There are legends about us you know- legends and knock knock jokes. What the fuck happened to piracy over the last few years? One day we’re boogeymen the next minute we’re movie stars and children’s attractions and hyperbolic comedy figures. Worst of all is now we’re fashionable.
I’ve read about all the greats that came before me, Anne Bonny, Mary Read… what makes them better pirate queens than me is that they had the good sense to come and go when it was still a man’s game. They had the novelty of being first, lucky bitches. If I had my say I would have been born in the early nineteenth century, when romantic meant gunpowder and adultery. I didn’t become a pirate to break copyright laws, goddamnit, I became a pirate for the sole purpose of being a pirate.
If there is any difference at all between terrorism and piracy, that’s it; terrorists have a motive, to spread terror. Pirates only see that as a fringe benefit of the job. We have no motives. We’re anarchists to anarchists, and we love it.
He said that about me? When? I wouldn’t put the idea past him, but I wouldn’t necessarily trust him with it, not him, not anymore. I’ve seen him staring through the threshold of the great be-damned, and not even give a shit enough to sweat, but something’s different now. Someone must have put the fear of God into him. Funny, that. Fear of God. You can know the devil all your life, shake hands with him, make him your friend, but one thing gets a little too out of hand and all of a sudden you’ve got the fear of God in you. Still, I’d see him again. If he isn’t too afraid of me.
Did I tell you I’ve been writing a very specific kind of fan-fiction where Ringo kills and eats the rest of The Beatles for making fun of his big nose so much? No? I’ll show you some drafts when we get back. I don’t want to say anything more, could spoil it.
He used to read to me a lot. No- not Ringo! We’d be lying under this big apple-suckiling tree and he’d read from an old tome that I think some wise-man had given him a while back. I began to love a lot of the poetry from those old days, and now the only people I miss in the world are people I’ve never met. Mostly dead, white, English guys. The exact kind of people I wish to avoid on the mortal plain. Maybe I miss him a bit, too. But fuck it. Let him come to me if he wants his whiskey.
He seemed pretty tired, the last time I saw him. He probably still is. I remember him best, being tired.