15th Wave

[tentacruelest]

[Valentines]

Sylvanas;
Stay true to yourself.
Keep a weather eye on the horizon.
I'll guide you through the storm.

William Bush;
You keep me ship-shape,
Even if I loathe you for it at times.
Steer fast and true



[Spam]

[at dinnertime, a new face appears in the pub. He's old and he's an inmate, fiddling with an odd pocketwatch with one hand and hugging a Maine Coon cat in the other. Still, he navigates the Barge like he's been here for months. If anyone were to look closely they might determine that it's Tentacle Beard himself, disguised as a human.

He drops down in a booth, setting the cat on the table, and begins to order drinks.

Lots and lots of drinks.

Midway through, he starts singing;]

What d'yeh do with a drunken sailor..

What d'yeh do with a drunken sailor..

What d'yeh do with a drunken sailor, ear-lye in the mor-nin'...

Comments

[sickjoke]

Way, hey, and up she rises!

Way, hey, and up she rises!

Way, hey, and up she rises, early in the morning!

[ And that's a terrifying clownface that joins in, with singing and booze and a dropby. Chorus now handled, Davy can move on to lyrics about rusty razors and belly shaving. ]

[exnihilo]

Man. What wouldn't I do with a drunken sailor.

[But it's brashly roguish rather than actually lascivious. She leans against the booth and offers a hand casually for the cat to sniff. ]

Any of those drinks to share?

[tentacruelest]

[A sober Jones would have immediately bristled, thrown his drink, and walked away.

But a sober Jones would not be singing either, and instead pounds the table with a fist, redfaced and laughing]

Goin' a mite too fast, lad.

[tentacruelest]

[The cat - old and properly dignified - sniffs the hand once before pulling back and showing the interloper her backside.

Davy, in contrast, spreads an arm across the table]

Take yer pick, then.

[exnihilo]

[She snorts at the cat's disdain, although in fairness she probably smells mostly like the cigarettes she's been craving this whole flood. She scritches the back of the cat's spine and then sprawls into the seat opposite Jones, helping herself to a pleasantly heavy tankard of something or other. She doesn't really care what, as long as it's a drink.]

Thanks. You new or changed?

[She hasn't paid attention enough to see his human guise in passing, guesses the unfamiliar appearance might be down to the flood.]

[sickjoke]

Hmm, hmm, alright.

But can I at least carry the tune?

[hearrrtofgold]

[Duke is at the bar taste-tasting his whiskey when Jones starts singing, and he hums along with the first verse before joining in with his personal favorite.]

Soak him in oil till he sprouts a flipper,
Soak him in oil till he sprouts a flipper,
Soak him in oil till he sprouts a flipper,
Early in the morning.

Hi.

[tentacruelest]

[The cat is significantly more docile and accepting of pets and attention, and continues to sit in the middle of the table, obstructing views to her hearts' pleasure.

Jones in turn drinks deep, afforded the opportunity to do so by this flood]

Changed. Changed, and not by this flood. We haven't met.

[tentacruelest]

[He grunts a greeting, resisting the urge to grin even as the drink makes him light-headed]

An honor to be in the presence of a Duke.

[tentacruelest]

Carry it where? That's the question.

[hearrrtofgold]

You're just pulling my leg. But nonetheless... [He raises his glass to Davy and takes a sip.]

[tentacruelest]

[Davy copies the motion, before dropping his hand down heavily on his cat]

Sit. I like a good singer.

[sickjoke]

Wherever it pleases me?

[tentacruelest]

But not anywhere near where the pitch is located.

[sickjoke]

I'm not that bad! I'm not even in the helmet. I have good projection.

[tentacruelest]

...Aye, you're that man in the bullet helmet.

[sickjoke]

Yes, that's me. The Red Hood. Out of it, you can call me Jack.

[hearrrtofgold]

Sorry. You're not getting an encore. [Duke flashes a smile and settles across from Davy, reaching a tentative hand out to the cat.] May I? - But. I could be talked into a duet.

[tentacruelest]

[The angry ripple that passes through Davy at the name lasts only long enough for him to remind himself of how common the name "Jack" can be and it is most certainly not a reference to a hated enemy]

Can I? I'd prefer Red Hood.

[tentacruelest]

[He snorts in derision, downing another third of his mug]

Go ahead. I ain't stoppin' you.

[The cat is remarkably still and obedient for a cat, watching Duke's hand without the slightest bit of apprehension. It's pretty content to sit precisely where it is and let others come to it instead]

[sickjoke]

If that's what you prefer; so long as it's not 'late for dinner', you can call me whatever you please.

[ He took a sip of his drink, and then asid: ] Should I ask which Jack turned your key, or should I just move on to the next verse of Druken Sailor?

[tentacruelest]

[Jones scowls, not getting the joke at all]

What's it matter to you which Jack it was? You don't know him.

[sickjoke]

Alright, alright... no worries. [ He doesn't want to pry ] Hood it is.

[tentacruelest]

Hood, then.

What are you drinking, Hood?

[sickjoke]

This is a John Wilkes Booth. It's Root and Bourbon, with orange slices, cinnanom sticks, and brown sugar. Add over ice, shake it, double strain it, add a twist of orange and a cinnamon stick garnish. It's like a -- spicy root beer. Maybe a little medicinal, but... [ He shrugs; he likes it. ]

Would you care to try one?