#finishthestory Week 35: Ship of Fools

You know, my usual material isn't getting any less heavy, so let's take another break from our regularly-scheduled programming. It's time for another #finishthestory entry! Today's prompt comes from @theironfelix. I'll indicate the breaking point and where my contribution begins below.

If you're interested, here's the link for the 35th contest.

And now, the story!

[Image is a German woodcut from 1549 depicting the Ship of Fools, taken from Wikipedia]

Pirate hunters

^{by @theironfelix}

Boots calmly walked towards an open window-hatch, a bottle of rum is lowered down onto the sill. Upon the placement, the pirate places his scarred-induced hands on his wailing back and pushes.

“Argh! Me back be free of this wretched ache! Well, guess I learned a lesson: take a break when the Cap’n says so. Welp, time to rest...”

Taking his cue, the sill creaked in annoyance as the pirate’s body self-inquired the best resting position while perched on a sill. With a hairy arm supporting his night-colored beard, he spent his leisure-time mentally capturing the seas itself. There the familiar specs of white dots danced about the blue sky; he gasped before slowly releasing the captured air, he remembered how deep in the seven seas the ship was. With the mind returning to boredom, his eyes scanned under the blue sky.

“Ah poor ship, how these blue, blue, waves harass yah. I can hear yer wails, but I judge not. And even when the harassment be over, the aches only then take over; yet only can I respond with ‘such is life’... Huh, what be a ship in these waters be doing here? Where’s me spotting scope!”

The boots thus began a chaotic dance recital; the arms took the center stage as it flailed around to uncover the hidden telescope. As the telescope may have enjoyed the scene, it soon squeaked loud upon the firm clasp on its metallic skin. The pirate returned to the window-hatch and his arms stretched the telescope wide-wards. Eyeing in on the odd element, his eyes darted around to find any friendly symbol but soon froze.

“Oh me Flyin’ Dutchman! We’ve been tracked! Hey ho! Sound the alarm, pirate hunters come and in full-mast they set sail towards us!”

Whatever wail the ship can ever muster, the cacophonies of a hundred bodies darting around alone had easily drowned out such sorrows. The pirate unsheathed his sword, the sun’s naïve light touched and bounced off the sword. Sheathing his sword, he unholstered his flintlocks and his arms helped his eyes scan such. Cocking and holstering them, his body emerged from his room and joined in the traffic of the workplace as pirate bodies shuffled and kicked around to ready on their position. Albeit the humidity would’ve granted a hasty rest through stroke, the adrenalin surging about the bodies had protected them from unwanted advances of humidity.

Finally getting to the deck, he about-faced and attempted advancing towards the Captain’s spot. However, the Captain echoed:

“Brace!”

And the pirate mass dropped dead and clung hard to any support they could find; as soon the ship screeched thanks the holes formed from the steel cannon-shots who mercilessly ripped through her. With that, the pirate mass resumed its circuitry and soon he met with the Captain; he screamed:

“Madame! I’m here, let me take over the steering and yah the commandin’!”

“Finally yer here, Wither! Please, they be gainin’ too much ground. So steer us towards oure enemy! And when we get close, steer us parallel to their starboard side and avoid portside! Today, I must accept my bounty and let them hath none of it!”

“Cap’n oh Cap’n! Are yah mad?”

“Mad? No! Blimey, avoid their hull Wither!”

[My contribution continues below]
Ship of Fools

“Aye, Cap’n,” Wither bellowed. “Ya can lea’ the steerin’ o’ the Wahnsinn ta me! Ah knownt all ‘er tricks an’ the play o’ the waves onna mind o’ the wayfarer to boot!”

“Shut up yer blabberin’ an’ steer the godsforsaken ship, Wither!” the captain retorted. She didn’t wait for a response before drawing her scabbard and rushing to the starboard cannons.

“Aye, Cap’n!” Wither shouted at her retreating figure. Wither’s arms spun in comical circles, veering the ship into a hairpin turn toward their quarry.

For all ‘is annoyances, the Captain thought, he’s a damn fine pilot. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Wither had crashed headlong into a giant wave.

“Blimey yeehaw an’ sassafras!” Wither yowled that and more nonsense at the top of his lungs. One of his hands clung to the wheel as his body flew toward the deck, wrenching the Wahnsinn harder as his inertia spun the wheel. The crew reeled back and forth.

The fool! the Captain thought. He’ll kill us afore we reach the bastards!

The Captain, however, hadn’t accounted for how much Wither’s insane antics would dissuade their pursuers. The other ship turned, beginning a retreat. The Wahnsinn’s crew raised their weapons and cheered. Pistoles fired into the air, scabbards waggled in the sun, and some bloke even fired a cannon. Its lead ball sailed over the blue expanse of open ocean, headed towards no discernible target. When the pursuing ship’s crew saw their prey’s disorganization, they course-corrected back into pursuit. The crew scrambled in fear.

“Avast! Avast!” the Captain screamed at the top of her lungs. “Pull yer shite togedder!” She immediately regretted the turn of phrase.

To her dismay, the crew was now literally flinging feces in every direction. It was on the deck, in their hair, covering their weapons. It…was…everywhere.

“Blimey!” the Captain shouted, marveling at the sheer amount of human waste. “Ha’ none of ye taken a proper shite in days?” Indeed, no, none of them had.

“Move in! Get the one with the mismatched boots!” The pursuers had arrived and boarded the Wahnsinn. For the first time since joining the crew, Wither self-consciously inspected his boots, but he couldn’t tell what was so mismatched about one red ankle boot and one half-calf black one with a cowboy spur. The Captain had even once complimented his creativity.

Moments later, Wither was pinned to the ground. He cried out for his Captain, but she was being detained by other assailants. The crew, meanwhile, was in disarray. Some had already been captured and taken aboard the pursuers’ ship.

“God damn it, Kennedy! I told you you can’t just play into these psychos’ delusions. I hope you’re satisfied with the results of your ‘minimal interventionist’ quackery! Maximum restraint!” Dr. Wallis ordered above the din of writhing inmates.

“Batten down the hatches, me hearties! A storm’s a-brewing!” the Captain screamed at the top of her lungs as Wither dutifully battened down an unsuspecting intern’s head.