Sea Monsters

"Ye don't have to be tryin' to sack San Juan to be makin' off with a ship full o' booty, ye know," the bearded man said from beneath his three-cornered hat, black eyes sparkling.

The sandy-haired man across from him leaned in, his stubbled chin coming to rest on the palm of his hand, propped up on the rough wooden table of the Tortuga tavern.

"So watcha be sittin' on then? A map?" said the sandy-haired man, the gleam of greed lighting his eyes better than the flickering candle light.

"Wouldn't ye like to know?" Beard said, picking at his jagged, dirty fingernails.

"Takin' a risk, then, tellin' me, are ye not?" said Sandy, curious.

"Ye could be lookin' to hornswaggle me, aye, but I think not."

"Why so certain are ye?"

"'Cause I happen to know ye got the black spot on ye... and I can get ye a letter o' marque to make it fade, ye see!" Beard said, an expression of victory curling his lips.

"Blimey! A letter o' marque? Ye know the gov'ner or some such?" said the sandy-haired man, astonished.

The dark, bearded man leaned back and chuckled.

"Ye could say that," Beard said. "Or ye could say that I have letters o' him plottin' against the King's interests in my possession. He's been very... open... to suggestion since I let him know o' that tiny fact. And I'm wagerin' that legitimizin' yerself and takin' ye out the hangman's hemp noose be worth more to ye even than the other half o' the plunder. Ye'll be rich and free, not just rich if ye 'bide by my plan--with a new career as a privateer to boot!"

"Ye scallywag!" Sandy said with a laugh. He swung his cup forward. Beard swung his in response, their tin mugs crashing together with a dull clack, rum splashing over the rims and over their filthy, black hands.

Both men drank deeply, each letting out a contented sigh as the cheap, brown rum burned its way down their gullets.

"So we have an accord, Weasel?" said Beard.

"Aye, ye old salt."

"Good! Now it be time to heave ho," the bearded man said, rising to his feet unsteadily. He stumbled out of the tavern, three sheets to the wind, the other man in tow. As they rounded the corner into the shadows, Sandy drew his cutlass.

"What you be doin'?" asked Beard, eyes wide.

"I be feedin' the fish," said Sandy.

"But why?"

"The gov'ner yer blackmailin' already done offered me that letter o' marque fer blowin' the man 'twas blackmailin' him down! I can have all yer gold and lose me black spot with one swing o' me sword," Sandy replied as he swung his cutlass through the drunken man's skull.

"That's why they call me Weasel, ye clod. I'm always anglin' to send me fellows t' Davy Jones' locker." Sandy spit on the body at his feet.

Sandy reached into the dead man's chest pocket and pulled out a piece of parchment. He walked back to the torchlit street and opened it. It was a map... to a location on this very island!

The following morning, Sandy struck out to the location in the map with a shovel and some supplies. Measuring out the fifty paces from the skull-shaped rock formation, he found the exact "X" on the map.

Chortling in gleeful excitement, he planted an iron shovel into the sand, only to hear the thwack sound of a trap being loosed. Three spears tore through his dirty flesh, puncturing him thrice through.

"Pirates be sea monsters all, preyin' on thar fellows like cannibals," he spat.

He considered, as his breathing slowed.

"Well, 'tis better, at least, to die by the cunning of the foulest of scallywags than to dance the hempen jig." He gave a chuckle of irony, blood spattering the sand in front of him with his final breath.