Ah, Scurvy Docks! You can almost smell the sea air - if you can pick it out from the stench of the lowlife who hang out round these parts. It's like chucking-out time in a scumbag theme pub. I sought the Harbour Master, with a view to obtaining a boat to take me to Dragon Island.
The Harbour Master ahd the absolute cheek to cast doubt upon my credentials as a pirate - just because I'm wearing a suit of armour and didn't laugh at his Roger the Cabin Boy joke."Where's your tri-corn HAT? Where's your PARROT?" Honestly, I'm THIS close to beating that Harbour Master senseless with a sack full of crabsticks. Jobsworth.
Finally. With my wooden leg, seagull, stupid hat and skull and crossbones, apparently I now passed muster as a pirate. The Harbour Master's a complete pain. If he'd asked for a patch over one eye I could at least have shut Al up for an hour or two - he's like a budgerigar if you plunge him into darkness. And after all that? A boat that looks slightly less seaworthy than Granny Fortesque's old hip-bath.