Book 1: The Rebirth of the Aztecs
Chapter 8 Part 1: Meetings and the Seagull Apocalypse
“It’s going to take our tech boys more than an all nighter or two to comb through the intel, and my list of assets obtained and stashed with the prize ship exceeds my patience for a verbal sitrep so I’ve sent a hasty inventory list via email. You can all read it on your own time.” Drake rolled his eyes at Sarge’s growing cantankerous nature. The man was well into his forties at this point which made everyone treat him like he was in his sixties amongst the high speed ex marines in the crew. Drake figured the old man's treatment was getting to the ex-sergeant's head. He wasn’t ancient enough to get away with everything yet.
“Sarge, what’s the point of an intel and inventory brief after an operation if all you’re going to do is tell us to read our emails? I could’ve slept in if I’d known all I was getting was homework,” grunts of approval went around the other two other “officers” on the crew who were both fighting a losing battle with a mixture of headache hangover and spoiled rich kid overload left over from dealing with the after, after party that had started an hour or two before dawn when their guests had returned from their joyride on The Hammer of Heaven.
Only Drake had drank the night before, but the amount of alcohol consumption early that morning by the freaks had been so thorough everyone within a hundred nautical miles was nursing a hangover by osmosis. It was amazing those animals hadn’t all died of alcohol poisoning. They were going to make profit off of this venture off booze sales alone. Truth be told the profits were almost enough money to tempt a man of the barbarous high seas to go legit.
Drake covered his smile at the thought with his strong sugar and wonder creamed coffee with just a hint of mint and dark chocolate specially brewed by Beatrice herself this morning. She’d collapsed the second after serving the life saving nectar going into a coma that would last right up and to the point their guests started waking and getting needy again. God that woman was a saint.
The fact such a woman was in his cabin at night and taking care of his ship and crew during the day made Drake warm on the inside. Or at least it did until he remembered the night before, and the Baron’s words screamed through his head again threatening Drake's tired but excellent mood. Waves of guilt over not giving that girl the respectable life she deserved washed over Drake’s mind like a mass of Mongols rampaging through the gates of his conscience. Damn, why did that ridiculous playboy nobel have to know how to get under this pirate captain’s skin like that?
“Fine,” Don growled from his perch on the railing overlooking the carnage on the main deck below, bringing a grateful Drake out of his inner turmoil. Gazing past Don and down into the abyss below Drake saw the once gorgeous decks of The Troy’s Folly covered in the signs of battle and chaos.
Scattered food, spilled booze, more than one pair of panties of the thong variety, toilet paper streamed around for some reason, and at least two vomit hazmat zones being tackled by the exhausted staff who at this point had to be wondering if they were getting paid enough for this crap. Nothing like cleaning up nachos supreme, rum, bile, and mystery fluids to make you wonder what you were doing with your life at seven in the morning.
“I’ll ignore most of the inventory on the prize since we can’t touch a bolt or brass penny on that tub for at least four months to make sure she isn’t being tracked,” Don said in exasperation before bringing up his watch and swiping toward the table in the middle of the privateers. Up went a crackling blue partial image of what should’ve been schematics of a fancy tank sub, but instead was just a blurry hologram turret with a mess of splotches and bright squares where the rest of the image should’ve been.
“Is nothing sacred!?” Cried out Master Chief Pisani in exasperation as he swept a box full of half eaten eclairs and mostly empty whisky bottles off the holographic table on the top deck of the Troy. Despite the headaches and exhaustion hanging over their heads, the small crowd of buccaneers began to laugh as the once Master Chief of the High King’s Coastal Patrol lost his mind cleaning the table like only a man obsessed with spotless barracks and pristine equipment could.
Drake figured this was the first time the chief had been forced to allow a party in his operational headquarters, and the meticulous commander of their sapper team was not handling the realities of being on a pirate ship camouflage as a pleasure party yacht. He and his boys were a mix of combat engineers, Navy, and Coastal Patrol boys who kept the ship running when they weren't doing extra curricular activities on raids as attached specialists. As such, the only person who wanted the ship in perfect shape harder than him was Beatrice, and both of them seemed to forget who the Captain was when it was convenient. They sure did run crying to Drake whenever something was falling apart and they were losing their minds though. Ah the joys of command, or whatever command looked like when you were a civilian. A well armed violent thieving civilian, but still technically a civilian.
In the midst of this frantic activity Chief Pisani managed to bump the touch panel on the table turning on the last program the freaks had run the night before. Out of the hologram and the depths of the darkest pit of the internet popped up a double d very much topless stripper moaning and rubbing herself in such a lude fashion that even Drake wanted to blush.
“God in Heaven!” Cried Chief in horror as he suddenly lost all ability to control technology and began slapping the touchpad like a chimpanzee on his fourth shot of espresso. All he managed to do was adjust the settings which seemed to range from changing the background of the scene to a dominatrix den to whether or not the stripper had tentacles or bunny ears. Suddenly Drake realized the downsides of importing all your fancy electronics from various far eastern nations and in particular a troublesome island that once was more obsessed with kamikazes than monster boobs.
Marine Corporal Sampson, who was in charge of team Hornet taking turns with Don’s boys on away missions, proceeded to laugh till he cried harder than a nun at mother Terrisa’s funeral. The red faced balding ginger with more freckles than sense tried to slap the table next to his stained chair not noticing a greedy seagull who was eating out of a very old and messy plate of mini kolaches occupying said table. Next thing Drake knew the seagulls were swarming, and a small angry pack of flying sea rats were engaged in vicious hand to hand combat with his Corporal.
The scene continued to devolve as the now mad seagulls attacked one of Beatrice's cute waitresses, her name was Sharlene if he remembered correctly, as she came out with breakfast. The icing on the cake was when a seagull defecated on Don's boot. All Drake could do was put his chin in his hand and let the chaos unfold.
As the Captain watched, Don’s eye twitched, and with deliberate slowness and murderous intent drew his side arm which just so happened to be a Dash A .50 custom pistol made for Catalinan foresters dealing with rampaging Kodiak bears on the mainland. With a horrific series of crashes that could be heard through the fabric of the universe Don proceeded to turn the offending seagull and half its cousins into piles of charred feathers and aquatic fowl slag. Now the madness was complete with horny tentacled screams on the hologram, seagulls being punched and biting back, and last of all Don’s best attempt and anti air defense with his beast fifty caliber pistol. It was a masterpiece. When Sarge had warned Drake bringing a bunch of civilians on his ship was asking for trouble, somehow the Captain didn’t think either of them had this in mind. God Drake hoped the security cameras had this on a million different angles for later.
The Story Will Continue Every Monday
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