The Locker


The custodian at the gym heard the too-familiar banging and yelling from the locker room.
“Not again,” he groaned.
He went to his tool chest, pulled out the bolt cutters, and headed to Davey Jones’ Locker.
Davey Jones was pounding on the door, calling the combination lock a backstabbin’ scurvy dog.
“Please stop that, Mr. Jones,” said the custodian. “I’m just going to have to bend all that metal back.”
The custodian snipped off the padlock and opened the locker. “Have you ever thought about just using a lock with a key?” he said.
At least he tipped in gold.

Sammy was the Sole Survivor


Five kilometers past Strayhorn Reef was where the map said the lost freighter exploded and sank.
Bits and pieces of the vessel littered the ocean floor, if 2-ton glowing chunks of iron and steel could be described as a bit or piece.
The only survivor of the wreck was a one-legged parrot. All it said was “Sammy!”
The investigators tried to coax more out of the parrot, using crackers and peanuts, but all it ever said was “Sammy!”
Divers went down, but never came up. Even when tagged, their signal would vanish.
And so did they.
“Sammy!” shrieked the parrot.

Dragon’s Hoard


Nobody knew why Dragon’s Cliff was named as it was.
Except Arthur. He knew.
Arthur clutched Captain Dragon’s treasure map and laughed.
“Fifty more paces, and I’ll be rich,” he mumbled.
As his feet walked the final fifty paces, his mind raced through all the wonderful things he’d buy with the gold.
Or diamonds. Or whatever Dragon had buried.
It was after forty-five paces that Arthur encountered two forces of nature at once:

  • Erosion had worn away the cliffs in the three centuries since Dragon made his map.
  • Gravity yanked him the seventy feet down to the rocks below.


The Ghost Ship


We matched velocity and docked with the luxury liner.
The alarm went off as we suited up. Damn, those things are annoying.
Floating throughout the ship we found dozens of lifesacks. Must have been sudden atmospheric failure.
Every one contained a passenger or a crewman. All dead. No survivors.
Was this a bad batch of lifesacks? The hole stabbed in each suggested no. Each victim was frozen in horror.
Who’s the murderer? We checked manifest… all accounted for.
Did they finish everyone off, then themselves?
Whatever. That’s the Orbital Navy’s problem. We’re pirates.
We robbed the cargo hold and left.

Anchors Aweigh


Yes, It was my treachery that sank the ship.
I was paid by the enemy to scuttle it during the night watch.
However, as I swam towards the rowboat that was waiting to pick me up, I was entangled in the anchor chain and dragged to the bottom of the ocean.
Straight to Hell.
The anchor chained to my leg feels like it gets heavier every century I drag it, but I know that it’s my mind playing tricks on me.
Or is it my soul playing tricks on me?
I regret nothing.
Well, except getting tangled in this anchor.

Three Mighty Pirates


The mighty pirate gang sailed the ocean blue for treasure and glory.
“Yar!” shouted Smitty.
“Yar!” shouted Pegleg.
“Yar!” shouted Captain Blood.
Many galleons did they board, plunder, and send to Davey Jones’ Locker.
“Yar!” shouted Smitty.
“Yar!” shouted Pegleg.
“Yar!” shouted Captain Blood.
No crew was deadlier with a score of cannon than they.
“Yar!” shouted Smitty.
“Yar!” shouted Pegleg.
“Yar!” shouted Captain Blood.
And they were the most fearsome scurvy dogs on Brussels Sprouts and Onions Night.
“Light a match!” shouted Smitty.
“Open a porthole!” shouted Pegleg.
“No wonder why they call it a poopdeck!” shouted Captain Blood.

Ho Ho Ho (And A Bottle Of Rum)


“The Mighty Servant 5 leaves Hong Kong tonight,” said Blinky. “Manifest is a beauty.”
“Yarrrrrr!” said Winky, giggling.
Elves make excellent hackers, thought Santa.
Later that night, the sleigh raced over the Pacific and spotted the massive vessel.
It looks like an oil tanker with Legos on top, thought Saint Nick.
They landed quickly.
“Hit the Mattel containers, ye scurvy elves!” yelled Santa to his crew. “Watch out for Dobermans!”
“Aye aye!” yelled the elves.
This was so much more fun than making toys.
Santa drew his toy cutlass and chortled, his belly shaking like a bowl full of grog.