Captain Socky The Punk-Rock Pirate
Based on the character and ideas of Rudolph Labuschagne (2009)
There once was a man who lived by the sea, in a little wooden boat built for three. He wasn't all there, his marbles was lost, and out to sea his little boat rocked. One morning he woke, his beard riddled with fleas, and spoke to his parrot called Syphilis. They talked for hours about the Queen mother and how she looked more like a Phyllis. Not Victoria, nor Genevieve, said the old pirate to his pet fleas.
Now it was a new day, of epic proportions I must say. The water was boiling neath the heat of the sun, and many a man was reaching for his gun, for on days like these, men had no time for thank you' and please', and courtesy was impaled on a sword. Bartering was hard, tougher than lamb served at the local Inn, yes, it was a world meant for losers, and you'd never win. Now on this old day, the Captain used his excuse, and went out on deck with a naked caboose. The woman of virtue screamed and looked the other way, but others on the dock, those less conservative, offered to pay. Please put on some clothes' said the magistrate, as other old men yet started to strip.
Dragged off to jail, the other men wailed, for where now was there hero going? Away, away, to be, for a few days, hidden behind lock and key The walls were deaf and the guards were gay, and soon Captain Socky made his escape, and this goes to show that guard's who drink ale, shouldn't be left to feed with bread stale, for as the key entered hole, and turned its full course, our dear ole captain played Trojan Horse, sick in the corner he spewed up a froth, and away ran the guard to puke a lot. The gate now open, Socky with dignity left, taking his time to partake in some theft. Out he came, a leg of lamb in his rugged jaw, being mauled to pieces by his murderous maw.
Back at the ship, he pulled out a whip and started making his way to the market, once there he would see a riot awaiting and with a crack of said whip, and a yell straight from hell he would start it. There goes the popcorn vendor under threat from open flame, as a rioter without a name fell over a bag of corn. The explosion was immense, left many a man dying and forlorn. Our dear Captain Socky, suddenly dismayed, by the violence he had perpetrated, that he had caused, decided to push that button called pause. Stop! He yelled, ever valiant, and the crowds raging mass subsided With another crack of his overused whip he stepped forward and tripped, there in the street what an unfortunate accident a helpless old lady did meet when she was trampled under the nude pirate's feet. Regaining his composure, he suddenly found sweet closure in a hand full of popped corn. Scooping a hand he said this needs more', and tarried on, without a word in search of salt.
The rioters stood, their mouths agape, as did the poor old magistrate, as the dirty old pirate, who hadn't bathed in days, peacefully made his way, taking what he needed, and this included a bag of popped corn for later consumption, the cries of the old woman unheeded, back to the ship.
Now, one thing you might not have known, about our dear Pirate and his small home, was that from the floor up his heart was tore up and belonged to a Spirit called Ramon-es. She was a bringer of destruction, a vision distorted by the veil of Rotten John, who liked shooting parrots with his gold plated gun. This day, as was earlier said, was quite epic, as it is read, and thus the old pirate set sail, off into the sun, in search of his beloved and a shaker of salt.
The winds they were treacherous, the clouds ominous in a grey sky, Captain Socky was sure that he'd die, but alas it was not his life that he lost, but instead the storm, his best friend, the boat cost. The sails they were torn by the winds of the storm, the rain and waves ripping the boat to shreds, and upon the shore was washed a wreck with a Captain not yet dead.
The Island was a desolate place, with cacti decorating the landscape, he found, quite soon, a place to stay, and erected a house of leaves. The waves battered the white washed rocks, reminding him of all the whitewashed folk sitting in their pews before the pulpit, listening to a preacher who was often quite full of it. Not that he had anything against God, or the Gospel concerning His son, but the preacher never practiced what he preached, and thus the meaning never truly reached the poor and needy quite as it should've. Sitting in his little shelter, to protect him from the suns swelter, he counted his fingers and counted his toes, to find that he had survived with most, indeed almost all were present except for the pinkie on his wrinkled old hand.
Thus satisfied he got up, and chewing on the last of his soggy popcorn, and swilling his rum, he decided to go for a run. The landscape was empty, as most desert isles seemed to be, deserted, free of the taint of man, except of course for an idle can that must've come here by sea. Also though there was the haunting presence of that strange red dress, clinging to the cactus tree, blood dripping freely to comfort the parched earth from which it sprang. His stomach growled, how could he ignore this faithful pang?
