Thursday, September 29, 2005

They Be Pirates Here



I got friends in low places, the high seas and where grog throwing, bar brawls and parrot petting are welcome! Some nights I hang at my Nova Scotia place with a few of my pirate compadres. Cowgirls and pirates make a good combination doncha thank?

This week a couple of me mates are having a romping good seafaring tale-tellin'. After asking their permission to post here at TT, I thought my readers might enjoy throwing back a Keith's or two while reading a hilarious pirate tale. This is a work in progress, and it gets better and better the longer it progresses. Hang with me a bit on the first part of the plank, it gets "deeper" towards the middle:

The Da Blankenship Code
By

D’Arcy O’Connor and Danny “Tank” Hennigar


Chapter 1 (Tank)


No way in this God's green Earth is that going to happen. The stone is mine, you can't have it, do you hear me, never.............

(scene ends with Tank wrapped in a long dark cloak cackling maniacally, muttering to himself, clutching what appears to be a golden chalice in his blue clay stained hands, the lightning illuminates his contorted face twisted into a toothless grin by his awful discovery, Coconut fibers hanging from under his broken, dirty top hat....)


Chapter 2 (D'Arcy)


Next scene opens with an albino Opus Dei hit man knocking on Tank's door.


(Tank)

Shot from a Alfred Hitchcock angle:

The albino Opus Dei hit man stands there silhouetted by lightning flashes against the large wooden doorway preparing himself for when Tank answers the soft knock. Looming up large behind him and unsuspected, Tank slips a piano wire around his neck with the speed of a cat and the albino Opus Dei hit man slips to the ground, like a bullet casing, empty and spent. As quick as he appears, Tank is gone again. Off in the dark, if there was anyone alive to hear it, he squealed, “Coconuts for me, no grail for thee”.


Chapter 3 (D'Arcy)


Mrs. Tank, wondering why it was taking her ne’er-do-well husband so long to put out the trash via the back door, hears the knock on the front door and goes to open it. What she sees startles her; for there, lying on the stoop under the flash of lightning and in the pelting rain is a strange-looking albino with blood-red eyes, dressed in a brown monk's cloak. He is moaning in pain, and blood oozes from beneath his cowl, as well as from his left thigh. He is muttering to himself in a language she doesn't understand. But if she'd known Latin, she would have heard him say: "The measure of my faith is the measure that my pain can endure. And now I have been given another cilice to urge me on my mission. As the albino speaks, he surreptitiously slides the Heckler & Koch USP 40 silencer-equipped pistol back into the hip holster beneath his robes.

He looks up at the woman, grimacing through his pain. "Forgive me," he says in broken English. "But I was driving through this horrid storm on my way to the St. Sulpice de Gold River monastery and seem to have lost my way on this back road when my car struck a fallen tree and I was thrown clear. Fortunately my wounds were slight, and I managed to crawl to your welcoming home. Do you have a telephone I can use?"

"Certainly, certainly," says the kindly Mrs. Tank. "Here, let me help you inside." She takes his arm, helps him up, and together they stagger into the house and into the living room.

"I see you are a collector of fine paintings," says the albino, peering at the 'Velvet Elvis', "Girl With Big Sad Eyes' and 'Dogs Playing Poker" prints on the wall. His pain is now as much aesthetic as it is physical.

"My husband's collection," says Mrs. Tank proudly. "By the way, he should be back soon. He just went out the back to put out the trash." She ushers him to the sofa, looking with dismay at the trail of blood that is staining the living room’s newly-laid linoleum. "Let me get some bandages for your neck and your leg before you make your phone call."

"You are took kind, madam," says the albino. "Our Savior will reward you for your Samaritan act."

Mrs. Tank returns with a roll of gauze bandage, and begins to wrap it around his bleeding neck. "There," she says. "That should stop the flow. Now, while we're waiting for my husband to return, can I offer you a cup of tea, or perhaps a Keith’s?"

The albino looks perplexed. Keith’s? The Teacher had not taught him that word.

Outside, meanwhile, the wind was howling and the rain was pelting against the windows.

Chapter 4 (Tank)


Tank watches the stranger through the window while the stiff winds off the land whip his silken mane of wet matted hair. His burly chest muscles strain at the tight t-shirt, his rippled muscles ache to finish off the albino messenger of death. Slipping through a back door of the modest and comfortable thirty room mansion they lovingly built on the slopes of Gold River’s Kill Devil gorge, he slips into his favourite smoking jacket and casually walks into the room. “Luuuuthy, I’m home” he chortled, mimicking the Latin tainted greeting so often heard coming from the lips of his favourite actor Desi Arnez. Pretending to be surprised at the presence of this man in his home, and bleeding from a couple of wounds, he blurts out, “My good lord, who are you, are you alright”.

With a performance worthy of a Golden Globe, or maybe even an East Coast Music Award nomination, Tank fusses with his "new house guest". Settling comfortably in his favourite faux Leopard skinned easy chair, Tank enquires “Tell me, what brings a fellow such as you out on a night like this”. “The hand of God guides me” spat out the albino, “and the hand of God guides you well” Tank said with a monotone dreamlike voice. The fire in the huge fireplace crackled and spat as they two sat in silence, collecting their thoughts.

“How do you like my collection of fine art work” ask Tank. Between his gritted teeth the Albino seethes, “As fine a collection as I have ever seen”, “Do you see many collections in your travels my good fellow” Tank says with a wry grin. “A collection as fine as this I have seen yes, in old documents in an Abby far, far from here” explains the much improved assassin.

Just then Mrs. Tank arrives with a tray of cold Keith’s and some fresh baked, hot Molasses cookies. Happy the two new chums were getting along well, she strides back to her kitchen. Settling down to taste the enticing, foamy, golden liquid, the stranger brings the curious looking chalice to his lips. He examined the chalice as he sipped deeply and lustfully time and again. Inside the rim, he could make out strange symbols, hieroglyphics really, arranged in a arch around the inside of the cup. Trying to speak, he could only muster a garbled blotch of words, trying again, he broke into song, Barrett’s Privateers. “What have you done to me” he hissed as he toppled to the floor. Tank stood over him like a colossus and whispered, “Canadian beer my friend, Canadian beer”.

Pulling on the long golden rope, his man servant Schmuck appeared as though from thin air. “You belched master”? “Schmuck, prepare the car, we are going to Oak Island, tonight”......



TO BE CONTINUED (Right now I believe they are up to 12 chapters)

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