Buckle Your Swashes

													"Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—
													 Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

The sound of his skiff slicing through waves was music to Foxy’s ears. The spray of saltwater made a mist onboard, and although the salt built up in his fur was coarse and irritating the feel of it left the pirate more inebriated than any spirits ever could. The smell of the ocean, her lips a chaste kiss with every splash. The sea could be a harsh mistress for some, but not for Foxy. Never for Foxy.

Truly, for a salty old sea-dog — or perhaps in this case sea-fox would be more appropriate — such as Foxy the rocking planks beneath him were home more than any port.

													"Drink and the devil had done for the rest—
													 Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

The fox ceased his singing when he saw the clouds in the distance between himself and port. They were dark and heavy, promising powerful winds and waves larger than even a master helmsman such as himself could manage. It was a simple task to steer clear, however, and so Foxy wasn’t worried. Not even the threat of a storm on the horizon could rob from him the elation he was feeling.

As yellow as a lemon but as good as gold, the lost treasure of Mozzarella Keep was his at last. A precise mixture of several cheeses to create the perfect gooeyness and taste when cooked. The journey had been a difficult one. The distance to the unmarked island whence the cheese’s recipe was buried had been at the very limits of how far his skiff could travel. Why, Foxy had but a few bottles of root beer left, such a meager offering that he could nearly count the bottles on one hand!

Foxy’s metal peg legs ached slightly. The memory of the terrible tumble he’d taken while tactically retreating from the island’s natives would have been embarrassing for anyone else, but the great Captain Foxy had made it look graceful. All the grace in the world didn’t keep it from hurting, though.

“Bah,” grumbled Foxy. “’Twas all worth it in the end.”

A great grin split the pirate’s lips. The sale of this recipe at port would be enough to buy a true pirately vessel worthy of a scoundrel such a himself — as wonderful a lass as Mangle’s Revenge was, his skiff was reaching the end of her life — as well as a crew of corsairs and more drink than he could guzzle down in a month!

Perhaps even a clandestine visit or two to The House of Meat Lovers in the night.

Foxy’s reverie was broken when a cloud of fog rose from the ocean surrounding him. The sounds of birds flying overhead grew muted before disappearing entirely, and the rough swaying of the waves became a gentle rocking. Even the wind ceased its blowing.

The silence was eerie, unnerving. Never before had a salt as old as Foxy seen such a thing. Of course, mere fog would never be enough to scare away Foxy. The red fox boldly continued into the fog, two-and-a-half sheets to the wind and full of confidence.

Minutes later and Foxy was beginning to feel as though that confidence was misplaced. If he had believed the fog to be eerie before, it was nothing compared to now. The sea had grown warm, and the further into the fog Foxy travelled the warmer it got. Not only the temperature, but also the appearance of the water was beginning to change. It had started slightly discolored, but by now had turned into a milky white.

Foxy brushed his hook through his fur. Sweat was starting to build up. It left him sticky and made it hard to move. Strange creatures swam around Mangle’s Revenge, close enough for Foxy to make out their shape not far enough to keep him from seeing the details. A peculiar noise came out of the fog.

Thump, thump, thump.

It echoed around Foxy. The sound reminded him of something. Knocking, perhaps, or the stomping of angry footsteps. The water was solidly white now, as pure as untouched snow. It had grown hotter by several measures, as well, such that steam rose from it. Touching the water with his good hand, Foxy withdrew it quickly. Scalding.

A voice whispered from the fog, indistinct. Foxy attempted to turn his skiff so he could escape from whatever supernatural occurrence was taking place. His rudder fought him, as though held in place by a great number of hands beneath the milk-colored waves. No matter how the great captain struggled, it was no use. He could only go forward.

The moment Foxy steadied his nerve the fog parted around him. The whispers grew louder, until at last Foxy could understand them.

“Captain, you have stolen something from me.”

“Nay!” Foxy cried. “Never have I stolen anything. I give me word as a pirate!”

“You have stolen from me, Foxy. I see it within your boat.”

Foxy’s eye darted unbidden to the chest containing the cheese recipe. The fog parted further. A large pale figure emerged from the ocean in front of the pirate. Foxy’s jaw dropped, his eye-patch flipped up in shock.

