Pirates In Boots

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“'Ere,” said the ancient, tarted up harridan on the make-up counter in Boots to her even more decrepit colleague. “Did you see what I saw?”

“Depends what you saw, cock,” Sylvia replied, filing her nails.

“I just saw two blokes an' a kid of about twelve dressed as pirates walkin' past carryin' that big plastic treasure chest they stuck on the end of the sweet aisle the other day, you know, the one full of Terry's Chocolate Oranges.”

“Naah, I didn't see nuffink, Jean. Doin' me bleedin' nails, I was.”

“One of 'em 'ad a wooden leg just like Long John friggin' Silver.”

“Black Jake is the name, missus,” Bill Wood said, appearing from the sanitary towel aisle with his motley pirate crew. “Cap'n Black Jake to you.”

“I see,” Jean said, noting that the pirate's somewhat awry eyes looked either side of her rather than directly at her. “Aren't you bonk-eyed Bill, the bus driver?”

“No, never 'eard of 'im!”

“Yes you are, an' you're well an' truly plastered. What are you all doin' in that daft pirate gear? You look bleedin' stupid.”

“I'm not drunk, all I've 'ad is me daily rum ration. An' these are our regular clothes, we're swashbuckling bloody pirates.”

“I'm tellin' your missus when I see 'er, Bill – you know she don't like you gettin' pissed up an' gettin' into trouble.”

“What you doin' with that treasure chest full of Terry's Chocolate Oranges?” Sylvia said.

“They're not Terry's,” Jake said. “They're mine. I plundered that there chocolate with me crew, and I plan on takin' 'em back to the Buggered Pig, which is me trusty old pirate ship, an' sharin' out the booty sixty-forty with me men. Or was it seventy-thirty?”

“Bollocks, it's equal shares for all of us, or I ain't bein' a pirate no more – bloody daft, it is,” said Albert, aka Whitebeard, who was Bonk-eyed Bill's eye-patch wearing father, and the parrot sitting on his shoulder did an enormous crap all down the front of his frilly shirt.

“I think we ought to put the Terry's Chocolate Oranges back, dad,” Simon, Bill's son, said. “Otherwise these ladies will call the security guard and he'll nick us – have you seen him? He's built like a brick shit-house.”

“As I've already said, Jim lad, they're not Terry's, they're mine – all property is theft. An' stop callin' me dad when we're in soddin' pirate mode!”

“Sorry dad – I mean Cap'n.”

“I should bloody well think so.”

“If you don't put them Terry's Chocolate Oranges back right now I'm callin' security,” Jean said.

“I'll 'ang you from the yard arm by your toes for forty days an' forty nights, you scarlet woman!” Jake replied, “then I'll give you an' your similarly over-painted friend forty lashes an' make you walk the plank into yonder old bike frame and stickleback infested canal. Or maybe I'll sell you into the white slave trade, even though you're both well past your sell-by-date, see if I won't – I reckon I could get a fiver a piece for you from the right wrinkly fetishist. I'll 'ave to scrub all that crap off your mushes first, mind, you look like a couple of proper old slappers. Aaar-ha-haar ha-haar-haar!”

“Haar-ha-haar haar-haarr!” Whitebeard said.

“Pieces of eight, pieces of eight!” said the parrot.

“This isn't a good idea, dad.”

“Shut up, shipmate, an' get on with your customary haar-haaring.”

“Shan't!”

“Frank, you'd better get your well-muscled arse up to the make-up counter right now, buddy, we've got a spot of bovver,” Jean said into her walkie-talkie.

“I'll cut you in two with me cutlass laddie!” Jake said as Frank, the enormous security guard, tucked him under one arm and carried him outside.

“You pair 'ad better be followin',” Frank grunted, “or there'll be serious trouble.”

“Don't worry, we're coming, Sir,” Simon and his granddad said in unison.

“Haar-ha ha haar!” Bonk-eyed Bill roared. “You ain't seen the last of us, laddie matey boy, I'll tell ya that for nothin'.....”