Bohemian Zen

The New Mate
A Tale of The Pirates of The Tax Free Zone

by Chad Boudreau
Characters created by Chad Boudreau & 3!LL

Dramatis Personae

The Captain

Numbers

Basil

Greasy Jesus

The Skid

Part 1
In Which a Destination is Reached, Scents Are Smelled and Ninjas Don’t Appear

The Captain eyeballed his crew, confident he had selected the right personnel for the task at hand. The five of them were standing outside a squat little building that sat toad-like among the towering squalor of that particular corner of The Tax Free Zone. It was night. The air was tepid.

Basil was scowling into the gloom, his wiry and compact body taut. His long moustaches twitched as he mumbled a string of barely audible obscenities. The Skid had a look in his eyes that transmitted the simple working of his mind. He was tall and immensely broad across the shoulders, with a small head on a thick neck and a youthful, chubby face. Numbers was one of several women in The Captain’s crew, but the only one with him now. With red hair and glasses she was not very attractive by The Captain’s standards. She didn’t have enough scars and was far too skinny but she was fierce in a fight and whip smart. Greasy Jesus was the last, the reason why they were there. Sickly thin, Greasy Jesus had a body and face that was all sharp angles. Under normal circumstances, he was as maniacal and enthusiastic as any of The Captain’s crew but these were not normal circumstances. Princess Daisy of Whitmore Park had died and Greasy Jesus was an emotional wreck because of it.

Somewhere in another murky corner of this neighborhood something slowly died with a whimper.

“Alright, lads,” The Captain said, “We go in, get what we came for and get out.” He looked each in the eye to drive home the gravity of the situation. The Skid broke into a broad grin and waved happily. “We don’t want any trouble in here,” The Captain continued. “You won’t find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”

“And we’re going to find what we’re looking for?” The tone of Greasy Jesus’ voice told The Captain the sallow fellow was questioning his knowledge. Beside The Captain, Basil stopped breathing, his eyes lighting up with fury. The Captain placed a hand of the man’s forearm to steady him, the act of a master heeling his mastiff. Basil sucked in air through clenched teeth. Greasy Jesus didn’t bat an eye. He really was in a sorry state.

“Yes,” assured The Captain. “All the best mascots can be found here.” And with that he opened the door.

Hot air washed over them, fluttering hair and plucking at clothes, carrying with it a din of a hundred voices and the smell of alcohol and sex. The booze was cheap– tub hooch and gut rot whiskey.  The sex was nasty and dirty— a humid stink of unwashed bodies that had slapped together wetly and been put away damp. The smells were carried on a current rising up out of the depths of the building as if the air itself was rushing outside to escape the stench.

Pat’s Pet Emporium was as much a boozing parlor and whorehouse as it was the finest pet store in The Tax Free Zone. Pat, the proprietor, was known for his collection of loyal and exotic animals, bred and trained as mascots for all manner of criminal types, including Pirates such as The Captain and his crew. Greasy Jesus was the crew’s mascot handler. The death of Princess Daisy of Whitmore Park, a saucy and violent three-legged female cat, had left a hole in The Captain’s gang, and none were feeling the loss more so than Greasy Jesus.

Numbers coughed into one of her gloved hands. Greasy Jesus said nothing but The Captain could see in his eyes that the lad still doubted his assurance that a new crew mascot could be found on these premises. Basil growled at the back of his throat, his foot thumping on the ground like a jackrabbit in a spring heat. The Skid flared his big nostrils, testing the air. “They sell fish and chips here? I like fish and chips.” He sniffed again, deeper, and his nose wrinkled at something it didn’t like. “Their tartar sauce smells off though.”

The Captain squared his shoulders. “In we go,” he said and stepped inside. He didn’t wait to see if the others followed, confident they would.  

There was a short, descending staircase, stone steps wide and deep. The way was lit only by the meager light rising from the room still unseen below. Footsteps behind him told him his crew had obediently followed. They would follow him to the end of the world if necessary.

The Captain and his crew reached the landing and turned to proceed down the last three steps into the common room when a loud voice boomed out over the racket. 

