The Great Sael Adventure 1
Upon arriving at the port, the men break free of their ocean bonds and fling themselves into the business of wooing the locals. They do not return for three days.
After returning, the men seem... more rested. Rejuvenated, perhaps. And, most importantly, far less horny.
However, with the steep decline of their virile sensibilities, the crew put forth a lackluster effort toward everything they do.
By the first night back on the ship, the Commodore is sick of this nonsense and puts out the plank as a silent demonstration of power. Ralph (a former seeing person), is blindly unaware of the change and walks off into his untimely end, a bottle of recently-purchased reserve scotch in hand.
As Ralph hits the dark water with nothing more than an "Op!" and a gentle splash, the crew becomes silent and forlorn, especially Todd (the local raucousnessmonger) who had been promised a shot of that scotch during a game of cribbage later that night.
The Commodore steps forward, his white wig illuminating the ship as if filled with a fire all its own, his eyes somber and full of ancient memories like the night sky, piercing as the cold night air, peppered with salt from the ocean below. He stares each crewman in the eyes, one by one, and then all at once, looking fearsomely crosseyed momentarily.
"Men," he barks, low and gruff and with the pain of one hundred endangered ocelots. "These are the consequences of your actions. You can never be freed from them. You can never use the excuse of good intentions or ignorance in order to assuage the pain that comes with having done wrong and done wrong so completely. If your efforts and energies can be put only into the seduction of women and the killing of men, then your efforts and energies are worthless and for naught! If you cannot scrape together the decency and dignity becoming a crew of The Bonnie, then you are free to go." The Commodore gestures to the plank, stretched out above the water, shedding a single tear onto the unscrubbed wood of the upper deck.
After returning, the men seem... more rested. Rejuvenated, perhaps. And, most importantly, far less horny.
However, with the steep decline of their virile sensibilities, the crew put forth a lackluster effort toward everything they do.
By the first night back on the ship, the Commodore is sick of this nonsense and puts out the plank as a silent demonstration of power. Ralph (a former seeing person), is blindly unaware of the change and walks off into his untimely end, a bottle of recently-purchased reserve scotch in hand.
As Ralph hits the dark water with nothing more than an "Op!" and a gentle splash, the crew becomes silent and forlorn, especially Todd (the local raucousnessmonger) who had been promised a shot of that scotch during a game of cribbage later that night.
The Commodore steps forward, his white wig illuminating the ship as if filled with a fire all its own, his eyes somber and full of ancient memories like the night sky, piercing as the cold night air, peppered with salt from the ocean below. He stares each crewman in the eyes, one by one, and then all at once, looking fearsomely crosseyed momentarily.
"Men," he barks, low and gruff and with the pain of one hundred endangered ocelots. "These are the consequences of your actions. You can never be freed from them. You can never use the excuse of good intentions or ignorance in order to assuage the pain that comes with having done wrong and done wrong so completely. If your efforts and energies can be put only into the seduction of women and the killing of men, then your efforts and energies are worthless and for naught! If you cannot scrape together the decency and dignity becoming a crew of The Bonnie, then you are free to go." The Commodore gestures to the plank, stretched out above the water, shedding a single tear onto the unscrubbed wood of the upper deck.