George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Some say he drinks too much to remember.
And others say he doesn’t drink enough to forget.
Bleary-eyed, climbing into his hammock, cabin spinning.
The rocking back and forth.
Is it the waves and the ship, or just how much he drank?
It doesn’t matter. He leans out of his hammock and throws up.
The hammock wobbles. He falls into the puddle of vomit.
Passing out.
He’ll do the same thing tomorrow. And the day after that.
“Another goddamned day of this shit,” he mumbles.
And passes out again.