From birth he had felt it; he had known this feeling as a friend, knowing that forevermore this need would not end. He was born into an impoverished home, father was a drunk, and mother also stared into the bottle more than was truly needed, but that unnecessary need was met, and thus many a night the Socky kids went to bed unfed.
What was he to do, he had a stomach meant for two, and by God he swore he would not starve, in the wilderness he tarried, past the red dress and a rotting carcass, which probably belonged to a dandy, for whoever could not survive in a place like this wasn't a real man. Although he found a net, and even a line for fishing it helped him not, for though he was desperate, though hunger seemed to twist a serrated knife in his stomach, he would not descend to such hideous depths. Sea-food was not for him. He'd rather be gorged by a boar, or impaled thanks to a Maharajah's whim, but never would he eat the denizens of the deep. It was not for love or adoration, but rather hatred for the gilled abortion, denied to breath air, he does not suffer such an abomination refuge in the sanctuary (though defiled by liquor and foulest foods), that is his stomach (the ruler of his moods).
As his mood was getting low, stricken by his friend and foe, he looked up towards the heavens, thinking it might be his last living moment, but lo and behold in the distance smoke, smoke his heart broke when he saw a joyous sight as this, and getting up he ran with jubilation all the way to the formation of rocks and huts that defined the village where a lonely local prepared to dine. Unfortunate circumstance (Sea-food on the native's plate) led to the unfortunate demise of the native (By the pirate ate).
It tasted just like chicken; the kind the modern man buys at chains of convenience, and thus served to intervene and hunger subsided for a while.
Days, weeks, months even passed (as did many natives who met with the captain and his rusty old spoon), before a ship bearing explorer kin came and decided to see the unseen, landed on the beach and lost their spleens, all to the credit of the Captain's growl, the growl within that made them over open fire suffer, the growl that made them supper.
With a ship un-crewed and the Captain unscrewed (in the head) off they went
This ship was much larger, and too boot filled with lager, his cup runneth over with ale. Soon though, after days of beer-tinged binge the ale was up and he sucked water through his cracked lips using a red and white straw, wishing there was more (beer, not straws, that would be silly), during his travels he also found a stowaway (Now cabin-boy) Billy. This new addition soon caused some friction, as he too hungered and panged, and soon he died at the whim of a puppet, a sock on the Captain's Piratey hand.
Years of sailing brought him thus, to a place filled with worry and with fuss; this was where the Spirit, called Ramon-es, lived, and this is where all darkness swirled. Down a pool, a vortex swallowing the fermented waters of a tainted sea, went the Daffodil (or Pansy, Socky never could decide), to the heart of a cave where even the brave succumbed to fear and died. Captain Socky though, too stupid and crazed to know the meaning of trepidation, took a bite of Billy Jerky and dived into the deep. He would return for his ship later, but first there was an appointment to keep.
He swam until he felt his lungs would burst, at least he wouldn't die of thirst He swam; indeed he did swim till his legs gave in, but fortunately fate smiled upon him and he found himself in a tunnel, leading to a smaller cave Now the Captain had to behave. There in all her glory stood the queen of all things gory, the woman who ripped out the hearts of a thousand sailors all for the sake of her own failure. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, this one was forlorn, and worse off was the man who met her than any meeting a demon from the deep, for if she takes your heart its for keeps.
He, with weapon held erect, closed in on the one, whom he adored, his trusty spoon thirsting for the blood of his enemy, Rotten John with his golden gun, his veil of distrust hanging over her beautiful eyes. Captain Socky lunged, and doing a 360 axle spin/summersault went over her head and carried forth his assault. Old John had no idea of what was coming, and no use was his sharp gunning, for the spoon of the cross-eyed mariner struck him between the eyes, and he fell down and died. With much happiness and joy our dearest Captain raised his voice declaring his love for the beautiful Ramon-es. She however, nothing felt, turned from the Captain with detest clearly showing in her countenance, this was more than he could take and thus also struck her down, forever she will frown, for her porcelain face, cracked, cannot be replaced. You see, dear reader, witness to an act so valiant, the one he struck felt no pain, for she was but a spirit, and therefore with and none withstanding she lashed out, taking out his eye, and eating it as pie cursing him with barnacle-brains and lack of luck for the rest of his days. Never on his lonely way will he ever find a salt shaker.
So with head bowed in shame, he dove once more into the briny depths to go reclaim the Daffodil, or Pansy, or was it the Dandy He never could decide.
Copyright: Andre Darius Labuschagne (16 July 2009)