Excerpt from THE DEVIL WORE PURPLE PLUNDER-PANTS
Today, we are lucky to have an excerpt from the upcoming romance novel The Devil Wore Purple Plunder-Pants by Bilgemunky, from Bilgemunky Press. Thank you, Bilgemunky.


Note: The following story and characters are works of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, and especially any resemblance to Keira Knightly, super sexy star of Pirates of the Caribbean, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 3 - REUNION DENIED


Keira flew towards the beach with billowing nightgown trailing behind her. Her dainty heart pounded like a cannibal's war-drum as her lily white toes dug into the sand, propelling her ever towards her long lost love. She had feared she'd never see him again, but at last, at long, long last he had returned.

Bilgemunky crawled out of the ocean, waves crashing over his sinewy shoulders. He was exhausted from the battle, yet energized by his victory over the rebel pygmies. But it was the sight of his beloved Keira rushing towards him that truly quickened his blood. The outline of her delicate feminine figure was teasingly visible through the ghostly white layers of her gown as she scampered towards him, and Bilgemunky realized that it was times like this when it was good to be a man, or at least a primate of the male persuasion.

When finally their bodies merged, her radiant arms clenching him tightly as she spun his short furry body 'round and 'round, he felt as if a volcano had erupted in his purple little chest. And when at last they kissed, an ever-growing cascade of fireworks burst forth (metaphorically, not literally.)

Yet it was now, at the triumphant peak of their passionate reunion, that Don Squishy, that dastard, that rogue, who frequently cursed in the company of gentle folk, and who only left a seven-and-a-half percent tip no matter how good the service or cute the waitress, yes, it was now that Don Squishy sprang forth and stabbed Keira with his mystical pine-needle (they really hurt, you know.) Don Squishy barely missed her dainty heart, sparing her from death, but it was still enough for the curse to take hold. Bilgemunky watched in horror as Keira's eyes glazed over, and her mouth contorted into an eternal attempt to roll her R's (which she had never quite mastered, no matter how much she freakin' tried.)

Keira's body fell limp, limp like a hot-dog soaked in top-shelf tequila, limp like a two-toed sloth in a lethargic coma, and limp like a pirate monkey's girlfriend cursed by a mystic pine needle. Bilgemunky looked towards the storm-brewed sky and yelled, "This sucks!" But then he composed himself and yelled "REVENGE!!!"


P.S. A scrimshaw by Flarq from this fine literaturary work:

P.P.S. Check out Bilgemunky.com.

P.P.P.S. Want to get yourself or your yarn scrimshawed? Click here for our contest details

P.P.P.S. There's more scrimshaws and other useful pirate info at: PiratesOfPensacola.com.

How To Escape Cannibals And Get Back to Your Brig
Say, hypothetically, you come to words a far dickhead over a broad and he slips some zolpidem into your grog, sells you to an indigenous tribe somewhere in the mountainous jungles of Central America, and you wake up in the middle of their village in a cauldron of water that's getting warmer by the second? Fortunately those indigenous guys don't know martial arts like us, and the biggest of them comes up to your armpit, so you'll be able to get away easy. As long as you've got the following stuff (not hard to scrape up; nowadays your garden-variety indigenous guys watch soccer on satellite dishes) you can make a compass and get back to sea.

A magnet, a cork, a nail, a dish about eight or nine inches in diameter, a one-foot square piece of thick paper (oaktag, for instance), a pen, and a bottle of rum.


1. Mark the points of the compass on the edges of the paper.

2. Magnetize the nail by rubbing it--this is important: in one direction only--with one end of the magnet.

3. Press the nail through the long part of the cork till the cork's centered on the nail.

4. Fill the dish with water, then place it in the center of the paper.

5. Place the cork in the dish of water.

6. Line up the north mark on the oaktag square with the pointed end of the nail.

7. Head West.

8. Drink the rum, but not too much so that you pass out. If they get a second crack at you those midget bastards'll be tracking you and they'll pump you full of paralysis poison.


