Act 1, Chapter 1

Joe Cabar: Blog Pirate
Act 1, Chapter 1
At the Firebrand Bunkhouse

In the darkest, foulest alley of the small town on the edge of the swamp, there lay a popular boarding house called the Firebrand. With its own signature brew and a significant patronage, it was considered a success among its kind. It was here that Dane Paul Kruger and Joe Cabar found themselves after a lengthy, grimy sojourn through the swamp from the shack where they had died.

"Let's stop here," Dane said. "This looks like a good place to stay."

"Bah. Foolishness. This is the darkest, foulest alley in town," Joe replied.

"You're the darkest, foulest alley in town," Dane hissed.

"You are a tool!" Joe proclaimed, thrusting his index finger skyward.

"Look, it's almost morning. We might as well get some sleep before we go off after Spitz."

"Okay," Joe said. "Stop. Alright, I think you're misunderstanding the situation here."

"What? What are you . . ."

"Be silent. We  are not going after Spitz. I am going after Spitz. You will end up bleeding out on the docks of some backwater village in Paul's County, while I do a merry jig over the smoking corpse of Victor Spitz and make off with the briefcase."

"Do you have any money?"

"What?"

"Do you have any money?"

"Y- . . . Maybe. Why do you need money?"

"I wanna get some Firebrand Grog. And I'm broke."

"We're not staying at the fucking Firebrand! I'm not staying at the fucking Firebrand! I'm not loaning you money! I'm not your partner! I'm not your roommate! I'm not your fucking friend!"

"So you gonna loan me the money, or what?"

"Here's three gold doubloons."

"I wanted paper money," Dane pouted.

"Well I don't have any paper money! Now do you want the goddamn doubloons or not!?" Joe wailed.

Dane closed his hands protectively around the coins, and they wandered into the Firebrand. The common room of the Firebrand was a dangerous place to be, especially on a Thursday, and you had to be extra careful where you stepped because parts of the room were sometimes burning, and that presented a very serious hazard to the patronage.

"I'm going to ask around and see if anyone around here might have seen Victor coming through earlier," said Dane as he sipped his grog.

"Fat chance of that," said Joe. "I'm willing to bet he's long gone from here."

"Well, it's worth a try. Wait . . . did you just call me fat?"

"I . . . no. It's . . . it's an expression."

"Really? 'Cause I'm pretty sure that you just called me fat."

"How you enjoying that grog?"

"Huh? Oh, it's pretty good. So about you calling me fat . . ."

"Dane, I've just had an excellent idea: you should go and ask people if maybe they've seen Victor coming through here."

"Fuck!" said Dane, "That's a great idea! It sounds a little familiar, actually."

"I can't imagine why," Joe said, as he turned and strolled over to the bar.

Dane shrugged and went off on his own to ask questions. The first person he canvased was an old man, grey and worn.

"Hey," said Dane, "did you see a guy come through here recently?"

"A guy?" asked the old man, furrowing his brow.

"Yeah, a guy."

"What . . . what kind of guy?"

"Short guy. Probably like just over my waist. Glasses. Blue hair. Smug little bastard. You know what I'm talking about. Come on."

"I . . . can't say I've seen anyone like that."

"Sir, do you know what I could do to you if you lied to me?"

"Oh God please don't hurt me," the old man protested, weeping behind his thick coke-bottle glasses. "I don't even know who you are, I'm telling the truth, I swear!"

"I don't know," said Dane, pulling a rusted, water-logged pocket knife out of his sock. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"Why would I lie?" the old man begged. "Please, I don't have the information you want! Why don't you just ask somebody else?"

"Aha! Trying to mislead me, are you!? Well, I won't stand for that," Dane growled.

"Oh God no, God please no!"

"NO SIR!" Dane growled as he seized the man by the neck and raised his knife.

After dumping what was left of the old man outside the back door of the establishment, Dane resumed his vigilant investigation.

Hmm, Dane thought to himself. That old man suggested that I ask somebody else. Now, not to speak ill of the dead or anything (or think ill of them I guess) but I think he was a little bit out there if I know what I mean (and I think that I do). Still, he might have been on to something there.

Moments later, Dane found himself on the other side of the bar, discussing the matter with a young man whose stoic expression and gaggle of squirrels suggested that he was absolutely opposed to the course that events were presently taking.

It is at this crucial and defining point that the reader may be wondering what a stoic expression and gaggle of squirrels have to do with the young man's displeasure at this circumstances. In fact, the squirrels and stoic expressions were merely examples of the famous red herring ploy. Actually, the only evidence required to prove that someone is displeased with their circumstances is the fact that they have just been approached by a blood-caked Dane Paul Kruger.

"So what's your name?" asked Dane, as sweetly as he could (which was not very sweetly at all).

"Who are you?" asked the young man, taken aback. His squirrels were also taken aback.

