The Old Sea Captain

There was much deliberation as to the right course of action to proceed upon next in the story. Tom the Penguin-Fish was drinking schnapps as usual, wearing an odd hat and speaking in pirate tongues like an old sailor. Ferocious was dressing up Arbitrary Henchman #Belongs-to-Ferocious (who we’d given to him as a present for him not sucking on his toes for a week straight) in an octopus costume in an effort to scare Arbitrary Henchman #Scared-of-Octopi. The Boss was successfully restraining himself from hitting The Jovi. The Jovi was terrified of The Boss hitting him, and The Bush was having a shouting match with a seagull, and sadly winning.
“braaackkk” shouted the seagull.
“Aaahhhhh” shouted back The Bush, and this continued for about twenty minutes before The Bush saw what he believed to be a penny but what was actually the top of a large nail in the floorboard on the deck of the ship.
I drank a bottle of scotch, threw the empty glass at The Jovi and began pacing back and forth. The Boss, for fun, decided to pace with me, and The Jovi looked relieved that The Boss hadn’t hit him. The Boss noticed this of course, and then proceeded to hit him until he was unconscious.
“Feel better?” I asked The Boss.
“Dude, you have no idea.” He replied, and I could see that he’d stopped shaking. “I hate The Jovi so much…”
As The Boss trailed off in his hatred of The Jovi, I pondered (as I’m known to do from time to time) about how to advance the plot in just one entry. The Boss had set the story up beautifully, tying in The Dickens and bringing back his famous Subway Time Machine, but where could I take it now? What kinds of shenanigans could occur? I looked down and noticed I had blood on my fist, which alarmed me at first until I realized it was The Jovi blood and I’d been beating him savagely throughout my pondering. The Jovi looked up at me with a look on his face that just seemed to say “why?”
“Because sometimes a man just has to ranch a pillow.” The Bush responded assuredly to The Jovi’s face. The Bush sometimes has telepathic abilities, but only sometimes.
“I call it my quiet sight.” The Bush said, hearing my thoughts, but continuing to make no sense.
“Shut up The Bush, or I’ll call Dick Cheney.” I threatened, and The Bush went back to the seagull, ready for round two until he was once again distracted by the penny-nail.
Just then, as my rambling was about to reach a new height in which I would discuss my idea for a universal holiday in honor of the kiwi where half the people in the world would dress up as kiwis and the other half of the people in the world would dress up as mangos and the kiwis would spend all day verbally censuring the mangos for being very expensive, difficult to cut up, and for having such enormously large pits. The mangos would then apologize to the kiwis for being so difficult and vow to improve. The kiwis would then magnanimously forgive the mangos and together they’d eat a screaming papaya, played by Jack Black. People wouldn’t actually eat Jack Black though, they’d just be pretending. Of course, it would be difficult to get people to be the mango, as they’d have to be apologizing all day and generally be overpriced with very little substance, but to solve this issue, the schedule could rotate each year. If you’re a kiwi one year, you have to be a mango the next year. Then, the whole world would learn what it’s like to be the one who forgives, and to be the one who is forgiven and the world would be a better place. The Boss and I would of course always play The Boss and I. There’s simply no need for excellence to try and pretend to be anything else. I don’t think Jack Black could really play anything else either then, because then who would be the screaming papaya? Of course if we could make more Jack Blacks…
“The Niles?” The Boss said, and I realized that I had indeed rambled endlessly.
“Thank you The Boss.” I said, and we each drank a bottle of 10yr Ardberg because neither one of us had consumed any scotch during my rambling so we were starting to feel very weak as a result.
Just then, we noticed that Tom was talking seamanly (heh, heh… semen) to a gruff old man wearing a sailors hat and speaking old-style fisherman language.
“Ah, Tom! You look more penguiny than a sea witches maiden with a horned stool!” The gruff old man said to Tom, standing on his ship, which had pulled up right next to ours.
“That didn’t make any sense Captain.” Tom replied.
“I know.” Sighed the Captain. “Was hopin’ ye wouldn’t notice, but that’s a mighty funny hat ye got there Mr. Pettifer.” He followed up with a smile, that somehow seemed scurvy and hornswaggled, even though I don’t really know what that means.
“Oh, Captain Jorgen, this is The Boss and The Niles.” Tom introduced us.
“Pleased to be makin’ yer acquaintance.” Captain Jorgen said to us.
“You too Jerkin.” The Boss said.
“That’s Jorgen, Captain Jorgen, ho!.” He corrected The Boss with a smile. The crew all gasped, Ferocious cried, Arbitrary Henchman #Scared-of-Octopi screamed at Arbitrary Henchman #Belongs-to-Ferocious who was now fully dressed up as an octopus shouting “boo” repeatedly and spraying ink on him, and Tom just drank more schnapps. Everyone knew that you never, EVER try to correct The Boss.