“Stop right there! Come another step and by God I’ll kill the lot of ya!”

(continued)

The New Mate
A Tale of The Pirates of The Tax Free Zone

by Chad Boudreau
Characters created by Chad Boudreau & 3!LL

Dramatis Personae

The Captain

Numbers

Basil

Greasy Jesus

The Skid

Part 2
In Which Danger is Averted, A Meeting Begins and Ninjas Remain Absent

“Stop right there! Come another step and by God I’ll kill the lot of ya!”

The speaker was the bartender of the establishment, a bald-headed man with tattoos across his pate. His shoulders, chest and arms were as thick as a career blacksmith. He had no legs. He hung laundry-like from a harness, which itself was attached to a rail system suspended from the ceiling. He was aiming a swivel gun at The Captain and his crew.

“Whoa,” said The Captain, stopping short. His troop bunched up behind him, but The Captain knew his body would offer them no protection. He was certain the muzzle was loaded with grapeshot. If fired, they would be torn to bloody shreds.

Reflexively, The Captain took one step to the right, the others shuffling likewise behind him. The bartender used the wooden handle attached to the breech to swing the iron gun to bear. Patrons in the line of fire scrambled away from their tables except for one old-timer who was too deep in his cups to notice what was transpiring. He took a sip from his clay mug and smacked his lips happily.

“We’re here on business,” said The Captain. He didn’t need to raise his voice. The room had fallen silent. The onlookers stood or sat transfixed. One gangly youth with a greasy face had his fingers stuck in his ears, anticipating a boom any moment.

“We don’t serve her kind here,” barked the bartender.

The Captain looked over his shoulder at Numbers. She was scowling.

“There are plenty of women here.” That was The Skid.

“Red-heads?” offered Greasy Jesus. It was difficult to discern hair color in the gloom.

With acid in her voice, Numbers offered, “Lesbians”. The Skid gasped. Basil started to purr.

“Shut yer holes!” shouted the hanging barman. His fury shook his body in his harness. The rails groaned loudly.

Sensing the swivel gun would be fired any moment, one of the crowd made like he was going to step forward and drag the still drinking gaffer out of harms way; but, self-preservation won over. Something of a conscience remained, however, because a split second later the fellow grabbed and flung a nearby chair. It struck the old man square in the back. There was a crack, and no one was sure if it was wood or bone. The graybeard went down in a heap. The chair chucker received a couple hearty pats on the back.

“Accountants,” said the bartender, silencing the bit of chatter that had started to rise.

“Well, technically, she’s not an accountant anymore,” said The Captain. He put on his most pleasant and unthreatening smile. Basil leaning over his shoulder with murder in his eyes and a long-handled knife clutched in his yellow teeth ruined the effect.

“Doesn’t matter,” said the bartender, swivel gun still aimed at The Captain’s chest. “Once a bean counter, always a bean counter. It’s in the eyes. Always movin’, takin’ stock, countin’ stuff. I don’t like it. She can’t come in.”

The Captain considered the man’s words for a moment before turning to face Numbers. The Captain didn’t like having guns of any size pointed at his back but there was nothing he could do about that right now.

“You better go,” he said quietly. Numbers opened her mouth to say something but he kept on talking. “We don’t want any trouble. This is important, not just for the lad. It’s important to all of us.”

She was looking over his shoulder as he talked, but when he finished her eyes found his. She held his gaze. She was the only person who could do so. She nodded, turned on her heel and headed back up the stairs.

“Good?” asked The Captain.

“Good,” said the bartender. He pushed down on the wooden handle and the swivel gun’s muzzle was aimed at the ceiling. He then grabbed one of the many wooden handles fastened to the bar’s countertop, and using his thick arms, pulled himself to the opposite end of the bar where patrons were approaching, their thirst for booze returned now that their thirst for blood wasn’t going to be quenched. The wheels of the harness squealed as they rolled along the metal rails.

The Captain stepped into the room. He straightened his jacket, glancing around as natural disorder returned to the bar–whorehouse–pet store. His eyes found what they sought at the back of the room. He headed for it. His men followed.

