The Mutiny

Hey all, this is the piece I sent to Stratics: POTBS for their Beta Key contest. I think of it as Monty Python's Flying Circus meets Deadwood! It's kinda long, so I've chunked it here.

Captain Jenny “Handsaw” Hawk let loose with a thundering oath that blistered the remnants of paint on the door of the Boadicea’s cabin.
“They ****** well want what?” she roared. “By the ****** ****** of Satan’s hairy ***** I’ll teach those **** ****** ****** of ****** to be so ****** ***** ungrateful! Stop yer ******* gawping and hand me my ***** cutlass!”
Her first mate, Stacey “Whiphand” Crowl blanched a little but seemed otherwise unmoved by her Captain’s outburst. “You might want to calm yerself down a little there, matey. The crew’s powerful angry. They be saying that officers ben hoarding the best food for nigh on a month now while they’s been having nowt but moldy bread and rats.”
“By the pendulous ****** of Constantine’s ****** ****** ******!” responded Captain Jenny, quickly shovelling the remains of a half-eaten chicken out the cabin window. “What the ***** kind of ****** brig do those ***** ****** think this is?”
“All the same, Captain, it might be the wiser course ta have a word with them afore you start swingin free with the steel. They been a good crew all up, and a more fearsom pack of bloodthirsty fighting wenches ain’t to be found between here and the Barbados!”
“***** ***** ******,” muttered Jenny. “Alright, show the ****** ******* in.”
The cabin quickly filled with women, muttering darkly, a few of them sniffing suspiciously at what seemed remarkably like the fading aroma of a roast chicken dinner. A tall, rangy woman pushed to the front of the group, reaching up a hand to steady herself against the low beams of the cabin.
“No one here be afeared of a little hardship. Capn, we come through a long ways with you, and there ain’t a one of us don’t preciate the booty you led us on to. Thing of it is, we been on short commons for a period now, and while that ain’t nothin for a pirate’s lot, it be a different matter altogether ifn the hardship ain’t shared equal like.”
“Becky ****** Hardhand” yelled Captain Jenny, “ You miserable ****** ****** for a bent over **** of ****** lizard *******!”
“What Capn means to say, Becky,” interjected Stacey hurriedly before Jenny could really hit her stride, “Is where be the proof?”
“Proof?” shouted another woman, stepping forward. “We all seen the piles of animal bones carried out of the officers’ cabin every morning!”
“Bah,” responded Stacey, “You all be knowing our good chirurgeon Laura be astudying the natural history when she ain’t curin all of yehs of the pox. Those be simply the leftovers. . .er. . .the remains of her speriments.”
“What about all the vegetables, then?”
“What ******* vegetables?” replied Captain Jenny.
“Yeah,” piped up another woman, “What happened to all the vegetables we took off that last merchant we boarded? The kohlrabi, the baby spinach, them chantarelles. We all saw them.”
Captain Jenny laughed uproariously.
“Alice, you grizzled old ******. There be ******* and ******* but the only ******* that you’ll be ****** will be the ******* ******* ****** in the **** ***** ****. So help me God.”
The crew and even Stacey herself looked a little confused.
“Er,” said Alice tentatively, “Were we bein answered in there somewheres?”
“The Captain be trying to explain best she can the problem with some of our food going all rotten,” ventured Stacey. “It be a rather technical issue in the nature of it.”
“We knows all bout rotten food!” sneered Becky. “We bin eatin it, ya softheaded lummoxes!”

