Ghost Thread - Davey Jones Locker

LMAO! I've got to say that this is the first time I've seen more roleplaying going on IN the ghost thread than outside of it.

*Sets out another round of rum*

Carry on. Carry on.

Captain Cristo sits in the corner with a bottle and a mug. Cristo doesn't talk to anyone he doesn't trust anyone. He thinks anyone of them could of sent him to the depths for something he told everyone he didn't do. All Cristo thinks of as he fills the mug with more rum. He can only think of his Ouillette. She was so big but so beautiful. He sees captains just rolling in like they own the place. Couple familiar faces walk in the door of Davey Jones locker. He doesn't wave he just smirks and hopes the idea was spread across the room.

Captain Morose was .. albeit humorously.. remorseful over the loss of her crew. At least they were in a better place in comparison. She looked around the gathering and chuckled to see a few Captains she recognized stuck in this dang purgatory with her. At least they served a fine rum. The more she drank the more she pondered why there were no male wenches.

M walked into the pub and sighed. The pain in her chest was gone, as was the heat from the fire, but her humor was lacking.

"Dead...dead dead dead dead...shit!"

Resignation was obvious in her tone, as was a hint of sadness. One lone tear slid down her cheek, before she swiped it away with the back of her hand. All the work she'd done to establish herself as a respected pirate, female or otherwise, had been for naught. Her dreams of one day retiring to a nice island, finding a handsome bloke to make babies with, and living the comfortable life were gone. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and would not go down easy, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it now.

Looking around at the other people already there, she quickly tossed out the idea of introductions. The only thing she really wanted now, was to get rip-roaring drunk, and not think about anything at all. She would have all of eternity to dwell on what could have been, as well as time to figure out a way to haunt those that had done her in. And yes, along with feeling sorry for herself, there was a growing hunger to make that captain pay.

But not just yet.

"Rum...the best ye have...and keep em comin...I'm not leavin here until I can't see straight."

Mon Claire, his fit of giggles somewhat diminished, looked up as another straggler entered the Inn... He thought she looked a little familiar through the haze of rum and smoke, but lacked the necessary equipment to pique his interest...

"Merde!" he mused, "these people must all be Americans..."

A shiver ran through Mon Claire...

There was something new on the wind. A pressure was building and a sense of foreboding trickled up and down his spine like a French prostitute with a feather duster...

He sighed and looked down at the tops of his soft leather boots.

"Mon Dieu, humor is fine, but eventually thees madness must end, no? How many more before they finally figure it out?"

He slumped down onto a chair by one of the tables and put up his feet...

After a bit he fished a lumpy home rolled from the depths of his waistcoat and began blowing smokerings, just for something to do.

Blinking, young William opened his eyes. At least he'd gone out in style, and with no muss, no fuss. They'd buried him at sea, an eternal bath. Not nearly as shabby as that burning business with that ash, or that burial...for shame! He'd take a good bath over that any time. It was truly a shame about the sail, though.

Opening the door before him, he glanced in. A bar. A somewhat seedy bar. With dirty folk about.

Apparently he hadn't been as righteous as he'd thought. Still, an eternity of servitude was not such a bad thing. After all, it was what he'd been trained for. Straightening his coat, he walked purposefully toward the bar and began straightening the bottles, aligning them artfully as he worked. You had to start somewhere, after all.

ARGH!

The clues are unsettling...

Mon Claire looks around as a swab wanders in sans a speck of dirt or dust. He watches as the little man begins straightening bottles and generally cleaning the place.

"Sare Bleu! First they geev us a psycho-naut, and now this one? He should be wearing a maid's blouse and apron." Mon Claire smiled at that thought of the little man in heels and carrying a feather duster.

"No, it is too much for me to contemplate. He would spend all his time straightening his pleats..."

Heaving a mental sigh, Mon Claire went back to his fond rememberances of "Guess what I have in my pants Wednesdays" back when life was something you had, and memories were things you made.

Captain Rich once again found himself without a ship. At least he had not been left to die. However, getting hit over the back of the head and getting dumped off in a tavern was a strange way to steal a ship.