“I didn’t know Numbers was a lesbian,” The Skid said to Greasy Jesus. He needed to shout to be heard over the returned din. “She doesn’t look like a lesbian.” His foot caught on something and he stumbled. He looked over his shoulder and saw an old man lying on the floor. The figure twitched once. A squirrel was drinking from a pool of spilled ale near the man’s head.

“I met a lesbian once,” The Skid continued. “He was a carpet seller. Had no ears. No nose either. He smelled like rot. Nice carpets though.”

The Skid paused, realizing something horrible, clutching at Greasy Jesus’ shoulder.

“It’s contagious, isn’t it? What if I caught it? I don’t want my nose to fall off.”

Greasy Jesus blinked once.

“We’re here to see Pat,” said The Captain, drawing Greasy Jesus’ attention away from The Skid, who was stroking his own nose gently.

The Captain was talking to a middle-aged fellow dressed in a safari outfit. The man was seated in a booth, the only one in the establishment. An oil lamp on the round table provided illumination. The man had a book of loose pages open in front of him, three fingers of whiskey within reach. He wore a monocle.

“I’m Pat,” said the man. “I know what you seek. You bring money?”

As an answer, The Captain shook his jacket. The clink of coins was heard.

Pat smiled and motioned for them to join him. When they were settled, Pat clapped his hands twice. The sound startled The Skid who jumped noticeably, but it also signaled a bent up old fellow in a dirty shirt and loose pants to disappear through a nearby shadowed archway.

Pat leaned forward. “Let’s get down to business.”

All eyes turned to the passage in anticipation. There came from deep in the dark a rattle of metal and wood, the creak of many things, and then an orchestra of competing animal sounds.

(continued)

The New Mate
A Tale of The Pirates of The Tax Free Zone

by Chad Boudreau
Characters created by Chad Boudreau & 3!LL

Dramatis Personae

The Captain

Numbers

Basil

Greasy Jesus

The Skid

Part 3
In Which Amazing Animals Are Presented, A Bond Made And Ninjas Are Still Elsewhere

All eyes turned to the passage in anticipation. There came from deep in the dark a rattle of metal and wood, the creak of many things, and then an orchestra of competing animal sounds.

“Jiminy Christmas,” muttered Greasy Jesus and The Captain couldn’t blame him.

The old man returned as bent as he had departed but now there was a stack of wooden and metal cages of various sizes stacked haphazardly on his back. The misshapen tower wobbled and swayed menacingly with each step taken, but didn’t topple. The cacophony of bleats, mewls, squawks, chitters, tweets and grunts emanating from within the coops was grating to the ears. The bitter smell of scat and urine preceded the porter and his baggage.

Greasy Jesus leaned forward expectantly as the crooked senior hobbled up to the booth. The man’s bony knees shook under the weight, but through gritted teeth and labored breaths he stood his ground.

“Down, boy,” Pat, the proprietor, suddenly shouted and he smacked the bearer across the rump with a riding crop. The man went down on one knee, the stack of cages leaning, the shift of weight threatening to topple the man completely. Pat steadied him by placing a booted foot against his side. The cages though tottered further, leaning over the booth in an arc. The Captain and his men looked up and leaned back, watching and waiting for wood, metal and animals to come raining down.

It didn’t happen.

The old fellow leaned his body in the opposite direction, expertly and impossibly bringing the cages back to a place of rest.
 
The Captain breathed a sigh of relief. Being crushed under a mountain of furry animals was no way for a Pirate to die. The Skid giggled nervously and wiped his brow. Basil spat over his shoulder. Greasy Jesus stared intently at the mass of cages, already searching for the animal that would replace Princess Daisy of Whitmore Park. The lad was hopeful now. The Captain did his best to keep a smile from his face. There was no place for smiles in a business transaction of this magnitude.

Pat bolted from his seat with a flourish. He threw up his arms and struck a dramatic pose. He held it. A moment passed. And then another. The Captain coughed into his hand. Pat’s shoulders slumped and his facial features sagged. His ass had just settled back into the booth when a spotlight flared and illuminated the spot he had just exited. He jumped up and struck the pose again, acutely aware that much of the grandeur had already been dispelled.

