Insane conversations of a cracked psyche

He hobbled loudly in to the room, crutch under one arm, a bottle of rum in the other. An eye patch covered his left eye, while his right was wide with disbelief: “WHAT?! No, boy! Not Brandy, Rum! What pirate drinks brandy, boy?! Brandy is for narcoleptic giraffes and northern sleuths! NO! Pirates drink rum, boy! Or indeed grog. Tis what keeps the gums healthy and the rickets at bay! Don’t ever let me catch you singing songs or praises of brandy, boy! No pirate’s assistant will be drinking that unpalatable hogwash!
Now, where be my one-legged pantaloons, boy? I’m sure I gave it to the fish to wash?” he shouted unabashedly, as saliva and rum sprayed from out his mouth and on to his beard. He backed out loudly to the toilet, where he flushed himself back to the seven seas. Peace and quiet returned to the room and sanity was restored, but who knew for how long…


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