“Foxy!” The figured bellowed angrily.

“Arrgh, ye will never get me treasure!” Foxy yelled in return.

“Foxy!”

The pirate drew his cutlass from his waist and stood on the bow of his ship. “I’ll fight ye ‘til I sink to the depths of Davy Jones’ Locker!” The fox waved his blade around maniacally. “I’ll slice ye from throat to gizzard! I’ll-“

“Dammit Foxy, stop swinging that thing around!”

Foxy blinked. The smell of salt and the heat of the ocean vanished, and in its place was mold and faulty air conditioning.

Mike Schmidt tapped his foot on the ground, impatient. “Are you quite done?”

Foxy looked around confused. Pirate’s Cove.

“Err, yes lad. Wot is it ye need?”

Mike pinched the bridge of his nose. “My tablet, Foxy. Can I have it back?”

Foxy scratched the back of his head with his hook, inadvertently tearing a hole. “Tablet?”

Mike pointed behind Foxy. The animatronic turned around and spotted the device in question in the back of his prop ship. “Ah, of course lad.” The fox picked it up, taking care to not scratch the screen with his hook. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Mike deadpanned. The guard looked down. “Wait, did you look up cheese pizza recipes on this thing? Crap, management’s going to kill me. I’m only supposed to check the cameras on here.”

“Don’t worry about it, lad. The captain runs the ship, and who else but ol’ Captain Foxy would be in charge.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

Foxy hummed. “Say lad, how would ye like to join me on my voyage? It’s gotta be lonely in that office o’ yours. Boring, too. What do you say?”

Mike chewed on his lip. “I dunno, Captain. As much as I’d love to, I kind of got a job to do and-“

“Listen, yer already in trouble for misuse of the tablet. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

Mike scratched his chin.



													"I dreamed a dream the other night.
													 Lowlands, lowlands away me John.
													 My love she came, dressed all in white.
													 Lowlands away."

Foxy interrupted the shanty with a cry. “Ahoy, bosun! Land dead ahead!”

“Aye, Cap’n Foxy!”

The journey had been a long one, longer even than the trip to the island that held the secret to the perfect cheese. Of course, with his new crewman by his side — not to mention the larger ship capable of carrying entire barrels of drink — it felt to Foxy like a quick jaunt down the street.

The two’s ship, Eighty Seven Bites, was a gorgeous vessel. Cannons port and starboard, a figurehead carved to show the siren of legend, and only a handful of holes. As it approached the island anchor was dropped, and Foxy and Mike set out on a rowboat.

“Hold, lad,” Foxy said, stopping Mike before he could start rowing. The fox rubbed the face of his ship’s figurehead, which resembled a feminine fox itself, although one that seemed to be pulled apart and put back together haphazardly. “For luck,” Foxy said at Mike’s questioning look.

“Buccaneers sure are a superstitious bunch,” Mike chuckled.

The two traveled to the island, Mike rowing and Foxy gulping down bottles of root grog. When at last they reached the shore, Foxy tossed aside his bottles and leapt onto the sand.

“Grab the map, Mike. The infamous treasure of Deep Dish Bay awaits us!”

“Yes, Cap’n.” Mike saluted. The map made mention of a boulder shaped like a  guitar as a landmark, and so Mike kept his eyes peeled.

The island very quickly transitioned from beach to jungle, and it wasn’t long before Foxy was forced to use his cutlass to cut through the dense foliage. It was humid on the island, and hot. The trees acted like a barrier to block the cool breeze from the ocean, yet trapped the moisture in the air. It wasn’t long before beads of sweat began to slide down Mike’s neck.

“Careful of where you step, Mike,” Foxy grunted. “The last island I went to was trapped by natives and the crew what hid its treasure there.”

Before Mike could respond, a loud snap interrupted him. Foxy was flung to the ground as his feet were taken out from under him. Then, he was drug along the ground towards a nearby tree before getting pulled into the air upside down. There he hung, suspended upside-down by a vine around his ankles.

Foxy coughed. “See, lad? A demonstration for you. Now, if ye could be so kind as to help your captain get down.”

Mike rolled his eyes but complied. A bit of work with a knife and man and fox were soon off once more.