“Gents, you have travelled far. Your thirst is great. Drink and be quenched.”

The Captain coughed into his hand once again. He and his men had no drinks.

“Ah yes,” said Pat. He looked around, searching for a serving wench. None were to be found in the nearby crowd. He sighed. “Would you like a drink?”

The Captain said “No” just as The Skid piped up with “Do you have lemonade?” This prompted Greasy Jesus to ask for rum and even Basil ordered a tankard of house ale.

“I better write this down,” said Pat. He reached into his trouser pockets and produced a stubby pencil. He snatched up one of the loose pages from his book and took down the drink order. Then, seeing that there was still no wench in sight, wandered off to the bar with a dispirited “I’ll be right back.”

“Wow, someone doesn’t like his job,” whispered The Skid.

The tall stack of cages shook noisily as the old man shifted his position. By the time Pat returned with a tray of drinks, the porter was on his hands and knees. Sweat dripped from his brow. Animal droppings were caked in his hair.

The drinks were served. Pat resumed his pose.

“The hospitality of Pat Pritchard, Proprietor of Pat’s Pet Emporium, is renowned. He offers the finest drinks, the finest foods, and the finest ten penny whores in The Tax Free Zone. But what are legendary are the animals Pat has personally raised. Animals bred and trained in the arts of criminal support. There are no finer critter companions to be found.”

The spotlight died. Pat took a seat. He clapped his hands thrice and a man and a woman came out of the dark passage. The woman was short and wide, very much like a walrus, if a walrus had legs instead of a tail and a moustache instead of whiskers. The man was tall and skinny, with big hands and long fingers that hung past his knees. The woman wore a nondescript smock. The man wore a pair of shorts and a dirty sleeveless t-shirt. Side by side they looked like the number ten.

“You, lad,” said Pat, pointing his riding crop toward Greasy Jesus. “I can see the hurt in your eyes. You have recently lost a loyal friend.”

“Yes,” replied Greasy Jesus.

“A cat, yes?”

Greasy Jesus nodded. He was in awe. The Captain admitted inwardly that he too was impressed. The Skid was picking seeds out of his lemonade. Basil had slammed back his ale, burped and fallen asleep.

“I have many great cats, lad, but no cat can replace your departed feline comrade. To even suggest such a thing is an insult to you and her memory.”

Greasy Jesus nodded and wiped a greasy tear from the corner of his eye.

“But I am confident you will find a suitable replacement among my menagerie.” Pat pointed his riding crop at one of the cages high up in the stack. “Griselda!” Pat barked, and the wide woman sprung into action. In one quick motion she grabbed the thin man around the waist and hoisted him effortlessly into the air so he could reach the identified cage. The man popped the little gate and reached in.

A rabbit was placed on the table. It was white with black spots. One ear stood straight up. The other was bent at an odd angle and looked as if it had been rubbed against a cheese grader a dozen times. Strapped to its back was a six inch blade in a holster. Its nose was a little pink blossom that twitched cutely. The Captain leaned closer and noticed one of its spots was in the shape of a human skull.

Greasy Jesus shook his head. The rabbit was whisked away, the first of many animals to be presented and sent back to the tower of cages.

Next up was a Capuchin monkey, known for its intelligence and loyalty. Its one eye was red rimmed and seeping. The other had been lost in a duel. Someone had accused the monkey of cheating at cards. One of the other players suggested the matter be settled with pistols. The monkey was a lousy shot, but the accuser was terribly drunk and thus couldn’t get a bead on the little fellow.  The monkey eventually launched himself out of a tree and onto the man’s head, using the pistol as a makeshift bludgeon. The man died but not before sticking his thumb in the monkey’s eye.

“He refuses to wear a patch,” explained Pat, as the monkey picked at the crusted up eye-socket.

A snake that struck on command garnered some interest until it was learned the snake wasn’t venomous.

A dog with a two mini-bazookas strapped to its side perked up the men seated around the table until it accidently armed the explosives when it tried to lick its nuts.

