“Whar be Pyrate Pete?! Whar be Pyrate Pete? I should
seize all yer doubloons just fer askin’ me that, young scurvy
dog.” The imposing pirate moved between the pillars of the
worn walkway to greet the young shaveling. He raised the
pewter cup to his lips and took in the last taste of grog.

“Pyrate Pete be the James Bond of Brigands – the buckler o’
the bounding main – the bandit of the briny blue and the
bravest bustling buccaneer o’ Britannia’s biggest baddest
boat.”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s got biceps like boulders – a back like a bear – he’s
stronger than a thousand men – and he’s about to swill down
another pint of grog.” Pete reached for a nearby bottle of rum water and filled the 2 gill pewter pannikin to the brink.

“You’re Pirate Pete?”

“Ay, ye be speakin’ to ‘im lil’ ankle biter. We’ve had a fire in
our belly for a new deckhand since Mad Jack was eaten.”

“Eaten?”

“Ay lad, Sea Serpents – three of ‘em. Bless his black soul…”