone. Front pages from previous issues of the ‘Guardian’ had been framed and hung around the walls.
He examined a few.
‘Captain Smith is a fraud’, ‘Creeping Wig terror hits Portsmouth’, ‘The Dark Avenger Returns’.
Snoggins tacked back into the room carrying a thick file of papers, a bottle of rum and two glasses. He placed them all on his desk.
“Ah, I see you’ve been admiring my work. Those are examples of my earlier scribblings from when I was just a cub reporter.” He brushed imaginary weevil dust from his tight moleskin trews and added, importantly, “I was promoted to editor-in-chief a couple of years ago when the previous occupant of the post, Peachy Nicksen, went missing.”

Pouring out a couple of generous tots of rum, he handed one to Lorst, sipped at his own, and opened the file.

“Mmm, yes,” he nodded. “This refreshes my memory.” He closed his eyes in thought.
“Let’s see. It was reported that the former mayor, Keith Liversausage, was somehow lured to the Wintergate Tavern for a meeting with Pieces O’Nine and a representative of Bart Industries. My sources tell me that Bart Industries were financially supporting a young lady named Pirgella Lawless in the election for Mayor. Ms Lawless’ manifesto seemed to confirm BI’s interests, in that her key policy was ‘Fish-head stew to be made compulsory in schools’. BI, of course, is the main producer of that … errr … ‘comestible’.
We don’t really know what went on at the Tavern, or how Pieces was involved, but I understand that a sketch-artist was hidden in the bedroom wardrobe and after Liversausage fled from the scene, allegedly dripping in syrup, he withdrew from the election and disappeared. It was all hushed up, of course.
Anyway, a few weeks later, the MD of Bart Industries was caught ... err … shall we say in flagrante delicto* having consensual syrup with Big Brenda McTavish and a parrot. There could be a connection, don’t you think?”

Lorst just stared, slack-jawed at the mental pictures whirling around his noggin.

“Incidentally, did you see that headline, there?” asked Snoggins, pointing to one of the framed pages. “The Dark Avenger Returns. Well, I don’t think it is a coincidence that the Dark Avenger appeared a few days after Liversausage disappeared, vowing to purge the town of fish-head stew.”

“But wot’s this all to do wiv me Holey towel?” asked Lorst.
“Well,” Snoggins took another sip of his rum. “You might not be aware that there’s a growing trade in Pastafarian relics. Olive pits from the original Olive Garden of Eden, pieces of Noah’s Ark, stab-rabbit pelts, shoes of the original midgit, notable wigs, that sort of thing. Such relics are revered throughout the world. People flock to see them. If I wanted to get somebody like, say, Pirgella, elected to Mayor, then I’d have a good start attracting votes with the Holey Bath-towel of Mosey. After all, kidnapping and blackmailing doesn’t work, it happens round here every day and nobody takes any notice.”

Lorst sniffed. “Thaar wisna much o’ a kew fer me towel at thee Benbow.”
Snoggins placed his palms on the desk. “Advertising, my boy. Advertising. That’s where I can help you out. Get your towel back and I’ll make you a celebrity.”



* ‘Flocos de Bicudo’®, tuppence ha’penny a pound from Weevils-R-Us, Cayona, Tortuga. Postage extra.

* Hot and delicious.
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Re: The Bath-towel of Mosey

Postby Cap'n Mitebe Lorst on Thu Jun 17, 2010 9:00 am

IT was a dark and stormy night, but early the next morning the skies were clear, so Lorst and Higgs returned to King James’ Gate to find out whether the Blakke Watch had managed to locate Arfinch Moll.

“Of course we did,” exclaimed the Watch Commander. “My girls followed Moll throughout the day and night. Moll is now holed up at 6 Gibbet Lane, the offices of Bart Industries. There’s an operative keeping watch there now.”
“Luvverly,” said Lorst, “We’ll be on our way, then.”
“Do you want to pay your account?”
“Oh err no,” said Lorst patting at his pockets, “Oi aven’t got my purse wi’ me. Ave ye any munny, Higgs?”
Higgs face drained of all colour and, in panic, he backed into a dark corner, knocking over several pikestaffs in the process. “Wha, wha?”
“Obviously not. No. Send the h’invoyce. Ye remember the name? Aye.”

The two men quickly left the building.
“Higgs, go back ter the ship an’ preepare a murderus boardin’ party. Oi’ll send squirrel Trelawney wiv a message if oi needs yer.”
“Can we take the rubber tips off our cutlasses, Cap’n?” Higgs asked excitedly.
“Oh yes. Bugger helf n’ sayftee, but doan let the Portsmuff Constaboolery see yer.”

