Articulate Jim, page 1
ARTICULATE JIM
A SEARCH FOR SOMETHING
By Ben “Yahtzee” Croshaw
ONE
"Bloody stupid colour for a whale, anyway."
- Captain Ahab
"Aharrr!" went Mad Jack.
"Aharrr!" agreed Loony Steve.
"Ahahaharr!" added Batshit Jeffrey enthusiastically.
"Aharr," I muttered.
Steve paused in mid-chug, put down his flagon of frothing grog, and gave me a quizzical look through his bushy black beard. The sudden tilting movement had shifted it over his eyes. "Somethin' getting ye down, boy?"
I sighed heavily, elbows leaning on the balustrade that ran alongside the top deck of our mighty vessel as it noisily carved a swathe through the tarmac far below. I had only been with the land pirates a week and I was already sick of it.
The recruitment ad in the newspaper had made it seem like such a glamorous job. And it was, for the first few days; sailing up and down the motorways of the country, swinging from ropes onto passing lorries and service stations with daggers between our teeth and draining them of their booty. But we hardly ever had a really good haul - the last two boardings had left our hold full of a shipment of rapidly thawing frozen beef and several boxes of TV listings magazines. Since the ship didn't have a TV, nor indeed any Yorkshire pudding, the other crewmen were discussing the possibility of finding a nice traffic island to bury it all under.
"Speak up, Jim lad," said Steve.
I turned to face my colleagues and gave them a long, hard look. They were career pirates - life on the open road was in their bones. Some of them even had genuine false limbs, while I had had to make do with coating my left leg in woodstain. I could tell they rather liked me, but I never felt easy in their presence. They insisted on calling me 'Jim lad', which I had gathered was sort of the pirate equivalent of John Doe.
"I'm just having doubts about this job," I confessed, adjusting my ruffled shirt.
The three land pirates gave each other knowing looks. "'Tis a rare cabin boy indeed 'oo can jump straight into land piratin' just like that," said Batshit Jeffrey as the others nodded and 'aharr'ed in agreement. "Takes a while for the tarmac to really get in a boy's blood."
"But we never seem to get anywhere," I protested. "Just sail up and down the motorway stealing cargo and burying it in traffic islands. Where's it all leading?"
"Everyone gets into piratin' for their own reasons," said Mad Jack, swallowing his mouthful of grog. "For some, 'tis the booty. For others, 'tis the wenches. For a small minority 'tis our stock options package and competitive dental plan. What brought ye to land piratin', lad?"
I turned and leant on the railing again. Below me a school of Minis bumped playfully against the ship's hull. "I joined for adventure," I said wistfully. "To see the world, battle resilient foes, far away from the hustle and bureaucracy of everyday life." I watched as the minis detached from the ship's bulk and sped away, honking merrily. "But all we do all day is sit around reading TV listing magazines and play Hungry Hungry Hippos."
"Arr. Sport of kings," said Loony Steve. "And don't forget drinking grog."
"GROG!" barked everyone in earshot simultaneously.
"You mean Carlsberg," I said flatly.
"CARLSBERG!" went the pirates again.
I rested both elbows on the rail and allowed my face to sink into the cradle they formed. "Plus the noise is doing my head in," I said, referring to the constant grinding noise as the ship ploughed through the road, leaving a wide trench in its wake. "And this eyepatch is starting to hurt."
"Aye, you need to sterilise the paddin'." He caught my dirty look. "And aye, if you want constant non-stop adventure then ye're in the wrong place, Jim lad. Land piratin's become a much more sedate trade. Ye get the occasional pitched battle with rival land pirates and articulated lorries but most land pirates think that that excitement is more than enough."
"Don't call me Jim lad, my name isn't Jim."
"Well, I'm not callin' ye by that bloody stupid name ye gave us."
"It's a nice name!" I protested.
"Ye be wantin' to join the army, or somethin'".
I didn't even dignify that remark with a reply.
"Ye don't wanna let Cap'n Scar hear ye, 'e don't like 'earing 'is men moanin'."
"'E'll make you walk the plank."
"Then ye'll have to jog along behind the ship until we stop next and ye can hop back on."
"As long as the Yamahas don't get ye first."
There was a shudder among the trio, the very name of the dread fleet striking fear into the hearts of even the toughest of grog-swilling land pirates.
A call came down from the crow's nest as I was about to continue airing my doubts, and a great cheer went up among the pirates that idled variously on the deck and rigging. The aforementioned Captain Scar emerged from his cabin, took his spyglass, and surveyed the horizon. A great grin stretched across his features, revealing his black teeth. He turned to address his crew. "Where's the lad?" he rumbled in the thickest pirate accent on board.
"Thar's ye cue, matey," said Batshit Jeffrey as I was shepherded over to Captain Scar's side.
He pressed a yellowed piece of paper into my palm and handed me a cutlass. "Why does it always have to be me who does this?" I complained.
"Ye're our most articulate man, wit' your fancy-pants posh accent, laddie," said Captain Scar. "Any more lip and I feed ye to the Yamahas. Now get going."