P.S. A hypothetical fat dickhead. By the way, shipmates, if you happen to see one matching this scrimshaw, please stab him for me (you might need a pitchfork) and I got you later with a case of decent rum, cool?

P.P.S. Want to get yourself scrimshawed? Click here for our contest details
P.P.P.S. There's more scrimshaws and other useful pirate info at: PiratesOfPensacola.com.

A TALE OF HIGH-SEAS ADVENTURE, MURDER AND ROMANCE by Rancette

When I was a young girl, I wanted to be a pirate. I wanted to dress up as a pirate for Halloween but my mom said it wasn't decent. Finally, the year I graduated high school, I realized that I should study at an oceanography institute in Southern California.

My second semester I flunked out, because I partied and missed my morning classes. Hock, a fellow drop-out, invited me to become a world-traveler with him. We had no money, so we built our own ship out of scrap wood. It wasn't that sturdy, so the only place we were able to sail was Catalina Island.

I wish I could say I was attracted to Hock, but I really wasn't. One night he tried something, so I stabbed him with my dagger. I thought I was going to go crazy, because now I was alone and all I had to eat were the native coconuts.

Three or four months passed. I can't even recount how long it was. Then a big, grand ship arrived to my side of the island. I stowed away on the ship, and it was about four days before I was discovered. I thought they were going to throw me overboard, so I suggested that I join their crew.

"Arr, matey, yer one of us now," a short pirate with a peg-leg and an eye-patch said. He was a stereotypical pirate and I hoped to be as repulsive as him one day.

The captain was the most handsome man I had ever seen. I offered to be his mistress and he laughed at me. "None of this is real," he said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Suddenly, I opened my eyes. The ship was a film set. I saw the cameras and the crew, capturing this whole scene with the actor and me.

"Could I be in the movie too?" I asked.

"Sorry, auditions have already been held," the actor said.

"No wonder no one wanted to harm me. I'm really disappointed. I've always wanted to be a pirate."

Thinking my life couldn't get any worse, I confessed to killing Hock. No one believed me however. Soon the film wrapped, and I moved back in with my parents. Now I spend the whole day in bed, watching TV and eating fatty meals. Sometimes I think of the time I almost became a pirate.

Rancette, as scrimshawed by Flarq

P.S. Want to get scrimshawed by Flarq too? Click here for details
P.P.S. There's more scrimshaws and other useful pirate info at: PiratesOfPensacola.com.

Pirate Movie Review: PRIVATES OF THE CARIBBEAN

Privates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Hole

Starring: Jenna Jameson, Alex Dane and Asia Carrera
Directed by: Brad Armstrong and Greg Steele


Reviewed by: RumbaRue

The movie actually starts off looking pretty good as scenes of a ship and it's crew are shown. However I'm still trying to figure out the guy climbing the rigging in a kilt and wearing a sword. There's a shot of the same clip a bit later on in the movie. There's a scene on land and a pirate about to be hanged, but manages to escape with help of fellow crewman (I thought the two crewmen wearing kilts were amusing...well it is an X-rated movie...); this part is sort of where you think there's a plot.

Go to Tavern scene, two blond good looking blonds with blown up boobs end up with three pirates, I think. The usual sex stuff, lots of close-ups. There's about twelve minutes of that (yea, I actually counted, I was bored) then onto the lesbian scene, amazing what you can do with a string of long pearls...another ten minutes...

Is there a plot somewhere?

Actually there sort of is, but it's rather convoluted and hard to follow in between the usual sex stuff (lots of close-ups for the more interested person). I watched the credits to see what ship they had been using, it's called the Morgan Blane, if anyone knows of it.

I give it a 4 skull rating out of 5.


P.S. Nelson Cooke here: For this review, the fair Rumba receives a scrimshaw by Flarq:

P.P.S. Want to get scrimshawed by Flarq too? Click here for details

Late-Breaking Pirate Valentine


Ye have a choice, Ye be my valentine or ye be dead.

