Back To Port Aboard the Aquafina

Squadron Commander, Commodore Thorton Pickle, of the Newport-on-the James Pickle’s, sullenly surveyed the roiling seas. It was his birthday.

“All hands report to the Don Pickle’s wardroom for the gala celebration” announced the disembodied voice over the ship’s primitive intercom (the crew of the Royal Bark HMS Aquafina was crewed by an entirely Portugese crew.)

Today was the Commodore’s thirty-sixth birthday and as he did every year, he directed his crew to don party hats (this year’s theme was the Tarts and Vicars, last year’s was Brothels of Hong Kong) and celebrate with cake, ice cream and gin & tonics. The stateroom was gaily decorated with Japanese paper lanterns of various hues and in the center, depending from the ceiling was a large piñata formed in the shape of the that utter boob and all around chowderhead, Woodpecker-Smythe. Last year, it was Rossaroni and the year before,Turnips Townshead.

The place of honour was occupied by the Commodore’s cat, Mr. Bonkers, with Rodrigo sitting to the left and Axel Firewall to the right. Leonid Sunshine, ship’s engineer, rolled the cake tray into the wardroom. However, just as he was to announce his toast (my dearest etc, etc, etc,) the door burst open and a pimply faced lad of no more than 14 dashed in, breathlessly announcing

“Don El Capitan Pickles, scuze, this message ees for you Senor, eeet just arrived via aldis lamp”

“Ah, what did you just say? Did you just interrupt my toast for which I have been practicing since month???” These words passed through Pickle’s gritted teeth at a temperature approaching Zero on the Kelvin scale.

“Here’s the message Senor”

Pickles studied the message. There scrawled in the nearly illegible, semi-drunken hand of a certain well known, gunslinger for hire, were the following words:

“Hey, Pickle’s, guess what? I know you haven’t heard from me in a while but I’m headed back to England – seems that sausage sucking kraut, Prince Otto is interested in my special “services. I was wondering I if could call in that favor you owe me. See you Tuesday. Signed, your pal, Johnny 6-Guns”

“Tuesday .. a favor!” the Commodore sputtered, incredulously, “the last visit with Mr. Sixguns resulted in the destruction of the port of Mombasa, the fall of the Hapsburgs and my being banned from the Naughty Hellfire Club for a month. Do you all recall that??”

Everyone nodded. Leonid looked particularly unhappy while Mr. Bonkers impassive snarl remained unchanged.

At this point Pickles launched into the following diatribe:

“You know what’s going on don’t you? … he’s coming back here to conspire with that tart, Lady Marzipan. I have it on good word that she’s recently bamboozled the royal society disguised as a scientist. I don’t know what they’re after but its probably something along the lines of world domination or world domination of gin and tonic. And that my fellows, is something we, as British gentlemen, cannot allow! Lads, there’s dirty work afoot.”

“Well, not this time!” Verde added with a ring of finality, “Rodrigo, please get my revolver, set the time portal to 1986, adjust the low-frequency sono-temporal antenna to "FALCO" and take us back to port!”

Pickles took a swing at the Woodpecker-Smythe piñata, missing it by a mile but connecting easily with Rodrigo’s head who in turn collapsed into the multi-tiered birthday cake.

A hiss of exhaled air passed Pickle’s lips with just a hint of quiet desperation.