*
I dangled by one hand from one of the portholes along the side of the ship's hull so that my mouth could be level with a small grille built about three feet above the ground. My left arm waved the cutlass in a half-hearted menacing fashion as I spoke.
"Yeah, so that's fifty large big mac meals ... no, fifty. Fif-teee. Twenty-five with Coke, twenty-five with Fanta. Yes, twenty-five each. And ten large McChicken Sandwich meals, all with coke..."
There was a cry from the impatient crewmen above.
"Sorry, nine large with coke, one medium with coke," I added.
There was another cry.
"I haven't forgotten, I haven't forgotten!" I shouted upwards, then returned my attention to the grille thing. "And one veggie-burger meal. With strawberry milkshake."
There was a burst of static from the two-way radio, and a series of barely recognisable syllables came through. I swept my hair back behind my ear with the end of my cutlass, and called upwards again. "Kevin, the milkshake machine's down!"
Another cry.
"No, I don't think murdering them all will help," I ventured.
*
As always the hardest part of the operation was threatening the woman at the drive-thru window with the cutlass until she agreed to waive the cost, then transferring the huge quantity of little paper bags from the window to the deck above me one by one with the point of the sword. By the time I had clambered back on deck, the ship was moving again and most of the crew were sitting around stuffing their faces. One of them registered my presence and jabbed a ketchup-stained thumb towards the cabin door.
"Cap'n wants to see ye," he said in a slightly broken pirate accent.
I roughly snatched the little greasy paper bag one of the crewmen had been keeping on side for me, and gave the spokesman one of my looks. "What for?"
"Ye know, I didn't think to ask."
I sighed the deepest sigh that day, causing a school of nearby Minis to break away startled from the hull and drive off, and headed for the door.
*
Captain Scar was, as always, a fearsome sight. A great hulking brute of a man with not only a genuine big bushy black beard but also a genuine rusty iron hook for a hand. His eyepatch and pegleg were both false, but there's a fine line between being fearsome and being seriously mutilated. He always wore a black tunic with blood red lining, and a matching hat that even had a skull and crossbones badge on the front. That's how serious a land pirate Captain Scar was.
As I entered his office he was sitting at his desk, an MFI self-assembly affair apparently acquired many years ago from a van belonging to a chain of catalogue shops. It was no marvel of engineering - it wobbled alarmingly when leant on and a stuffed beaver replaced one of the legs - but no-one was going to point anything out to the man.
Captain Scar wasn't his real name, of course. His surname was originally Scarlet, but this had left him open to some quite creative mockery, and there were only so many crewmen he could execute for loudly humming certain theme tunes when they thought they were out of earshot, so he'd changed it to something appropriately fearsome and piratey. Unfortunately he had had to drag his hook across his face before the name could be lent any credibility, but it was a small price to pay to stop his crew walking around in a curious wobbly puppet-like manner when he wasn't looking.
As I entered he had exchanged his hook for the special one with the pencil nib on the end and was filling in a crossword puzzle in a TV listings magazine, his great big booted feet on the desk. He motioned towards a swivelly office chair, which the crew had also acquired from the catalogue shop van, and I sat upon it, whereupon the seat immediately descended to ground level.
"Arr, it does that," he said through a mouthful of burger and fries. "Use yon stick."
I picked up the length of driftwood nearby kept for this purpose and used it to fix the seat at about two feet above the floor, then sat upon it once again. The magnificent captain swallowed, and tapped his paper though
"'Rob's dome is badly lit'. Seven letters," he said.
"Boredom," I said promptly. His quizzical look spurred me to continue. "Another word for 'badly lit' is 'dull', and 'rob dome' is an anagram."
He 'aharr'ed shortly, and filled in the spaces. "Ye're a good boy, Jim lad. You've got it in yer to be a great addition to my crew. We 'aven't had a token posh boy pirate in a while."
I nodded shortly, and tried to give an appreciative smile. He laid the magazine aside, took his feet off the desk and clasped his hand around his hook. "And yet, Batshit Jeffery was just tellin' me that ye're not very 'appy with us."
That's it, I thought. As soon as the ship stops and I can hop back on board I'm soaking Jeffrey's bandana in white spirit again. "A bit," I muttered.
He sighed. "Look, Jim lad, I know I seem like this great big evil unapproachable pirate sometimes," said the huge hairy man with the black outfit and matching teeth. "But I was a cabin boy like ye once. And back then I sometimes doubted that land pirating was what I really wanted to do. That was until ... the incident..." He fingered the hook, staining his already well-stained fingertips with graphite, and for an instant a flash of red hatred went through his eyes. I thought it prudent to keep quiet.
There was an awkward pause, and our eyes met. "I just ... don't feel I'm getting what I want out of the position..." I said meekly.
"What is it ye want out of the job, Jim lad?" he said, snapping out of his trance.
"Adventure," I said sheepishly. "It's been kind of interesting, but it gets samey really fast. And my name isn't Jim."