There was a pause while both sides glared at each other across the cabin. The Captain was flushing a steadily deepening shade of scarlet and seemed to be working herself up to an outburst that promised to melt cannons in the fortress at Port Royal, three hundred miles away. Sizing up the situation, Stacey quickly intervened.
“Fars I can see, there only be one thing to do. We needs to be settling this like. . .”
“Like men?” suggested Alice.
The ship’s bosun, “Gutshot” Sandy Proudholme, snorted.
“I don’t be holdin with all that butt slappin and chest bumpin,” she said, “Sides, anyone going up against Big Martha like to do themselves permanent injury.”
“Like women, then?” suggested Alice.
Becky looked around threateningly.
“The first one of yous to be suggestin any kind a group hug be feeling the business end of me rapier.”
“. . .settle this like pirates” continued Stacey impatiently. “Aye shipmates, there be only one thing for it. We decide this over a game of Pirates of the Burning Sea. Officers against the crew. What say ye?”
A few glances between the crew were followed by a rousing “Aye!”
The cabin was quickly cleared for action, the lamps lit, more officers came below, and an ancient chest was retrieved from the lower hold. A stained, and heavily creased parchment map of the Caribbean was unrolled across the long central table and pinned down with daggers at each corner. Crew and officers took their places round the map.
“Cassie? Grog all round and be keepin it flowin till ye hears otherwise.”
Cassie, the cabin lass, darted around the table, slopping a malodorous liquid that would have passed for year-old bilge on any other ship, into tankards.
“Now,” announced Stacey, “We need a Game Master.”
“Well ******* my slippery ******* with a robust ***** of ****** ******” said Captain Jenny, “Course I be the ******* Game Master, by all the **** **** in the Pope’s ***** closet!”
“The Hell you will” roared Alice, starting to her feet.
“Now everyone be settling” said Stacey, “And with all respect, Captain, you be not the best person for the job. The GM needs to have a bit of a grip on her emotions, see and be clear with the communicatin.”
“Well ****** me,” muttered Captain Jenny, “***** glass ceiling ******.” But she leaned back from the table.
“How about Bentback Sally?” someone suggested.
Both officers and crew looked around at one another. Slowly, there were nods of agreement around the table. Bentback Sally was the ship’s carpenter; every woman could remember her already being a fixture when they had joined the Boadicea. Wizened, her spine permanently twisted after a blow from a shot-severed spar, she kept on good terms with almost everyone. Many of the crew remembered that she had been the one who had told them of the devastated animal carcasses being hauled out of the officer’s mess on a regular basis. The officers, for their part, recalled that it was Sally who had passed them hints of the growing unrest amongst the crew.
“Aye, I’ll do it,” said Sally, making her way from the corner of the cabin to sit at the head of the table, her dark eyes moving carefully over every person at the table. “So, what we be playing for then?”
“If the officers be wiping the decks with you misbegotten pack of dried up crones ,” said Stacey, “As seems most likely, then there’ll be no more of this whining about unequal shares and imaginary feasts of roast capon with a light rum butter sauce accompanied by braised leek gratin. . .to be citin a hypothetical example.”
“And when the crew carries the day,” said Alice, pounding the table, “And the officers have finished soiling themselves like the mewling pups they be, then we sets sail for the nearest port and plunder till there ain’t a single larder left full or male left intact!”
“What say ye,” asked Sally. “Agree we all?”
“Agree we all” was the unanimous chorus.
“Right then.” And with that she opened the old chest and began distributing the contents.

They divided up the Caribbean between them, the officers playing England and Holland, and the crew playing France and Spain. Very soon, an epic struggle began to unfold, with numerous personal and group quests taking place around the fringes of a series of military actions. Forces of each nation moved and counter-moved, sacked, pillaged, razed, retreated then returned to do it all again. The officers were brimming with confidence. They were aware that Captain Jenny in particular had never lost a game of POTBS.
Early on, Stacey, in charge of the English forces acquired and then immediately tried to play the “Automatic French Surrender” card, a tactic that had invariably produced spectacular victory in the past. This time, however, the French, commanded by Alice, had acquired the extremely rare “the fruits of victory” option. Everyone looked to Sally for guidance.
“Celebrating premature,” she intoned, “The English become sloppy drunk on pillaged French wine. French side rolls a 9, so let’s see. . .the wine has also spoiled on the voyage over, creating a powerful sickness among them that drunk of it. English sailors unable to man their guns on account of spendin all their time sluicin arse ” The result was a spectacular massacre of an entire English fleet. The remaining English forces were forced to withdraw to the safety of the Antilles, effectively neutralizing them for the remainder of the game.
The early gains by the crew, however, proved fleeting. Not for nothing had Jenny earned a fearsome gaming reputation. Dangling the bait of a massive Dutch treasure fleet, she lured the entire Spanish navy into a large enclosed harbor. Playing her last Multiplier card, she rolled a three, and played three cards at once: A Nasty Surprise, A Filthy Surprise, and Bend Over and Grab Your Ankles. In a dispassionate voice Sally recounted how the Dutch merchantment stripped off their disguise to reveal themselves as a warships; simultaneously they sailed a dung scow into the middle of the Spanish vessels and blew it up, plastering the entire fleet with well fermented effluent. And before the Spanish could organize themselves for fight or flight, heavy guns concealed on the hills surrounding the bay opened up, turning the pride of the Spanish monarchy to kindling.
After a dubious and much disputed playing of the “Papal Intercession” card, many of the Spanish crew, their commander Becky, included, managed to escape to land and, once there, put up a good fight. Soon, however, Captain Jenny and Becky met face-to-face in a clearing in the jungle. The Captain’s skill at Florentine sword play drew the admiration of even some of the crew, but Becky’s dirty fighting techniques were more than a match for her. There were gasps of delight from the crew and groans from the officers when she revealed the “Indiana Jones” card allowing her to use a firearm.
“I rolls a. . .ten!” exulted Becky. “You be so dead, Capn!”
“Massive blistered ****** ***** of a tomcat’s ****** ****** *****!” roared Jenny. “****** on the ****** who uses such a ****** ***** exploit!”
“Hold fast there,” cautioned Sally. “A ten is now a special roll, and I’m gonna have to look it up in the latest rule book. Let’s see. . .ah, here it be. “Weapon suffers a tragic misfire and explodes killing the person holding it.”
“What?!” shrieked Becky? “That be like to the biggest pile of pigswill ever adropping out of yer mouth, Bentback Sally. There never was sich a rule. The Capn be deader than a church in Port Royal on a Sunday.”
“Rules be changing. We all agreed we be playing by the latest version, and here it is, Version 6.3.1. Ye can sees for yerself.” And she passed the book across the table.
“The developers always be trying to nerf the game for thems that can actually play it,” sneered Becky after a cursory glance at the page. “I says I beat the Capn fair and square.”
“I be the GM, matey, and I says that yer dead.”
“But I pwned her miserable piratical butt! I be having the plus twenty five damage Blunderbuss of Beserkdom! I. . .”
A shattering explosion, and through the cloud of smoke that filled the cabin, the crew watched in shock as the remains of Becky Hardhand toppled backwards in her chair.
“And I be having the plus one Pistol of Reality,” announced Sally. “There be anyone else wanting to lodge a customer ticket?” At the hurried shake of heads around the table Sally replaced the still smoking pistol in her waist sash.