The tavern was not such a bad place. In fact, it was better than most he had been in. As he looked around at the faces he noticed members of his crew chatting it up with one of the bar maids, and on the far side of the room was a table filled with captain he knew were dead.

It was then he realized there would be no finding his ship and battling to take it back once more.

"Well I better order a drink and start making friends, I may be here a while."

Darsa stalked into the bar room, her black, angry face discouraging any attempts at conversation. She slumped into the first available chair and leaned on both elbows, rubbing her head with the memory of how pathetically she was done away with. At least her murderer could have had the decency to off her at sea, where she belonged! A nattily attired gentleman, Darsa recognized him as a fellow Captain, ambled towards her with a smile. She glared at him, her eyes seeming to strike sparks with her anger, and he swerved away, averted even in his inebriated state. She held up a hand with one finger up, and momentarily a bottle of rum and a small glass were plunked in front of her. She ignored the glass, and swigged directly from the bottle. As the potent brew made it's way through her, her hard face relaxed and she began to take notice of her surroundings.

... Could have been worse. There were several recognizable faces among the crowd, and she nodded when eyes moveed towards her. Taking another swallow, she leaned back in her chair and contemplated how this turn of events came to be...

"It seems the only fish in the sea are female these days." lamented the late Captain Mon Claire. "And this last one looks mean enough to catch sharks barehanded. I wondare what God was theenking when he made that one? Probably, 'Oh look. I have 200 kilos of anger and one tiny body to put it in. I bet I can make it fit.' "

"Typical of God really." he thought spitting an errant bit of tobacco onto the floor. Always shooting for miracles...

Colonel James O'Connor walks into the tavern with a look of disappointment hung drearily on his face.

"So, this is the life after death, I was hoping that I would be welcomed to the engulfing seas of Valhalla, but I suppose I have little say in the matter. No matter, one should only look to better his situation, and accept whatever fate the gods may hand him."

With that, the Colonel began to study the other individuals who had found their way to this destination. He recalled many of them.

When this quest had first begun he was quite surprised at the number of lady pirates, some of whom were quite charming. There was also that pirate Lilith, who was not only from Ireland, but commanded a beautiful ship. He felt somewhat panged by the fact that he never managed to obtain his own ship of the line.

The tavern doors blew open, and in flew the shades of Dominic. He was not a happy little parrot - to have been brutally murdered by roasting! Him! A parrot. He hoped that somebody, somewhere, was choking on a little bit of him.

Perching on Solomon Caine's head, Dominic did a ghost poo.

Wow...I got lynched without even a single ooc remark on my guilt!

EEK!!!

(^_^)

Laha

Doing a little wee in Solomon Caine's beer while he wasn't looking, Dominic started to feel a bit better. The scoundrels would pay - even in death.

Wallowing in her seat at the tavern, Darsa swirled her (now) quarter-full bottle of rum and looked around blearily. Sniffing, she cried, "Doesh anyone elshe shmell cooking shicken? Is that what'sh on th' menu t'day? I wanna order some roasht shicken! Waiter!!" Then her head clunked to the table, and she snored softly to herself.

(omg - I haven't laughed that hard in awhile - my coworker just stared at me... all those poor lonely female parrots.... ROFLMAO!!)

Leigh watched the parade of captains enter the bar, one by one, like clockwork. She was starting to think maybe she had had it easy, especially after the parrot arrived and the smell of roast chicken began to permeate the dreary establishment. Slamming down what was left in her glass, she poured another round, hitting any glass within reach that was even remotely empty. "Cheers!!"

*places a small reef on his shoulder* It simply reads 'Dom'. *Sniff* *sniff*

"Mon Dieu! The stuff you peeple cook! You call that roast fowl? It certainly is! Have you never heard of sauce, you impudent cretin!

Meh, some afterlife thees is. All women, and no French Chefs!"

Mon Claire lit up another smoke, and took another drink of rum. More for the look of the thing, than anything else.

Ye Gods, I knew I should have written down all my guesses from the start. The ooc thread is starting to heat up a bit...

Anyone know how many more rounds there will be? 3-4 or so? I guess it depends on if they got the mafia count right or not.

SIGH

Death sucks.