The Boss leapt at Captain Jorgen with ferocity, blood in his eyes and smelling of scotchy awesomeness. The salty old gent didn’t know what hit him and before anyone knew what was going on, The Boss had beat the ever living fuck out of him and took his shit, which included a captains hat that The Boss threw over the side of the ship, heckling The Jorgen the entire time.
“Oooo, somebody looks sad about losing their hat!” The Boss said over and over again.
“Nobody gets to be called captain around here, you bastard!” I exclaimed loudly for all to hear. The Jorgen nodded after hearing my amazing exclaim. It was as if the world opened up for him and he suddenly realized the raw awesomeness that is The Boss and The Niles. From that point on, The Jorgen no longer considered himself a captain… but instead a devout follower of the ways of The Boss and The Niles. There was no ship, there was no scurvy (whatever the hell that means); there was only scotch… and unbelievable coolness. Tom the Penguin-Fish drank more schnapps and laughed a little.
“What’s so funny Tom?” Ferocious asked him.
“I never liked that guy.” Tom slurred.
“What’s with the whole Mr. Pettifer thing?”
“That’s my last name.”
“I didn’t know penguins had last names.”
“Penguin-Fishes…” The Boss corrected.
“Whittlin’ sticks.” The Bush hollered (which is a very stupid word) from above his penny nail, still trying to get it out and muttering something about pennies and good luck repeatedly.
“Wait a minute…” The Jovi wait-a-minuted. “ Tom, did you say your last name was Pettifer?”
“Yeah.” Tom replied, drinkingly.
“And that capt…er… dude who formerly referred to himself as a captain called himself Jorgen right?”
“Pretty much.” Tom answered again.
“The whatsit?” The Bush chimed in and then fell and scraped his knee, which led to immense sobbing. Ferocious (who had been rather motherly toward The Bush) put a super-cool Army band-aid on The Bush’s knee to make him feel better. The Bush seemed to be all better now, and he flexed intensely, gave Ferocious a hug and then skipped off happily.
“Where are you taking this The Jovi? You better get to a point fast.” The Boss said, very 40’s gangsterish and we all noticed he was wearing a fedora and slapping a billy club against the palm of his hand in between drinks of scotch. The Jovi panicked and spoke faster, fearful of The Boss’ wrath.
“Well, The Dickens’ story was about a sea captain named Jorgen and there was a character named Tom Pettifer in it!” I realized this was helpful information and gave The Jovi a Jovi-Snack (peanut butter flavored) and scratched him behind the ears.
“So The Dickens must have known you guys!” The Boss exclaimed, and the exclaim was so monumental that the Heavens opened up and a case of Rolling Rock came down softly from the clouds and slowly descended into the open arms of homeless man Albert Rhinehoff in St. Paul, Minnesota, who was smiling with alacrity and had a single tear of joy running down his face as he opened one of the beers.
“To The Boss!” Albert called out. And then he was mugged. And the beer was taken. Albert was a bastard after all and the other homeless people saw the beer as a great reason to finally burn that bridge after years of putting up with his shit.
“Back at ya, you bastard.” The Boss called out, drinkingly.
“But how could The Dickens have known us, if we don’t know The Dickens?” Tom asked.
“Yeah, plus that story was written back in the mid-1800’s. How could we be characters in it?” The Jorgen added.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “But this might be the clue that leads us to GlenGodly. Where did you say you were from The Jorgen?”
“New England.” The Jorgen replied. The Boss and I looked at each other with terror. We both knew that New England was ruled by the evil and deceiving Belichick, known to give off-putting looks, evade questions, and have a general air of pompousness to him.
“Then it’s off to the depths of hell.” The Boss said.
“How will we get by Belichick’s evil monsters?” I asked.
“What monsters?” Tom chimed in.
“There are two of them, more heinous than anything you’ve ever seen.” I answered. “There’s The Brady, known to create 5-o’clock shadows wherever he goes. Even if you just shaved, it makes no difference. The Brady’s power stems directly from the evil heart of Belichick himself. The other one is called The Gisele, and she is known for tempting people with her unbelievable hotness. Once she gets you in her grasps, she does terrible things to you. She makes you go shopping for her, and soon, before you know it, things like fashion become all you think about as you’re driven slowly into insanity.”
“Maybe we won’t run into them.” The Boss said, drinkingly.
“To New England then, to find The Dickens?” Arbitrary Henchman #Drives-the-Boat asked.
I looked at The Boss, who was gulping scotch, the terrified looking crew, and the other characters that I’m too lazy to name at this point and I said, “To New England; and pray we find The Dickens quickly and get to the bottom of this.”