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I remember when I was crewing on a half-sailed junk runnin' paper cages out of Shanghai during the Crimean War. The captain was a lecher with a penchant for buggery, the bosun had one eye and a trick tooth, and Mr. Funny ran the galley with an iron fist. That's not a metaphor, me boy, he had an actual iron fist on an axe handle that he'd wallop the swabs around the ear holes with when they weren't swabbing fast or slow enough. We sailed for days, tacking against the wind and onto the notice-board, dodging the flying fish that tried to drag us into the briny deeps so's they could stuff us into Davy Jone's locker. On the tenth day, we ran out of pre-packaged luncheon meat, and the crew grew few. With every soul we fed to the flying fish, you could hear the tension go up another notch with a resounding 'click!'...or maybe that was just the chaplain's NHS aluminium artifical foot. Either way, came the day where the crew rampaged along the decks, wielding shrieking cut lasses and Peggy's legs. Kicked down the door to captain's cabin they did, interrupting the penetrating discourse the captain was havin' with the cabin boy, and demanded he change course for gentler shores. The bosun they'd already stuffed with sundries and tied to the figurehead to be nibbled to death by dolphins. The captain, he stared them down, and the sweat was runnin' off his face like Niagara, when the light from the punishin' sun was blocked out by a shadow. T'was Mr. Funny, his iron fist in his right, the rusty anchor chain wrapped around his left, and a rabid attack cockerel perched on his shoulder foamin' at the beak. The things I saw that day, perched at a delirious height on the masthead for strategic perspective reasons, those things haunt me to this day. I can't walk down the meat aisle in Tesco without hearing the shrieks of the cut lasses as they bounced off Mr. Funny's hide. A glass of Pernod gives me flashbacks of me mate Bernie screamin' like a banshee, trying to wrest the attack cockrel off his likewise. The clinking thuds of the rusty anchor chain and the shrieks of shipmates being given tetanus shots follow me into my dreams to this day. And through it all, like the watermark on a pricey piece of writing paper, there's the face of Mr. Funny. Smiling on the outside, cacklin' like a hyena that's stolen the prize carcass on the inside, and spellin' out D-E-A-T- all over. What? Where be the missin' H? Well, no man ever got that far with Mr. Funny. How he missed me on the masthead I never knew, but five days later we run aground in the Sudan. Last I saw of Mr. Funny, he was stridin' into the desert on a trice-humped camel he'd bought from a passin' trice-humped camel madam fer the remains of our boat. I've never seen him fer real since, and me boy, I don't want to. That feller's bad news, he is, a walkin' endorsement fer life insurance and gun control. And that's all I'll be sayin' about Mr. Funny now... |
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