A large goldfish in a fishbowl was colorful but everyone agreed it would be useless in a fight. A thin rectangular container made of glass and filled with dirt replaced the fish. “What’s this?” asked The Skid, now on his third glass of lemonade. “Fire ants,” said Pat. “Vicious little buggers. Eat the face right off ya’.”

Greasy Jesus shook his head. “I want something I can hold.”

Pat’s shoulders slumped but just for a moment. A twinkle came to his eye. The riding crop was pointed, the thin man hoisted and another cage opened. A parrot was removed. Its body plumage was the green of jungle leaves, its head feathers bright red dashed with orange. It hopped off the man’s rawboned arm and onto the table. It cocked its head to one side, surveying Greasy Jesus with eyes that possessed an intelligence and wisdom. This bird had seen things in its day.

Greasy Jesus sat up straight under that gaze.

“Ah yes,” said Pat. “This Polly has seen many a thing. Long-lived is she. And well travelled. She’s been beyond and back this one has. She came to me a hatchling forty years ago. I raised her and sold her to Wally the Wicked. She passed on to his son when he died overseas, and when the son died of the flux she found her way back to me.

“That was yesterday.” Pat fell silent and let the words have their effect.

The Captain could tell this was the one. Greasy Jesus had been with him for ten years now. The Captain knew him well.

“We’ll take it,” said The Captain.

Pat offered a price. The Captain scoffed and made a counter offer. Pat made a great show of being insulted. He turned his back, fell silent, counted to ten and then offered another price. The Captain accepted. Money exchanged hands. Greasy Jesus offered the parrot his arm. The bird looked the lad in the eye, opened its beak but didn’t squawk, and raised one gray, four-toed foot.  Greasy Jesus noticed the bird’s talons looked long and sharp, and felt a rush of pride and the beginnings of love. With these feelings came a dampening of the pain he had been feeling since the death of Princess Daisy of Whitmore Park.

“Come, friend,” said Greasy Jesus tenderly. The bird stepped onto his arm.

And then its head exploded.

(continued)

The New Mate
A Tale of The Pirates of The Tax Free Zone

by Chad Boudreau
Characters created by Chad Boudreau & 3!LL

Dramatis Personae

The Captain

Numbers

Basil

Greasy Jesus

The Skid

Part 4
In Which A Friendship And A Worry Begins, And The Author Admits There Are No Ninjas In This Story

“Come, friend,” said Greasy Jesus tenderly. The bird stepped onto his arm.

And then its head exploded.

The denotative death startled everybody. It is difficult to jump out of one’s seat when one is settled in a booth, but The Captain, his crew and Pat, the pet store proprietor, managed it. Glasses and bottles toppled as five pairs of knees clipped the table’s edges. Unfinished lemonade pooled on the tabletop. A tumbled tumbler spit beer onto Pat’s pages. 

Pat gasped. His hand went to his mouth in a reflexive gesture that still managed to be flamboyant. The Skid scrambled onto his seat, and toppled over the back of the booth with a yelp cut short by a heavy thud. Basil stabbed the air wildly with his knife. Greasy Jesus wailed. The peace that had been settling over him had been destroyed as violently as the parrot. The Captain drew his two flintlocks and waited for the killer to show himself.

The effects of the commotion spread outward from the booth like a shockwave. Soon all eyes were fixed on the group of men sprinkled with parrot blood and bits of beak. Remnants of beautiful plumage hung in the air like confetti. Through it all the bent old man had kept his tower of cages upright, even when the occupants had throttled the bars and raced about in answer to the bird’s demise. The number ten held each other for comfort.

“Who did it?” shouted Greasy Jesus. The lad was fuming, his nostrils flaring. His lips fluttered with each short and quick breath. He was clutching his twin cutlasses so tightly The Captain could hear his knuckles creaking. “Show yourself!” Greasy Jesus’ voice cracked, he yelled so loudly.

A length of butcher’s twine fell from somewhere in the rafters above, uncoiling as it descended. Its end stopped a fingernail’s width above the table. All eyes went upward, probing the thick haze of cigarette smoke that clung to the ceiling like a dirty blanket. There was movement, a small, darker smear deep in the smoke, and then the rope jiggled. All eyes tracked the progress of the slight figure as it slid expertly down the twine, rotating counterclockwise in a speedy yet controlled descent.

