The drill bit

It took a few seconds for the grizzly oaf to notice the burning sensation on his tongue, a few seconds more to process the pain, and a further few seconds to register his disapproval. This gave us a full quarter-minute to drop everything and dash pell-mell dockward before the mini Etna erupted, wreaking all wreakable havoc from here to the horizon. For neither the first nor surely the last time we cut and run, leaving some of the slower mates to swim a full two leagues through the ebbing tide in order to repatriate themselves.

Looking at the haggard, bedraggled and otherwise sorry-looking crewmen, it dawned on me that we were, as a unit, out of shape. This was insupportable. I therefore pulled rank and informed this bunch of one-eyed chancers that pillaging privileges were postponed till they could all bench-press a hogshead o’rum and play keep-ups with the cannonballs. To this end they would be checking in with Cast-Iron Carys, locally known as the Driller Killer on account of the number of people she had extinguished through circuit training. Rumour had it that she once had a man trampolined to death - whatever that may have entailed.


Drill Instructor
Cast-Iron Carys
Likes: Sitting on the dock of the bay
Dislikes: Watching the ships roll in