The game continued. Lamps ran low and were refilled. The players wordlessly extended empty tankards for Cassie to fill, occasionally cuffing her one when she was too slow or slopped the drink.
The Captain mercilessly hunted the scattered and demoralized French forces across the Caribbean. Alice, however, gradually exerted a measure of control over her disorganized troops and finally confronted the sizable Dutch fleet off the coast of Pensacola. Despite being heavily outgunned, the French countered with some creative tactics, including the use of fire ships. What had appeared to have all the makings of an epic fleet battle quickly degenerated into series of small engagements in ones and twos.
Late in the battle Captain Jenny closed with Alice’s ship; with the weather gauge she quickly gained the upper hand. Alice was running low on ammunition, her ship already heavily damaged. Jenny was feeling confident; the battle would be over quickly. Alice rolled lucky and was able to use her slightly greater maneuverability to throw her ship under Jenny’s stern. Then she played her last card, literally, Clean out Your Closets.
“****** ***** ***** *****?” queried Jenny.
Sally was at the rule book again.
“Hmmm. Don’t see this one come up at all common. Crew grabs whatever they can find, including personals, and fills the guns. Automatic broadside, player gets damage roll.”
Alice looked around at the tense faces of the crew, willing the die to fall high. She rolled a three. There was a groan from the crew and the beginnings of a victorious smile on the face of Captain Jenny.
“Damage to enemy ship minimal,” continued Sally. “But. . .”
She paused.
“Enemy captain is killed.”
There was a gasp of astonishment from everyone except Jenny.
“***** ***** the lot of you, you ******* ***** excuses for a ***** of ****** goat’s ***** *****. I’ve a good mind to ***** ***** ***** your collective ***** **** and then **** the ***** with ***** and 4 pounds of nicely dimpled potatoes! ***** *****, I never thought I’d ***** the ******. . .”
She raged on, her language growing in creativity and grandeur. Stacey, who had sailed with her a long time, had never heard such cursing: profanity that was the envy of an entire dockyard full of sailors. There was a purity to the Captain’s invective that was almost Pentecostal. Her face flushed scarlet, then turned purple. Abruptly, she gave a little cough, a strangled gargle, and then fell headfirst onto the table, eyes fixed and staring, her long red hair spreading in a bloody tide across the faded Caribbean. Tentatively, one of the crew nudged her. No response
“Oh my God!” squeaked Cassie, “We’ve killed Jenny!”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Sally took out her pistol and calmly began to load it.
“So,” she said quietly, “Whose wanting to be Captain, then?”