----Duchess


Shipmates, please welcome aboard Duchess (and do a damn good job is you want to keep your head attached to your neck). Here's her scrimshaw by Flarq:

Group Road (Sea) Trip To Find Buried Treasure
Myth #1 about pirates: Buried treasure. Think about it. You swing through cannon fire and onto an enemy deck full of dark smoke with rapiers whining all about. You somehow manage to persevere and get away with a bunch of gold. Why in the hell would you drop anchor at some island and stick it in a hole?

That having been said, it's happened now and again. One occasion I leaned about from Pirates Of Pensacola writer Keith Thomson. It involves a guy who may or may have been an ancestor of his, plus a treasure still out there for the taking. And I intend to take it. As I'll be needing some crew, you could get yourself a cut of this action.

First, the facts, or at least what I remember of them--forgive me, I heard this last night at a place called World of Rum (feel free to google in the gaps, partners):

In 1820 or so this revolutionary, Jose de San Martin, was advancing on Lima. The Spaniards occupying the city were worried he'd seize the gold and jewels they'd seized from the natives, chiefly the gold roof of this one church that was worth $12 million (in 1820!) and the life-size jewel-studded golden Virgin Mary. So they hired this trustworthy Limey sea captain named William Thompson to stow the gold and the Virgin on his brig the Mary Dear, go sail around for a few months until San Martin had moved on, then bring it back to Lima. The Spaniards sent a few of their men along for the sail to make sure Capt. Thompson stayed trustworthy. Thompson and his crew killed them all and turned pirate.

As the well-known roof fixtures and a life-size jewel-studded Virgin would've been damn near impossible to fence, Thompson and his first mate secured it in a cave on an uninhabited island three-hundred-some miles west of Costa Rica. They'd return for it when things had cooled off. They died of Yellow Fever before they got the chance. The rest of the crew was caught by a Spanish man o' war and sent to hang out with Davy Jones.

The island is now called Cocos, and it's still uninhabited. Thompson did draw up a map. Copies of it are around because over the years, a number of folks have tried to find the treasure, including Franklin Roosevelt. The cave is clearly marked, but no one ever found it because of sever shoreline erosion--the cave's probably hidden underneath a smooth bed of ocean floor now. The thing is, none of those folks had the advantage of the magnetic resonance technology that exists today. If you've got that sort of rig laying around the house, or can get one, talk to me, amigo. I'd welcome any other ideas too, and if they help me bag the treasure, I'll cut you in a percent, maybe even a percent and a half.


P.S. Speaking of piratic kin, here's a scrimshaw--Flarq's first in color--of my relatives Morgan and Isaac Cooke, the main characters in the book Pirates Of Pensacola.

Back From A Booty Call
Late last week I got word from a mate from the neck of the ocean where they've yet to get phones, let alone e-mail. But they've got b-mail (B as in bird). A seagull landed on my windowsill with a scrolled-up message in the leather satchel strapped around his orange bird leg. It was news of a brig nearly sinking from all the fine piratable items aboard. Pirating pays better than blogging. So I had to split. Am just now getting back into port. I mention I've been away--at risk of getting the authorities on my poop deck--so that all the vixens who've been sending me love entreaties won't be broken-hearted to not have heard back yet. I'll be on that right quick now, okay honeys?

As for the rest of you lopers, I'll detail the booty call over the weekend if my drinking calendar permits. Also, thanks for sending in all your pirate-related yarns. Speaking of drinking, today I'll now post an interesting fact send in by the fair Trillian, along with her scrimshaw by our harpooner Flarq:



DRUNKEN FACT by Trillian

Following Myrtle's example, I'll share an interesting pirate fact. Most people have heard the ballad "What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor?" (Who knew there was another kind of sailor?)