On the way towards Gibbet Lane the Captain spied a tour group walking through the streets, led by a guide holding a large colourful umbrella. The new mayor, Boorish Jobsworth, had recently described Portsmouth as ‘a depressed town full of drugs, obesity and underachievement’. Tourism had, unsurprisingly, flourished as a result and many new tour companies had set up business in the town.

“Follow me, my group, follow me,” cried the guide, waving his umbrella. A motley band of brightly-clothed tourists tailed along, sketching landmarks in their new Japanese journals as they passed by and regularly referring to maps of Ole Portsmouth that they clutched in their eager hands.
Lorst surreptitiously joined the crowd, lifting his collar and pulling his tricorn hat down low over his eyes.
“Now, if yer luk over to yer left, up on th’ hill, yer’ll see one of Portsmuff’s faymus optickle tellygrafs. It’s a semifoor system which wuz h’invented by Cap’n Hooke in 1684, an’ the latest ‘igh-speed vershun, like that one, can send almost one ‘bit’, or symbol, every second.” The tour group gasped in amazement and an excited chatter broke out.
“Gee, Betty-Lou, aaa reckin we oughta git one o’ them thar telly grafs fur the ranch.”
“Why sure, Earl honey.”
“Obvyussly,” continued the guide, “they’re vurry h’expensiv, so onny the most important Guvmint messiges are sent thru ‘ere.”
Lorst glanced up at the tower and instinctively translated the changing telegraph arms into letters, ‘..i..t..u..p..y..e..r..a..r..s..e..m..8..b..4..i..’

“Now, laydees and gennulmen, weez now goin’ to ‘ave a luk at the Cap’n Cronan Memorial Lifeboat Station, that’s at A6 on yer map, where there are orl sorts o’ interestin’ arteefax includin’, I hear, one uv Cronan’s own hats reesintly donated by the landlady o’ the h’Admiral Benbow.” Like a herd of cats they moved off down the street. “Follow the h’umbereller.”

“14, 12, 10, 8,” Lorst counted the numbers on the buildings in Gibbet Lane. He detached himself from the tour group and stood under the overhang of number 8, pretending to admire the window display. ‘Hose Anna’s Stocking Shoppe. Fresh gussets knitted every day. Full after-sales support.’

Lorst sidled up to number 6, intensely aware of the powerful smell of rotting fish that oozed from the building. Filthy curtains obstructed most of the view beyond the grimy fly-specked window, but through a slight gap he recognized Arfinch Moll and Black Bert sitting at a rough table. They were examining the Holey Towel!
Was Pieces O’Nine in the building as well? Lorst didn’t have time to wait.
He quickly scribbled a message to Higgs and gave it to Trelawney. “Take that to me ship, boy,” he said, “an’ doan delay or ye’ll nivver see your nuts agin.” The red squirrel scampered off in the direction of Gunwharf Quay.

Captain Lorst stepped back into the shadows of the shop doorway, keeping his eye on the Bart Industries office. No-one came out and he couldn’t discern any movement at the upper windows.

Time dragged. After about ten minuters a second group of tourists appeared at the top of the lane, following yet another colourful umbrella. As they came alongside he recognised Naufragios Diecisiete and Pegnose Throgmorton.
Excellent! Ten of his crew had answered his call, and he was impressed by their ingenious disguises. Throgmorton’s strapless evening dress and blond wig were very inventive.
“Oi borrowed it from Captain DaveL,” he admitted.
“What’s the plan, Cap’n?” whispered Higgs from under the umbrella, then, in a much louder voice, “On yer right yer can see St. Winifred’s Skule fer Yung Laydeez, where we will be ‘avin our lunch.”

“Are we ‘avin lunch?” asked Lorst.
“No, no Cap’n. It’s me disguise.”
“Oh, right. Well the plan is… burst into Bart Industries office, grab the towel.”
“Sounds fine ter me.”

With fearsome cries the pirates rushed into the building. (Throgmorton’s wig had slipped over his eyes and he accidentally rushed into Hose Anna’s next door. However, he took advantage of the situation to liberate several pairs of silk stockings for his and DaveL’s personal use.)

Arfinch Moll lunged for Captain Lorst’s lunch-box and managed to get both hands around it, but it was too hard for her to keep a hold of it. Lorst tucked it under his belt.

Black Bert backed away from the seething crew. Waving his rusty cutlass about his head he screamed “You’ll never take me alive, copper*!” and leapt through the window in a shower of glass. “Ouch, Oi’ve banged me knee,” he whimpered as he scuttled off and disappeared into the crowds.

“Success, men,” grinned Captain Lorst. “Oi fink we orl deesurv a few Captain’s Delights at thee Benbow. On Black Berts tab.”


*Sl. ‘copper’ A term of abuse. Generally understood to mean ‘long-nosed, squid-eating, bottom feeder’. Derives from the common name for Carcharhinus brachyurus, the copper, or narrowtooth shark.
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