Henry Tibbens, Maritime Licensing Officer, sat at a booth reviewing the applicant’s paperwork. Another one pursuing the pirate designation. Not a single privateer all morning. His wife Anne stood over his shoulder, picking her teeth with a blade.
“Name?” Henry asked.
“Bones,” the applicant said.
“Brand?”
“Brand?”
“Aye. What are you known for?”
“I wear a skeleton mask.”
“In this humidity? Good luck. Anything else?”
“I carry a double-barrel handgun, short snout nose. Call it my Squealbone.”
“Intriguing,” Henry said. He looked toward Anne. “What do you think?”
She stepped to within inches of the applicant. “I don’t love the redundancy of Bones as his name and Squealbone as his sidearm. But he’s a right intimidating lookin’ fella.”
Henry nodded. “Agreed. What do you think about a name change?”
“Like what?”
“Corpsy,” Anne said.
“Elegant,” Henry agreed. “Strong.”
“Bit grim,” the applicant replied. “I’d also really prefer sticking to the skeleton theme if possible.”
“Hmmm. What about Marrow Tube?” Henry suggested.
Anne shook her head.
“Tibia?”
“Too soft,” Anne said.
Henry rubbed his chin. “The Rattler.”
“Veto,” the man said.
“Aye,” Henry said, pausing. “I’ve got it. Femur Jack.”
“Not bad,” Anne said.
“Right? You can do a whole thing. Femur Jack’ll crack your… your… anyone?”
“Back.”
“Back, yes, thank you, Anne. I’m just spitballing here, but this has some real potential. You’ve got a distinct silhouette, memorable weapon, humidity sensitive mask which isn’t a dealbreaker. What do you say? Femur Jack?”
“I just had ‘Bones’ stitched onto three overcoats, but I’m in.”
Henry stamped the application. “Congratulations, Mr. Jack. Pirate designation approved. Feel free to set sail at your leisure.”
Henry stood and stretched his arms out. “What have we next, dear? I’m getting hungry.”
Anne pulled something from a satchel behind the booth. “Here. Salted pork.”
Henry took her hand. “Where would I be without you?”
“Still drunk on the floor of the Copper Scales.”
“I do love that bar,” Henry said. “A little too much.”
“We’ve got a 10:30 cannon certification.”
“To the firing range,” Henry said.
A burly pirate was waiting on the dock near a row of iron cannons, cradling a cannonball with both hands.
Henry shook his head. “Have you been holding that the whole time?”
“The madam said it was required.”
Anne grinned innocently.
“Oh, you little devil,” Henry said. “Let’s get started.” He put on a pair of safety spectacles and pointed toward the ocean. “Your target is the center buoy.”
The pirate packed the barrel, lit the fuse, and smiled. Henry’s gaze stayed fixed on the buoy using a spyglass as the fuse sizzled.
“Umm,” Anne said. “He’s standing in front of the cannon.”
Henry lowered the spyglass. “You may want to take a step to the port side.”
The pirate, busy plugging his ears, didn’t respond.
Henry sighed, grabbed the ramrod, and pushed the man out of the way. The cannon blasted.
The pirate looked up. “Where’d it go?”
“A whisker from your spine.”
“Is that good?”
Henry picked up his clipboard. “It means your certification’s denied.”
“Dammit!”
“You’re a kind soul, Henry,” Anne said as they walked back to the application booth. “I would have let him gain a blowhole.”
Henry settled at the table and picked up the next application. “Let’s see who’s next? Ahh. Fortune’s with us, Anne. This next one is a privateer license.” He looked toward the line. “Is there a Whispering Will?”
A tiny man limped up, one of his sleeves was pinned to his shirt. His spectacles were cracked in both eyes.
“No,” Anne said. “Denied.”
“Anne, he’s hoping for privateer. Let’s hear him out.”
“Henry, he’d lose a fight with a warm candle.”
“Oh now. Let’s just see,” Henry said. “Whispering Will, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” Will squeaked.
“Says here you have eight years sea experience. Tell us about it.”
“I’ve watched ships.”
Henry nodded. “Observation. An underrated quality. There’s a lot to be learned watching aboard—”
“From the shoreline,” Will added.
“Even better,” Henry said. “Haven’t picked up any bad habits.”
Anne’s jaw opened. “He’ll be dead before sunrise.”
“Now now. Whispering Will, do you understand you’re sworn to escort merchant vessels through pirate waters?”
“I’ve read the agreements extensively.”
Henry smiled. “Prepared.”
“Delicate,” Anne said.
“Prepared and delicate,” Henry said, making a note. “A healthy combination.”
Henry reached for the stamp.
Thunk.
“Approved. Provisional privateer.”
“Yes,” Whispering Will whispered, then coughed into a handkerchief and limped away.
“I can’t believe you approved him,” Anne said.
“Someone has to protect the merchants,” Henry replied. “Or at the very least, give the pirates something to aim at.”
Ahoy!
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See you soon,
—Ricky C.
Header illustration: Claude Lovat Fraiser, Pirates (1922)
"He'd lose a fight with a warm candle." Now, that's a good line. Hehe. I love the name Femur Jack, crackin' them backs. Hehe. Awesome stuff as always, Ricky.
“He’d lose a fight with a warm candle.” 🤣
You and your characters always crack me up!