"I know, but yer real name's bloody stupid, let's face it." I glared at him unappreciatively, but only briefly, considering the man. "An' I agree. I was well and truly bored stiff by the time of ... the Incident..." he tapped his hook against the desktop sadly. "When that great beast took my hand ... Ol' Ben 'imself, the killer of the A417..."
I watched awkwardly as he got up from his seat and went over to the porthole. He glared at the rough-hewn ditch the ship left in its wake, into which unwary motorists fell and were left honking indefinitely. "I knew I couldn't rest until I got my revenge on that monster," he said flatly. "So I clawed my way up the ranks until I was cap'n of me own ship, then devoted my life to tracking 'im down. And one day I'll choke that evil to death wit' me own 'ands."
I coughed politely, and he seemed to register my presence, taking his seat again. "But I see ye don't 'ave the same sort of motivation," he said.
I shook my head. He continued. "If adventurin' is what ye're after, then I don't think land piratin' is for you. Land piratin' is based on profit an' personal fulfilment. But there are other branches of piratin' you might want to consider, much more fast-paced. 'Ave you thought about sea piratin'? Sky piratin'? Computer piratin'?"
I interrupted. "Sky pirating?" He nodded. "What's that?"
"Oh, that's a real up-and-coming new branch of piratin', sky piratin'. I've got a cousin oo runs a ship operating round Europe. They'll be touchin' down in Sahthampton on Thursday. Wanna give it a try? I'll give you a glowin' reference."
This was certainly a fascinating development. "And that's more fast-paced? More adventurey?"
"My cousin told me ye 'aven't lived 'till ye've boarded a private business jet at forty thahsand feet."
I thought about it. "Alright," I said after one second. "I'll give it a go."
He was about to say something when there was a roar among the pirates outside. I exchanged slightly baffled looks with the great captain, then Loony Steve burst in, waving his cutlass and wearing an excited expression on his face. "Cap'n sir!" he yelled. "It's 'im! It's ol' Ben 'imself off the port bow!"
"Ye're sure? If this is a wind-up I'll 'ave ye're toes for tea -"
"P569 JHR!" reported Steve breathlessly.
Captain Scar gave me a look of delirious excitement, and leapt suddenly to his feet, causing his chair and the entire desk to collapse. A glint of joy was in his eye. "C'mon laddie!" he barked, and ran after Steve. I followed rapidly. This was something I didn't want to miss.
When we got back on deck, the pirates were all clustered around the portside rail, clamouring to get a glimpse of Old Ben. Captain Scar fought his way through the throng and I followed, eager to see the legendary beast. I elbowed Mad Jack aside and craned over the rail, shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun to try to make out the dark shape a few hundred yards ahead. It was smaller than our ship, and apparently painted blue, and soon recognition struck.
"That's Old Ben?" I asked incredulously.
"Aye, lad," said Captain Scar hungrily, standing by my side.
"But it's a camper van!"
"Thar's not any ol' camper van," said Mad Jack nervously. "Thar's Ol' Ben. Cap'n Scar's brother-in-law's camper van."
I shook my head and rubbed my temple, unnoticed in the bustle all around me.
"Right!" said the captain. "Jack, Steve, Kevin, Jim lad, man the portside cannons!"
The four of us fought our way out of the crowd and tramped down the stairs to the lower deck, where we flung open the cannon holes and pushed the nozzles of the ship's huge iron armaments into open air. From this position we could still hear the shouted commands of Captain Scar as well as the excited cries and 'aharr's from the rest of the crew. We heard the great captain order his men to lower the fore and aft sails in order to speed up and draw alongside Old Ben.
"Jack," I asked my cannon partner as we waited for the camper van to come into range. "How did Captain Scar lose his hand to Old Ben?"
"Arr, I think he was helping push it with his hand on the steerin' wheel and someone closed the window afore he could get it out," said Jack distractedly, eyes fixed on the road.
We drew level with the van, and from this angle we could see the driver double-take as the gigantic pirate ship hoved into his view. "Fire one, lads!" called Captain Scar maniacally.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Loony Steve yank the firing rope of the cannon next to mine, heard the massive bang, and saw a slightly scorched pile of TV listings magazines spread themselves across the road just behind Old Ben. Undeterred, Captain Scar called again. "Fire two!"
I pulled hard upon my rope and the cannon fired fifteen pounds of rancid British beef at the van, splatting wetly against the powder blue side and causing it to wobble alarmingly. A cheer went up among the pirates above us, and we heard the scrape of a cutlass leave its sheathe.
"Shall we reload, captain?" I shouted.
"Nay, Jim lad!" called Scar. "He's MINE!"
Immediately I saw the great musclebound black-clad figure leap atop the unsuspecting roof of Old Ben. It skidded left and right with great screeching noises that served only to make the assembled pirates cheer even louder for their captain, who was not to be thrown off his prey.
Captain Scar dug his feet into the roof rack and delved his existing hand into his waistcoat pocket, producing something that he held aloft for all to see. The cheering of the crew reached a crescendo as we saw what it was.