"Your worst nightmare," Dane seethed, grinning wickedly.

"No, seriously," said the young man, unflapped, "Who are you?"

"My name isn't important! All I need from you is information!"

"Ugh. What information?"

"Did you see a guy come through here recently?"

"I don't know. What kind of guy?"

"Short guy. Just over my waist. Glasses. Blue hair. Smug little bastard. You know what I'm talking about. Come on."

"No, I don't think I've --"

"BULLSHIT"

"No, hey, what?"

"YOU LYING LITTLE FUCK! I KNOW YOU SAW HIM COME THROUGH HERE! I KNOW YOU DID! Listen, you little piece of shit, I'm a smart guy. I can see things. I know what your game is. I know your kind."

" . . . My 'kind'?"

"I AM NOT A RACIALIST!"

"In fact, I think I may know of the man you're talking about."

"Really? Great!"

"Yeah, he should be north of here. By about three days. Or something. Go away now."

"Oh hell no, you're coming with us."

"What?"

"Well, we gotta make sure you're telling the truth, right?"

"No," said the young man, "we don't need to do that at all."

"Well, we are," Dane smiled.

The young man and his squirrels frowned deeply as Dane dragged them off towards the bar, grinning wildly all the way.

Act 1, Prologue

Joe Cabar: Blog Pirate
Act 1, Prologue
Unwelcome Visitor

The shack stood on stilts over the stagnant swamp water. They were tied haphazardly together with rope, and they leaned precariously, but they did their job. They did another job as well, for in the light of the moon, a shadowy figure, shadowy and shrouded in shadow, climbed up one of the stilts and through one of the windows of the shack, melting into the shadowy shadowed areas of the shack, which were shadowy. They had shadows in them. What kind of shadows did those shadows hold? Shadows.

Besides the lone intruder, the shack held only three occupants: Dane Paul Kruger, a pirate; Victor Spitz, a pirate; and the eponymous title character after whom this story is named, Joe Cabar, blog pirate. These three pirates stood apart, each wielding at least three semi-automatic pistols, each planning to kill the other two over the large leather brown briefcase in the center of the room.

"I'm going to shoot you!" said Dane.

"Not if I shoot you first!" Joe hissed.

"No!" declared Victor. "I'm going to shoot you!"

"I'm going to shoot the shit out of you!" Joe growled. "I'm going to shoot you to death!"

"I'll show you shooting to death!" Victor wailed.

"Shooting to death is my thing that I do!" shouted Dane. "You can't have it!"

"Fuck off!" Joe belched.

"No, you fuck off!" Dane spewed.

"I'll show you fucking off!" Joe warbled. "Nobody can beat me at a fucking off contest! I'm simply the best there is! You asshole!"

"AAGHAHGAHAHAGRHRGKJH!" Dane shrieked.

"Look, there's no need to be getting emotional," Joe said, annoyed.

"GOOOBLBOOOOBBGGGGGH! IT BUUURRRRNS!"

"Dane, calm down. Blow your nose."

Dane pitched forward to the ground, the wound in his back spitting corrosive poison. Behind him, stood the shadowy man in the shadows, holding a shadowy knife. Before Joe could react, the shadowy man was upon him too, stabbing him through the heart with his shadowy blade, leaking shadows into his blood, burning him. Joe screamed and collapsed to the ground. His cries were cut off as his throat filled with blood, and he twitched muted on the ground. The shadowy man with the shadowy plan turned to his shadowy employer.

"Well done," said Victor casually.

"Thank you," said the shadowy man, obliging a small, shadowy bow. "Now, about my shadowy pay . . ."

And then Victor shot the shadowy man, seized the briefcase, and fled the shack into the night.

Somewhere far, far away, Joe and Dane were fighting a vicious battle with death itself.

"I'm going to shoot you!" said Joe to death.

"We don't have any guns!" said Dane to Joe.

"I'm going to punch you!" said Joe to death.

"You're a weak little douchebag," said Dane to Joe.

"I challenge you to a game of chess!" said Joe to death.

"You suck at chess," said Dane to Joe.

"What? No I don't."

"Yes you do."

"No, that's bullshit!"

"Dude, yes you do. I beat you every time."

"We've only played once and we didn't finish."

"Yeah we did, and I beat you!"

"How dare you speak to me in this manner!? I could chess you around this empty plane of nonexistence for days on end! I'll chess rings around you! You couldn't chess your way out of a paper bag!"

"You're just taking random verbs and replacing them with chess! That doesn't mean anything!"

"Yeah! I'm also really good at scrabble!"

"What the hell does that have to do with this!? Besides, I beat you at scrabble every time!"

"We've never played scrabble! We've never played that ever!"

Death couldn't get them to stop, so eventually it just let them go. Death doesn't get paid enough to put up with this sort of crap.