George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Not that the Mardi Gras Parade Committee cared.
They were looking for authenticity, not quality, and as long as George could stand on a float and wave, who cared, right?
George showed up, expecting a big parade, a big party, and all the beer he could drink.
That would make sense if the parade were in New Orleans. Or Galveston.
But not in Fairbanks, Alaska.
“Holy shit, it’s cold,” said George.
George threw a lot of beads from the float.
In that weather, hell, the women had earned them.