金瓶梅第2部

Stickyfingers sat in the corner of the steadily rocking room, gripping the hilt of his tri-edged rondel.

"Fink, boyo..." He whispered to himself... "'Ow did da Bosun do it?

He shut his eyes, visualizing the green-haired Lieutenant.

Arms raised about parallel... shoulder blades wide.

The dagger goes down-- direct, without overreaching. Like the chop of an axe... all of a Coral Boy's weight and power focused on the strike.

Aim for the leatherneck... the spot between the helm and the chestplate... fleshy bits and not bone.

Trap the weapon.

Trap the arm.

Grab at any loose clothing.

Kick the enemy in the crotch.

Spit in his stupid, f*cking face.

The Bosun taught a hundred different lessons... before, during, and even after putting Stickyfingers' own stupid f*cking face on the deck.

'Again,' He'd say...

Again... and again... and again...

It shouldn'tve made sense, really... how such a smaller gent could knock Stickyfingers down so much-- made it look so easy-like.

It wasn't even strength, neither...

The Bosun... he called it momentum. You keep both feet planted on the deck. You twist your body. The bad guy goes down. You don't.

You take his weapon. You end him rightly.

Sharp end of the knife to cut the flesh. Pommel end to smash the teeth. Fingers to take the eyes or grabbing hands to put someone against the mast.

Once upon a time... Stickyfingers thought it was the worst mistake of his life to be caught with a dagger instead of a 'real' weapon.

Granted, that kind of training was more like punishment-- almost as bad as getting keelhauled.

After the Bosun taught him maybe everything he knew, though... it started to make some kind of logic.

There was a lesson, bigger than all the little ones.

The bigger picture, Tycon said.

It was showing Stickyfingers how to be the best Coral Boy he could be... to sharpen his strength to be more killy, more murder-y.

It didn't matter if his weapon of choice was an axe, a dagger, or even just his bare hands.

Every Marine in the crew was a professionally trained murderer.

And it just so happened that Stickyfingers was one of the most professional out of the lot of them.

"Iron-Rank Rogue, ah?" He muttered to himself, spinning the rondel around and holding it in an ice-pick grip... "We'z come a long way..."

"Yea... an' some fings 'ave ta be done, on account o' everything else..."

...Stickyfingers looked up and squinted his eyes to identify the silhouette blocking the lamplight.

It was Catshit... probably the only crewman on the ship more murderous than he was.

He had the usual look in his eyes. The lust for blood... for a good fight.

'Killing intent,' The Bosun called it.

He was real clear when he talked about it to Stickyfingers. You don't let out the killing intent... not unless you want the enemy to know exactly what was going to happen.

It was probably a lesson Catshit could learn...

...But there wasn't anyone on the Neptune's Revenge that needed killing.

The Sugar-Titted Siren, on the other hand... there was... one in particular.

A murder that needed to happen, that is.

Stickyfingers quietly sheathed his weapon in a looted sheath, "Wot o'you propose?"

"A talk, Leadin' Hand Stickyfingers," Catshit grinned. "'At's oll. Lieutenant Mina's old room."

"Lemme guess," Stickyfingers smirked. "Won't work wivout us, 'uh?"

"Not nearly's well," The peach-skinned Coral Boy shrugged. "Whaddya say?"

Stickyfingers slowly got to his feet, stretching his arms and legs, "Sure fing, 'en. What we lootin'?"

"Ain't for lootin' purposes... We'z gon' be talkin' murderin'... cold-blooded an' all."

It was odd. Catshit wasn't the planning type.

Stickyfingers looked into the Seaman's eyes. He looked real serious.

Real professional.

Probably real scary to whoever was gonna be on the other end of the knife.

"Let's talk, 'en."

...

⟬ Lieutenant Mina's room. ⟭

There were lots of things to lift in Mina's room... sparkling sea shells and starfish, whats-its and thingamabobs lifted off the ocean floor. There were even little flower things from the Trap Path.

Good times, that Trap Path.

Stickyfingers jammed his hands in his pockets to prevent himself from doing anything not so smart.

For the most part, everything the mermaid girlie kept on her walls was all real important to her. Therefore, it'd be wrong of him to snatch anything... not unless she were around to get bamboozled properly.

No one on the ship wanted to make the little one cry-- Stickyfingers included.

"Real cunty fing you tried to pull on da Cap'n," Petty Officer Bob grunted.

He was none too pleased with whatever went on in the Captain's room.

Matter of fact, he looked just about ready to pound Catshit's face in.

...which would've made a right mess while also breaking a few new holes in the ship.

"The Cap'n's real pissed off," Catshit shrugged. "Which is why we'z all togevver now... sumfin's gotta be done."

"An' 'alf da reason is YOU!!" Bob snarled.

"Ihihihi..." Doc tittered nervously between chewing on his fingernails, "'Ow 'bout... we'z jus-- ohhhh, y'know... hear Catshit out? We'z can be peaceable, yeh?"

"The Cap'n..." Catshit took a breath-- "E'z troubled in da 'ead."

"You'z 'bout to not have yer OWN 'ead to be troubled wiv," Bob grunted. "Savvy?"

"Lissen up," Catshit puffed his chest out, staring up at the big bad. "When da crew needs good finkin' done... it's us four dey'z lookin' for... startin' wiv *you*."

"Yeah?" Bob crossed his arms. "S'right. I fink good. Wot's it to ya?"

"When da Cap'n can't be relied on to fink straight," Catshit glared... "an' da Bosun's gotta lissen' to his orda'z... 'en it's up to us enlisted Marines to do all 'a dirty work."

"Ohhhh, izzat what 'is is about??" Bob rolled his eyes and started for the door. "Well, I'z just gonna sod right f*ckin' off, 'en. Ain't gonna be part o' yer stoopid plan, ya git."

"Oy!" Catshit turned and shouted at his back, "Twelve o' twelve."

Stickyfingers felt his heart stop beating in his chest. It felt like the ship stopped rocking just for that one particular moment.

That got him. That got him real good. Bob stopped in his tracks-- didn't move or turn or nothing.

"What... the... F*CK... did you just say to me, boyo?"