â„–17702061[Quote]
>ye will ne'er be a real pirate. Ye 'ave no treasure map, ye 'ave no pegleg, ye 'ave no doubloons. Ye be a crown matey twisted by tavern tales 'n folk fables into a crude mockery o' Sea's perfection.All the "respect" ye get be two-faced 'n half-hearted. Behind yer back, landlubbers mock ye. Yer crewmen be disgusted 'n ashamed o' ye, yer "mateys" laugh at yer sophisticated appearance on lower decks.Merchants be utterly repulsed by ye. Thousands o' years o' evolution 'ave allowed 'em t' sniff out frauds better than Caribbean spices. Even privateers who "pass" look uncanny 'n unnatural t' a merchant. Yer standardized Royal Shipyard bow structure be a dead giveaway. 'n even if ye manage t' get a rum smuggler t' deck wit' ye, he'll turn sails 'n bolt the second he gets a whiff o' yer perfumed, powdered wig.You will ne'er be feared. You wrench out a fake grimace every mornin' lookin' in the framed mirror from France while drinkin' Ceylon tea from fine china, 'n tell yourself it's goin' t' be fine, but deep inside you feel the depression creepin' up like the Kraken's tentacle, ready t' drag you t' the Davy Jones' locker.Eventually, it'll be too much t' bear. You'll buy a plank, put it overboard, slowly goose-step across it, 'n plunge into the cold abyss. Yer bosun 'n first lieutenant will find you missin' from yer lodge at four bells, heartbroken but relieved they no longer 'ave t' serve under you 'n the unbearable shame and disappointment dat follows suit. They'll send a short letter t' the Royal Admiralty wit' yer letter o' marque attached, and every Royal Navy cadet fer the rest o' eternity will know a kingsman had served on dat ship. Yer body will be eaten by Poseidon's creatures and go back to the sand, and all dat shall remain o' your legacy be a short footnote under your portrait hangin' in the aft hall o' the Admiralty. 'tis your fate. 'tis wha' you chose. Thar be no turnin' back.
â„–17702085[Quote]
gem