Most don't realize that the words have been corrupted over time. In one verse, they sing "Throw him in bed with the Captain's daughter," which doesn't really seem like much of a punishment. The original verse was "Give him a taste of the Captain's daughter." "Captain's daughter" was slang for the cat-o-nine tails, a particularly gruesome form of punishment, consisting of nine knotted whips embedded with bits of bone and steel.

As the song spread to people who didn't know the slang, the words were changed to what made sense to them, even if it may have seemed more of a reason to get drunk than to avoid it.



Thanks, Trillian. Here's a scrimshaw of you by Flarq the harpooner. By the way, I saw the photo he scrimshawed it from and as I result I am a much bigger fan now of whoever invented the camera.

P.S. Here again are the Send-In-A-Pirate Yarn/Win-A-Scrimshaw-of-Yourself rules: If you've got a decent pirate-related yarn, experience, joke or whatever, write it down (in 500 words or less, as these will be read by your fellow pirates, not literature scholars) and e-mail it the heck in to: [email protected]. If you don't know how to write, find someone who can and threaten to stab them if they don't do it for you. Me and my friends'll pick the best ones and post them. And if yours is chosen, Flarq will do your scrimshaw from a photo of yourself you send in.

P.P.S. I'm supposed to plug our book every entry, as if posting stuff other folks write isn't enough damn work. For info on the book, click: PiratesOfPensacola.com.

A Yarn by Smart Ken
Being landlocked from the ocean by a thousand miles in every direction, I never had the opportunity to experience the sea. During a period of travel I found myself near a rundown port in the city of
Darwin near the Timor Sea. This region of the world is full of pirates. During my childhood, I read Treasure Island and wondered what it would be like to be a pirate. In pursuit of my childhood fantasy, I started to hang around this dive of a pub near the docks in search of the modern day pirate with the hopes of joining his crew. After going to this pub for several weeks, I hadn't made any headway with the locals. They would ignore me at every turn. I would buy them drinks and try to get in on the conversation to no avail. I was desperate to get in on the high seas adventure of the pirate's life.

Finally, the captain of one of the boats came up to me and said, "Mate, I have seen you come here everyday and I would like to invite
you to a party."

"I'd love to come to your party," was my enthusiastic response.

"There'll be lots of drinking," he said.

"No problem Captain, I can hold my own," I responded.

"There'll most likely be some fightin'," the captain warned me.

"I have been in a few bar room brawls, no worries there either mate," I said.

"And there will be plenty of sex," he informed me.

I was absolutely
thrilled with this prospect and I had one question to ask the captain. "How many people are going to be at this party?"

"Just myself," came the response.


P.S. Here's a scrimshaw of Smart Ken by Flarq:

P.P.S. Send in a pirate-related yarn 500 words long or shorter to [email protected] and if it gets posted, Flarq'll do you too.

P.P.S. There's more scrimshaws and other useful pirate info at: PiratesOfPensacola.com.

If You Know How to Write (or know someone who does), You Could Get Scrimshawed
As you know, there's a lot of downtime between pirate gigs, and unless they're firing at you, it even gets dull when you're chasing down brigs. That's why the thing we need most on this site is entertainment. So if you've got a decent pirate-related yarn, experience, joke or whatever, write it down (in 500 words or less, as these will be read by your fellow pirates, not literature scholars) and e-mail it the heck in to: [email protected]. If you don't know how to write, find someone who can and threaten to stab them if they don't do it for you. Me and my friends'll pick the best ones and post them. And if yours is chosen, Flarq the harpooner will do your scrimshaw from a photo of yourself you send in.

Sample Flarqs:

* Flarq has a thing for kitchen implements (you want to call him a nancy boy, be my guest, just make sure you're wearing underwear you wouldn`t mind being found dead in). So if you want something from your kitchen scrimshawed, you can get that as a prize too.

P.S. See more scrimshaws, including one that's animated, at the PiratesOfPensacola.com.

