Dances With Pirates

 It's been a while since we've heard from our pirate fanboy Sherman, so I thought I'd give a little update. This excerpt takes place right after the last one and was still written some time ago.

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Shutting the glass door to my three-foot balcony, I toss the curtains closed and go to my closet. It’s not as spacious as the price tag would seem to imply, although I tried to limit my wardrobe to outfits without many layers. Since Caribbean temperatures aren’t jacket-worthy, it’s not too much of a sacrifice. I’ll only be here a week, anyway. If I survive that long.

I thought the mountainous pile of release forms I had to sign before I got my boarding pass was some sort of joke, but I’m starting to see why they were needed. You’d think a bunch of twenty-first-century guys, pirate fanatics or otherwise, wouldn’t be so keen on real-life violence. The worst stuff seems to be the bar brawls, and that’s probably the same for any society. I’m able to avoid most of the drunken fights since I’m still two years under drinking age, but there are so many bars on this ship I’m hard-pressed to walk from my room to the restaurant without passing in front of a few. With the surprising amount of hot girls here, I’m not always safe at that distance.

Of course, I’m starting to believe this is not the best place to pick up chicks. Half of them have brawny and perpetually drunk boyfriends, and the other half look lethal enough by themselves. I just can’t help it, though. I mean, look at these babes. I have to at least take a chance. I’ve only gotten one considerable bruise so far, anyway.

On the other hand, everyone does get a rapier upon boarding. They’re not pointy-edged or anything, but, with the whole alien-beekeeper costume fencers wear, I don’t think that I’m properly protected. Thankfully all I have to do is leave my weapon in my room, and nobody will try to stab me. Even with their neuroses and constant air of fermented molasses, these guys have a good sense of honor. That doesn’t mean they never pick on the skinny guy, but I’ll take what I can get, you know?

I pick out my dress suit—a weird, pinstriped, greenish thing that I wouldn’t be terribly upset about losing—and check the rest of my room again before shutting the dressing room door. It’s not like I’d feel totally violated if someone got a glimpse of me changing, but it’s still kind of creepy. I haven’t spent any time in sports locker rooms, so I haven’t had the chance to get used to the idea. Of course, if a hot girl decided to watch me, I might not object so much. Although I’d be really surprised and kind of suspicious if anyone wanted to observe my lack of muscles in an attracted fashion. I hook them with words, not physique, and that’s okay with me.

Words are my specialty, anyway. I’m not a journalism major because I want to work out all day. And I’m not writing an article over this cruise line because I’m just a huge pirate fanboy. I’m only a little bit of a pirate fanboy. Possibly not enough to survive this vacation. But we’re a little too far from shore to turn back now. Besides, I need my story, if I can string anything coherent together out of this chaos.

I clip on my necktie and straighten the spikes in my bangs—if they’re long enough to be called that—as I eye the mirror. This ought to do. It may be formal night, but I don’t exactly have a date. And I’ll be there with a bunch of yahoos, anyway, so I don’t think anyone’s going to be that concerned with dressing super-neat.