Motherfucking Pirates (Part 1)

Red Hull was queen of the motherfucking pirates, and any scallywag who
flew the Jolly Roger, they either swore their black soul to her or
they kept her movements at the top of their fucking minds every day
they lived and sailed.

The book of her sins was still only half the weight and length of the Book of Death, but it was the kind of reading that would strike the fucking reader blind, and even the devil wished her a long and healthy life while he shoveled coal in a fever to his fucking furnace to make the fires hot enough for her when she bothered to stop by.

Red Hull took one of the selfsame fucking devil’s very fingernails and hammered it straight into her black-moon sword, a right fucking beheader full five feet long and two hundred pounds if it was an ounce, made from a superior alloy of spite and malice. The wounds she carved, on the days when she felt cruel enough to not let them be instantly fatal, well, just imagine the devil just dug his fucking fingernail into your flesh and think on how that must feel.

Red Hull’s hair is black and shiny as the devil’s eyes and it trails behind her on the deck in a Medusa of rattling braids. Tied to the end of each is a bullet that tried to kill her and failed, and, when she fights, and she does pretty often, no fucking mistake, she can whip those braids around hard enough to pluck swords and pistols from her hands, if she doesn’t simply break their arms or hang them where they stand. They say a rival swordsman once stepped on one of those braids and caused it to pull free of her scalp. Now his teeth are braided into the lock she grew to replace it, and when she piles her hair atop her head like a crown, that’s the one that keeps the others in line.

Red Hull’s eyes can hypnotize her prey like a fucking snake, and yeah, I do expect you to have expected that. She can squint and freeze a deck load of bastards and make a battle go silent while she strolls down to take whatever she fucking pleases. Some people say she was born with the power, something that she got passed down to her on her mother’s side from the blood of Cain, and some people say she learned it in some blasphemous temple buried under tons of half-rotted vegetation in some distant foreign land. Whichever the story, that’s what she did to Quay when she found him on the beach that night, sitting and staring up at the moon; her row boats are all carved with spells that make them silent and christened by pressing their keels to the bodies of prisoners like feet to grapes for fucking wine, people, and he never heard her slip ashore. He never knew she was there until she drew his attention, and then it was too
late, poor, lovely Quay, he was caught and held.

[image error]wirewalking's house has decided to try and rot out from under her.  She writes amazing stories and makes really tasty cookies and caramels, and she is offering books  and baked goods to help defray the costs of, well, her house breaking.  She is offering them here



[image error]shadesong is still trying to fund the bionic upgrades to her poor clumsy kitty  who broke her arm recently.  Halfway there, but a new round of auctions is bound to go up here.



You can get to the table of contents for this story here.