The rat let go the twine, freefalling the last few inches to land lightly on the table. In one smooth motion it whipped a small gun out of a holster strapped to its back. There was a crack and the rat’s body jerked backward. Basil shouted in pain as a hard projectile struck his hand, causing him to drop his knife and stop his attack. The fallen blade pierced the table and stood quivering only inches from where the rat stood.

“A rat,” said The Skid, popping up from behind the booth like a cherubic jack-in-the-box.

“With a pea shooter,” snarled Basil, favoring the welt that was forming on the back of his hand.

The Captain steadied the grizzled Pirate by placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Hold fast,” he said. “Let’s see what the rodent intends to do next.”

The rat was like any other of its kind. It was male. Its fur was brown and slick. It had a patch over one eye and earrings in its little pink ears. The weapon it brandished looked a lot like a sawed off shotgun, though much smaller. Dried peas were fed into the gun via a metallic split-link belt, the length of which crisscrossed the rat’s chest and back like the bandoliers of a Mexican bandito.

The rat strutted across the table, treading through the wet remains of parrot skull. When it came to the headless corpse, it paused. Its whiskers twitched, and it then it deposited a few cylindrical turds beside the carcass. The Skid gasped. Greasy Jesus growled. The rodent resumed its strut.

It came to a stop directly in front of Greasy Jesus. The lanky Pirate locked his wet, red-rimmed eyes on the little black beads that were the rat’s peepers. No one in the large room dared make a sound.

The rat stretched out one paw and snagged Greasy Jesus’ hanging shirt. It slung its weapon back into its holster, and was soon scampering up Greasy Jesus’ chest and onto his right shoulder. The lad stiffened but let it happen. The rat put its nose close to Greasy Jesus’ ear. Its whiskers brushed tenderly against the fuzz of fine hairs on the Pirate’s lobe. The others around the table heard some quiet squeaking, a pause, and then a few more short squeaks.

Greasy Jesus relaxed. He patted the rat on the head.

“This here is the Marquis de Lafayette. He’s coming with us.”

There was a collective sigh of relief throughout the room.

“How much?” asked The Captain.

Pat didn’t respond. His mouth worked up and down a few times but no sound came out. He shook his head, licked his lips and stammered a price. The Captain didn’t want to delay any longer so he accepted and started counting coins into Pat’s open palm. Pat didn’t bother double-checking the count. He was distracted. His eyes never left the rat now perched comfortably on Greasy Jesus’ shoulder.

The Captain and his crew left the way they had come, winding their way through the still quiet crowd, stepping over the sprawled old man, up the stairs and into the night. When they were out of sight, Pat slumped into the booth.

“Poor Polly,” said a voice under a lot of strain. Pat looked down at Jim who was still on his hands and knees. The man’s features were barely discernable through the accumulated animal droppings and discarded cedar shavings.

“Indeed,” said Pat. He thought a moment. “That rat wasn’t one of ours was it?”

“No,” answered Jim. “Never laid eyes on him before.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Pat quietly. He was weighing the money in his hand, the jingle of coins not making him giddy like it normally did. In fact, to his ears the rhythmic chinka-chinka sounded a lot like a distant alarm.

[end]

Alrighty, it’s Friday, and we promised new comics this week, so I’ve just uploaded the first half of Ghost of the Skid, the first Special Edition collaboration between myself and Chad Boudreau. You can read the first half by clicking on the link below or on the right Sidebar.

You can also read Chad’s hilarious prose short of our Pirate gang on the blog.

Check back on Monday for the second half of the story!

3!LL

I’ve just uploaded screens the last two screens for Ghost of the Skid, the first Special Edition collaboration between myself and Chad Boudreau. As always, you can read it in our flash viewer below, or in the right sidebar. (Thanks again to Ten Ton Studios for the Flash Viewer!)

You can also read Chad’s hilarious prose short of our Pirate gang on the blog.

We’ll have another SpeedDraw video up for you tomorrow, and as always…

If you don’t like it, we’ll eat it.

3!LL