“So, Cap’n,” said Mike, taking care where he stepped as he followed behind Foxy. “You never actually told me what the treasure here is.”

“’Tis a wondrous,” Foxy grunted as he tore apart some vines. “Incredible treasure. Not gold or spices or even gems, but tools.”

“Tools?”

“Aye. Tools and instructions for milling the perfect flour. A barrel of that flour will be worth more than a barrel full of jewels to the right people.” Foxy pushed aside a green mass of vegetation which hung from the trees like a curtain, and then they were in a clearing. “Food makes the world go ‘round, lad. Business and pleasure are both possible because of it. Remember that.”

The clearing didn’t seem much different from the jungle Foxy and Mike had come through to get there. Branches and leaves were strewn here and there, as well as fallen logs spread more or less uniformly apart. None of that was important to Mike, however, because in the center of the clearing was a large boulder. A boulder shaped like a guitar.

“This is it, Cap’n!” Mike said, excited. “”On the isle of Deep Dish Bay, ‘neath the guitar without strings, two dozen paces southward for Ike Sewell’s food of kings.” This is the place, Foxy!”

“Calm yourself, Mike,” said Foxy, who took a moment to calm his own wagging tail. A quick glance at his compass confirmed the southward direction. “Get the shovel out of yer pack, bosun, and get to pacin’. I can’t walk in a straight line, we need a landlubber like yourself.”

Mike grumbled but acquiesced. South led them back out of the clearing within ten paces. Ten more and Mike reached another clearing, where he stopped in his tracks.

“What’s wrong, boy?” Foxy said, coming up behind him. Then, he too stopped.

“What are you two doing here?”

Bonnie and Chica stood in front of them. The chicken looked affronted, while Bonnie continued sweeping the tiled floor of the restaurant.

“Whaddya mean “What are you two doing here?” Chica said. “We’re doin’ our jobs!” The hen poked Mike forcefully in his chest. “Something you should be doin’ too, mister.”

“Just having a bit of fun, Chica,” Mike said embarrassed.

“C’mon, Mikey, you should know better by now. There’s so much stuff we gotta do to get this place ready for tomorrow.”

“Actually, Chica,” Bonnie interrupted, “We’re done now.” The rabbit leaned her broom against a nearby wall. “The sweeping was the last thing we had to do, remember?”

Chica looked at Bonnie, then looked back at Foxy and Mike. Foxy waggled his eyebrows.



The thunder of cannons and the smell of black powder filled the air.

“They’re gaining on us, Cap’n,” yelled Mike, struggling to be heard over the roar of cannonfire.

Foxy spun the helm, bringing Eighty Seven Bites against the wind to slow it down. “Aye, that’s the plan lad!”

The Joy of Creation approached fast, and soon enough was at their port side.

“Avast, fair wenches! What brings ye to this part o’ the sea?”

“Who are you calling a wench?” Chica squawked at the helm. Bonnie ignored the banter, firing off a cannon that narrowly missed Mike.

“Load the pretzel bites, lad! Aim for their sail!” Foxy yelled.

Mike did as his captain said, firing off a salvo of grapeshot at the other ship. The Joy of Creation’s sail was perforated, and in short order they slowed to a crawl. Foxy cackled whilst tacking.

													“Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies,
 													 Farewell and adieu,to you ladies of Spain.”

Chica screeched at them as Bonnie rushed to patch the sail. Eighty Seven Bites rapidly made distance until Bonnie and Chica’s ship was a speck on the horizon. Foxy and Mike laughed, arm in arm and clinking bottles of root rum together. Both took long gulps, racing each other to see who could empty their bottle the fastest.

Of course, Foxy won.

“And that’s why I’m the captain,” Foxy said, wiping his muzzle dry.

Mike chuckled. “So, how much further until we reach the island where the ancient Aztec pizza toppings are? We’re a bit low on supplies, what with us getting run out of port before we could restock.”

“It’s no fault o’ mine that those scoundrels mistook me for Calico Jack,” Foxy grumbled. “I don’ even look like the fella. I’m much more handsome.”

Mike nodded his head. “Oh, absolutely Cap’n.” He ducked the hand that came up to slap the back of his head.

