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The Adventures of Pirate John

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This is a new Aveyond fanfic.

Rating: PG (some violence)









My name's Pirate John, for all you wee kiddies unexposed to my greatness. Back in Aveyond 1, a crazy Veldt woman named Elini "convinced" me to marry her and become one of her husbands. (One of. My hand still can't believe the words I'm writing.) For her wedding present to me, she gave me a diary to write in. That's you, ya leather bound hardcover bundle of pages. I'll write about all the crazy shenanigans I've had, and the ones in the future. Just promise not to cringe, okay? I can only write a little now, because that witch Elini is calling me to make dinner. Fried salamander and biscuits tonight.


How I Got Put In Jail

(The place where that whiny Lars kid and pretty lady Rhen found me.)


The ale Mad Marge served at her restaurant was the best you could find in the isles. Sure, the locale were a bunch of ragged pirates, and the crabs liked to bite people's toes, but the warm feeling of fizzy ginger on your stubble made you ache for more. Unfortunately, I had spent all the money in my savings (2 pennies) on ale, and needed a quick way to make cash fast.


I stared at the clear glass rim of my empty glass. My shipmate Pauly also spent his savings (1 penny, the pirate profession doesn't have that high of a salary, but you get many opportunities to go outside, meet new people [and rob them]), and was sitting with me at the table of shame.


"My bills," he whined. "How am I supposed to work for ya, boss, when you can't even provide a decent meal for yer crew!" Pauly then started scraping the wooden table we were sitting at, sending flecks of curly, soft wood into my curly hair, which already had wads of bubble gum and bits of paper embedded in it. What was my hair anyway, a schooldesk or park bench?


To top a terrible day, a complaining employee was straddled to me. Alone in a run-down shack, I felt it was time to take steps away from the table of shame (and into the jail of shame). I wanted, needed, to turn into a magnet for adventure, for a little glamor, to trade these shaggy red robes into a classy black tailcoat (and maybe a parrot, like in the movies). Little did I know I was to trade it in for a black and white striped two piece.

"Quit yer griping, laddie. We mightn't hit the gold jackpot, but at least we can hit the beverage one."

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How I Got in Jail (Part 2)


The next day, I met with my inside contact - a dissatisfied waiter at Marge's who got fed up with the fact that she never gave him a raise for the past ten years. (Interestingly enough, his savings consisted of 200 pennies. At least being a pirate had more dignity in it, plus you get to work for yourself.) His name was Barry, and he told us to meet him at the docks at dawn.


"Hey, what happened to the girl you was takin' with you on dis' raid?" he asked.


"What girl?" I replied.


"You said," Barry explained, "you was bringin' youself an' a girl name Polly."


Oh. Now I understood. Polly sounds like Pauly. Luckily Pauly had no idea what was going on, and sat on a jagged granite rock, weaving his toes in the sand. I carefully and expertly handled the situation. Elini woulda been proud of me.


"Forgetta bout all this nonsense, boy," I boomed. "Polly's what I'm gonna name the parrot I get with da ale money, an' not some sobbing, crybaby, deck hand."


Pauly looked up at me, his eyebrows descending into a steep V. His auburn hair stood on end as if I rubbed it with a balloon. His gray eyes even seemed to darken a little?


Expert handling, huh?


Okay, I was a bit harsh. I would apologize to him. I resolved to be extra nice and give him a parrot, too, once I got money. I would name it Pauly Jr.

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Us three trudged through the masses of sand dunes, passing just about every other shop and hut in the island. When I find myself alone, a rare occasion, I wonder why we simply didn't rob those stores. On one of those occasions, I come to the conclusion that it was part of my pirate mentality. Schemes not complicated or grand enough weren't glamorous enough for someone of my taste.


"Barry, we've crossed the entire length of the island," I complained. "All I can see is sand."


He bared lemon-colored, worn down teeth, and sneered, "This is the safehouse, dummy! It's the sand sculpture!"


I squinted with my eyes (It's true I needed glasses, but they just don't fit my image). Smooth walls grew visible on the nearest dune. The tawny sand castle spouted spiraling towers, with its wall's top edged lines with crenels. The only thing not sand was a trap door carved out of driftwood. A child could never have built something of this caliber, unless they possessed days of time and a...kid army, as well as two laid-back parents that would let their kid run around.

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Barry went on, "The sandcastle. I was working at Marge's when this was made - by architects from Thais. I think I can get the three of us in."


"Do we just...destroy the castle?", I asked.




For hours, we tore away at compacted sheets of glistening sand.

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Later, the sandcastle was fully dissembled and being blown away by wind. I could find about 20 to 30 barrels in the mess we made. Rapping each of them, I could know that none were completely hollow.


Pauly and Barry, right then, were sleeping on a sand dune, enervated.


I felt pretty thirsty, and pried open a barrel to get a drink.


Ale, was there, with no fizz whatsoever.


I took a sip of the nasty stuff, and decided to allow my buddies to take some when they woke.

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