"Tyger, Tyger, Holy $#@%!"
The sabretooth tiger's breath stank of fresh horror, gusting down my throat as I kept a firm grip on its razor-sharp fangs and repeatedly kicked it in the balls to no avail.
As if wrestling a prehistoric murder-beast on the carpet wasn't enough, 30 ninjas crashed in the already quite damaged windows and grabbed Shields.
"No!" shrieked the Commodore. "They've come for me! Coughlan, save me!"
I flipped over, pinning the tiger to the floor. "Alright, you bastards, I'm not even gonna kick ass, I'm gonna kick all the way to the goddam heart!"
Swivelling dynamically, I grabbed the tiger by the tail, stood and pulled it into the air over my head, swinging it around and around like a helicopter.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" I shouted as I spiralled towards the ninjas, knocking them aside like bowling pins with my sabretooth tiger weapon.
But five of them had already escaped out the window with Shields; a rope pulling them upwards towards a fleeing airship. Not in the mood for defeat, I started swinging the tiger again, building momentum and throwing it, with myself in tow, towards the blimp.
I undershot my mark, however, and began plummeting downward, straight through some poor family's dining room window and crashing down on their dinner table. There was food and tiger blood everywhere.
"Please excuse me," I said, dusting myself off. "I missed my blimp. Enjoy your tiger corpse."
With that, and a handful of the family's dinner in my pockets for later, I made my exit. But I knew exactly where I was going. These mysterious ninjas may have apprehended Shields, and were undoubtedly part of this commodore conspiracy, but why not simply kill him? There was more here than met the eye.
Shields had told me that all the other commodores had been murdered by a solid gold dagger. There was only one man in London who could produce such a weapon: Short Jack Gold.
* * *
Despite flying through the air while holding on to a sabretooth tiger and loudly destroying somebody's house, I needed to remain as inconspicuous as possible. I had no doubt that I would probably be suspected as part of Shields' kidnapping and the previous murderers, being as Shields himself, so imperilled, was the only person willing to trust me despite my roguish reputation.
With that in mind, I travelled via underground sewage systems, bartering passage on the great network of giant rat transportation, to emerge explosively from Short Jack's bathroom sink as he washed his hands.
"Scrub harder, Jack!" I yelled as I wrecked his bathroom. "There's blood on your hands!"
"JOHN COUGHLAN, PIRATE INVESTIGATOR!" he screamed in shock and awe.
I grabbed the front of Jack's collar and hoisted his tiny frame up to eye-level. "I don't usually have a reason to be so far into non-pirate territory, Jack, but I keep tabs on lowlifes like you. Your trademark is making weapons out of solid gold. As wasteful as it is pointless! You made some daggers for somebody recently. Who?"
"I… I… I don't know what you're talking about!"
"Sure you don't wanna ask the audience there, Jackie? 'Cause our survey says you are the weakest link!" With that flawless and non-confused threat, I dragged Short Jack through to his workshop.
There was a variety of smithy's tools lying around, as well as several containers of molten gold. I held Jack over one container, steam rising up around him as he wriggled futilely.
"There's two ways you can become more valuable to me, Jack," I said. "As an informant or as an ornament. Choose!" I pantomimed loosing my grip and Jack squealed. Then he squealed.
"Okay! Okay! It was a pirate!"
"I figured that out already. Your worth as an informant is lowering." On the last word, I physically lowered Jack closer to the hot gold. "I need more from you."
"He didn't give a name! They never do!" Jack gasped. "But… But… I was m-making small-talk with him… He mentioned drinking in The Chicken's Pox!"
I knew of the bar by reputation only. One of many drinking holes for criminal types that go so unnoticed in society. I left Jack with the distinct impression that, if he told anyone of my presence, he would become a tacky way of decorating my front hall.
* * *
I was now of the idea that Shields held some vital information on Operation: Excalibur, this ambitious plot to rid the world of piracy once and for all. Whoever was behind the commodore killings needed to know what he knew. But what was that exactly? Was Excalibur truly that large a threat to the pirate community? It hardly seemed possible, yet clearly at least one pirate thought it serious enough to put an end to it by murder most foul.
It was still daylight when I left Short Jack's place, and the underworld would still be under world, but I made enquiries at The Chicken's Pox nonetheless. As I suspected, there was nobody fitting the description of a pirate, nor did the bartender recall any such a patron. I would return later.
For now, I made my way back towards Commodore Shields' office. I needed to know what he knew.
Of course, security had been tightened since the kidnapping, so I contrived a makeshift hang-glider out of tramps' coats stitched together and entered the office as I had left it: by sailing, much more gracefully this time, through the air and in the window.
I knew there would be guards posted outside, so I hurriedly and quietly started going through Shields' desk drawers.
Intelligently, there were no papers on Operation: Excalibur, although this did frustrate me. There was some terribly obscene pornographic documents, which I saved for later, but what surprised me even more was a list of names.
On one side were the names of the murdered commodores which I knew despite Shields never actually telling me in Chapter I. On the other side, corresponding with each commodore, was a different high-ranking pirate.
Black Bellamy; Captain Kidd; Henry Morgan; Ned Low; Black Bart; Calico Jack; Anne Bonny; even Blackbeard himself. This was some heavy shit. Operation: Excalibur was not kidding around. They were going straight to the top.
In my state of not-paying-attention-because-I-am-contemplating-the-ramifications-of-a-giant-conspiracy I was coshed from behind and went to sleepy town.
* * *
I awoke on the deck of a ship, surround by pirates, and at sea.
"Damn," I said.
The pirates had me at sword-point and were not pleasant about it. A man who was obviously their captain approached. He had an authoritative air about him and was much better dressed in a bright blue coat.
"I'm Captain Dragonblood," he said, "and I understand you've been looking for my crew?"
I realised now it must be my current captors who had been purchasing the golden daggers. Either Short Jack or the bartender at the Pox must have tipped them off. It didn't really matter now.
"What did you do with Shields?" I said, impervious to my peril.
The crew laughed, but Dragonblood held up a hand to silence them.
"Never you mind about Shields, Coughlan," said Dragonblood. "We can't have you looking into our affairs."
I was at a crossroads. Either I pursue my investigations, save a man from dying, preserve my reputation and ensure my freedom from imprisonment… or do nothing and allow my primary clientele to continue both their livelihood and mine.
As it turns out, Captain Dragonblood solved my moral dilemma for me.
"Toss him overboard!"
To be continued…
No comments:
Post a Comment