Foxy halfheartedly tried to cuff Mike’s ears once more before giving up. “We’re nearly there, bosun. In fact, if you looked through yer spyglass you’d see it on the horizon.”

True to the pirate captain’s word, the island came into view shortly after. It stuck out of the ocean like a great tooth — jagged, rocky, and devoid of vegetation. The side facing them was a sheer cliff, but Foxy steered unnervingly towards it. The reason soon became clear: A large crack in the rock led into a cove, where Eighty Seven Bites laid anchor.

“Let’s hurry and get the treasure, Cap’n. I’d rather not get in another confrontation with the Dread Pirate Chica. Once was more than my nerves could handle.”

Foxy waved Mike off. “Bah, yer a fine enough boatswain, but the sea might be too much for you. I can only imagine what sailing ‘round the Horn would do to yer “nerves”. One sight of such a coast is enough to make a landsman dream for a week about shipwrecks, peril and death.”

The captain nevertheless hurried when the rowboat reached the cove’s beach. His strides were long and fast, metal legs carrying him across the pebbled beach. Mike struggled to keep up, arms full of equipment. The sunlight that filtered into the cove lit the way for them, but soon they reached a cave where no light entered. Foxy snatched a lantern from Mike and lit it.

“We’ll have to hurry, Mike. The low tide is the only reason this place isn’t flooded, but that’ll change soon enough.”

The two descended into the cave. It was dark, damp, slippery, and colder by several measures than the cove outside. Mike shivered. He and Foxy carefully navigated the treacherous path downwards. The shadows cast by the lantern danced frightfully across the walls. Every footstep echoed loudly, alongside the plip plip plop of dripping water.

Mike bumped into Foxy’s back when the latter stopped moving. Mike was just about to ask what was going on when Foxy stepped aside. A room was revealed to Mike, full of barrels stuffed with every pizza topping known to man and several only whispered as myths. The flickering light of the lantern played across the room, gifting a magical air to the place.

Foxy stepped into the room. Mike followed in a daze. “Never forget this sight, lad. You’ll never see anything like it again after it’s sold at port.”

“And unfortunately for you two, you won’t be the ones selling it.”

Foxy and Mike spun around. Right behind them, flintlocks aimed in their direction, stood Chica and Bonnie.

Foxy swallowed nervously. “Now, now. Don’t do anything hasty, lasses.”

“Oh, I’ll show you hasty,” said Chica. “It doesn’t get much hastier than what I’m about to do to you!”

Someone cleared his voice behind Chica and Bonnie. “While we’re on the topic of hasty, perhaps you two would consider hastily getting on stage?”

All four pirates spun around. There, at the door of the kitchen, stood Freddy. “After all,” the bear continued unperturbed, “it’s almost 6 o’clock.”

Chica looked sheepish, while Bonnie was as deadpan as always. “Yeah, boss. We’ll get going.”

“Make sure you remove the eyepatches,” Freddy reminded them. Chica ripped hers from her head and flung in to the floor before powerwalking out of the kitchen. Bonnie followed after her after nodding at Freddy.

Freddy turned to face Foxy and Mike. “As for you two, well…”

“Sorry Freddy,” Mike said, red-faced.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, Michael. We all need to cut loose every once in a while.”

Foxy snorted. “Even you?”

“Even me,” Freddy confirmed. The bear tipped his hat towards the security guard. “Head up to your office, Mike. I’ll stop management from getting upset with you, so don’t worry about getting in trouble.”

Mike looked relieved. “Thanks, boss bear.”

The guard and Foxy walked out of the kitchen together, already making plans for Mike to come early the next night so they could hang out some more. Freddy walked around the kitchen, picking up the discarded pirate props. His eyes softened at a plastic cutlass lying on the floor.

Freddy looked around to see if he was alone, and even checked to make sure the camera still wasn’t working. Slowly, gingerly, he put on an eyepatch and picked up the cutlass.

Seagulls circled lazily in the air above Freddy’s skiff.  He checked the map, yellowed with age, in his hands.

“Antonio Latini’s Red Gold will be mine,” Freddy muttered. He adjusted the captain’s hat upon his head, and hummed an old shanty to himself.

													"Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—
													 Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"