Nelson Cooke: Expert Historyologist
Flarq's smoking new vixenfriend Jill has got the hots for me. (Fortunately Flarq can't read or I'd be harpooned through the face for writing that.) How do I know? For one thing, this sort of thing happens to me a lot. Also, she was saying she's interested in pirate history. Unfortunately, all I know about the old days is they used to not have guns. But I do know Keith, the writer working on Pirates of Pensacola, and one of the great things about Keith is he's afraid of getting stabbed. He put a little write-up together for me lickety-split. Mates, give it a read-through, will you? I need to know if Capt. Computer made any mistakes before I call Jill:



Piracy is as old as the art of transportation by water. The first Phoenician boatmen feared pirates even more than they did resentful sea gods, vicious sea monsters, and spiteful giant sea rocks who ganged up to crush ships--a common nemesis, if Phoenician maritime annals are to be believed.

It was not until the Sixteenth Century, and the onset of transatlantic imperialism, that piracy entered the realm of common dinnertime topic. "Imperialism," in that day, meant countless Spanish galleons returning home along the "Spanish Main" listing from tons of gold stolen (or, according to some Spanish sources, received as part of fair business transactions) from the Aztecs and Incas.

The growing number of sailors in turn stealing the stolen gold became a problem for all of the Colonial Empires. According to British Royal Navy, in 1563, there were four hundred such pirates known to be sailing the Four Seas, and the number was increasing daily. In naval service, as well as on merchant ships, pay was poor and rations worse. The menu consisted solely of cold hardtack biscuits accompanied by salt beef, salt pork or salt fish--called "Hairy Willy." But it was the puny ration of grog (rum diluted with water to stretch supplies) that irked the men most of all, and ranked among their chief motivations for going "on the account" (pirate for "pirating"). Ironically, many of these men had enlisted in the Navy in hope that the very same grog limit, as well as the job's regular hours and strenuous exercise, might provide an asylum for their alcoholism.

Then there were the conditions. Hard work was the least of it. On overcrowded man o' wars--frequently crewed by five hundred--space was so limited that a man could scarcely move without brushing against another. Something as simple as how a man gargled could, over time, so grate on a shipmate's nerves that no one would be shocked if the gargler "fell overboard" on a dark night, never to be found. On the infrequent occasions the men were given the respite of sleep, they had to do so in hammocks eighteen inches wide, to a lullaby of the snoring of dozens of others who hadn't bathed in months and were crammed side to side and above and below one another. On hot nights, the hammocks proved veritable frying pans. On cold, the men longed for the hot.

Many more sailors suffered--though they likely wouldn't have put it as such--psychologically. The frequent summons of "All hands witness punishment ahoy!" sent a shudder through all but the stoutest of hearts. Incessant floggings made many sailors feel like beasts, rather than men. And the long lists of rules made the sailors who still felt like men feel like children. Most man o' war captains forbade the sordid game of draughts (checkers).

A scrimshaw by Flarq of a harsh man o' war captain

As consequence of all this, many a cold nasty night was warmed by tales of pirate voyages to places where the weather was fair, the water easy and the lasses both fair and easy. Furthermore, there was tobacco, grub aplenty, and rivers of grog, and the only time quarters were cramped was because they were stacked starboard to larboard with gold doubloons.

Others, for whom grub and lasses held less appeal, found themselves persuaded to go on the account simply by the increasing occupational hazard of being an honest sailorman. For instance, between 1569 and 1616, nearly five hundred British ships were captured by the Barbary pirates, who cut the throats of those captives deemed not worth the trouble of feeding and transporting to the slave market. It is due to such practices, some historians theorize, that the term "barbarian" came to mean more than simply a native of Barbary...



I'm going to cut off the story here.* I just got some rum-necessitating news: Ricardo Verman, former Tortolan Navy admiral, has escaped from jail and is on his way to try and kill me. He's pissed that, once, I double-crossed him. Yeah, it led to his getting captured and locked up for life. But to kill a bloke for that? Clearly he needs some meds.

*Keith posted the rest of it at http://piratesofpensacola.com/id6.html