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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2012 by Rhys Hughes.
All Rights Reserved.
*
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
This book
is dedicated to:
All Short and Medium Tellers of Tall Tales
& also to:
Paul Battenbough
1: The Münchausen of Porthcawl
The Welsh have a reputation for constantly telling fibs, but in fact they only tell fibs when they speak, never at any other time. So it can be honestly averred that the aforementioned reputation is exaggerated. And if you believe that you’ll believe anything. Nonetheless it’s true. The worst kind of fib is the true one, especially if it’s true only because the teller is unaware of its truth; the second worst kind is the one where both fibber and believer are in collusion. That kind has a name. Fiction.
Castor on Troubled Waters
He’s almost fifty years of age, Castor Jenkins is, which for a stereotypical Welshman must be reckoned venerable, if not ancient. Not that he takes kindly to being considered a stereotype. He likes to point out that real Welshmen don’t live exclusively on a diet of beer and chips, nor do they avoid exercise, work and responsibility every waking minute of the day; the fact he does those things is a mark of his uniqueness and it’s just a coincidence that the cliché and his individualism are the same.
But in fact there’s some dispute about his true age, and it’s possible he might be twice as old as he says, for something incredible happened one day that confused the issue. He was sitting in his favourite pub with his best friends, Paddy Deluxe and Frothing Harris, getting ready to play cards and win heavily, as always, when a disagreement about the integrity of past games threatened to spoil the evening. Paddy started it with a complaint about the physical condition of Castor’s cards. His argument ran as follows:
“The state of your deck is abysmal, truly it is, and you might as well be playing with marked cards; for all the different beer stains on the backs, not to mention chip fat drippings, surely form patterns recognisable to you but not to us, and so allow you to know what’s coming next.”
“In other words, to cheat,” added Frothing Harris.
Castor Jenkins announced that he resented the accusation, but his friends continued to grumble and the fuss gained momentum and became an unbreakable refusal to play even a single round unless they used the brand new pack, fresh and unopened, that Paddy had thoughtfully brought with him. And there was talk of reimbursement for previous losses, and hints of compensation on top of that, and finally Castor was forced to back down and agree that the beer and chip stains might be considered to be arranged in a suspicious manner.
They played with the new pack and Castor lost every game and he soon found himself owing a sum in the region of £100 to both of them. Unable to settle up on the spot, he offered to go out and find a cash machine and return with the money as quickly as possible. His friends nodded.
“That’s a reasonable suggestion,” they said.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” Castor declared.
He stood and walked out and they watched him with triumph in their eyes; but it was the sort of triumph that a fish feels when it bites a worm on a hook, and so their eyes glittered sickly, waiting to see what trick was in store, for they couldn’t imagine Castor would do exactly what he promised without some effort at regaining the upper hand. Ten minutes passed but he didn’t appear. An attempt to contact him on his mobile phone proved futile. Paddy rubbed his nose and Harris scratched his chin, but not in that order.
An hour later Castor returned and he was breathing hard and he staggered around the room before returning to his place at the table and sitting down, still panting and mumbling to himself in a language that was either Spanish or Arabic, Paddy and Harris couldn’t agree on that, before shuddering and licking his lips and tugging at his earlobes. They gazed at him in silence and he slowly regained his composure and addressed them directly. He said:
“You won’t believe what has just happened to me!”
“Tell us,” they replied.
“Very well,” he said slowly, “but I need a drink to settle my nerves first. You don’t mind if I take a sip of your beer? That’s better. And yours as well? Sure, a massive gulp isn’t the same as a sip, but listen carefully: I was kidnapped! I know it sounds ridiculous but it’s true nonetheless. Shortly after I left you, while walking along the esplanade, I noticed a strange vessel anchored offshore, an old fashioned galleon. Then a boat was lowered from it and began rowing closer and I soon realised there was something unusual about it.”
“How unusual?” asked Paddy.
Castor lowered his voice to a whisper. “It was crewed by men dressed like pirates, with black breeches and billowing white shirts, spotted scarves tied around their heads, eye-patches and bristling beards, and many waved cutlasses in the air or carried knives between their teeth; and I imagined that a film was being made, even though I couldn’t see a director or any cameras. I wanted to stay and watch, but my first duty was to get your money and so I hurried onwards.”
“Very considerate of you,” observed Harris.
Castor nodded. “I reached the cash machine, inserted my card, punched in my number and withdrew the crisp notes, but as soon as the money was in my hand I felt myself being lifted up and carried away. A mob of howling ruffians filled the street. They took the cash machine as well, blowing it out of the wall with gunpowder. That explosion disordered my senses, I can tell you! I was so stunned I never properly realised what was going on until it was too late. Everywhere there was chaos, broken bottles on the road, the overpowering smell of rum. When the clouds of smoke cleared I saw that they had bundled me aboard the boat.
“It was at this point I understood that these men were not actors but real pirates. As the history books tell us, pirates don’t just attack other ships, they also raid coastal towns, looting and sacking. Porthcawl is a coastal town and ripe for such unwanted attentions. These pirates had obviously decided to make a rapid strike, grabbing what they could and departing before the police arrived. I imagine they were disappointed with their haul, just one cash machine and a single captive, namely myself.”
“Not much of a profit there,” agreed Paddy and Harris.
“True,” sighed Castor, “but perhaps they needed the practice. Anyway I was taken to the galleon and locked inside a narrow cell where I lay in mouldy darkness, my mind filled with thoughts of what pirates traditionally do to prisoners; but after calming down I stopped believing I was destined to walk the plank. If they wanted me dead they would have saved a lot of effort by cutting my throat at the cash machine. So it grew increasingly likely they intended to sell me into slavery. I felt terrible, knowing that you were sitting here waiting for your money, but I had no way of getting a message to you.
“The days passed slowly, and I was sick during a horrid storm, and they gave me nothing to eat and drink but bread and water. When I asked for proper nourishment they laughed in a piratical fashion and treated all my other requests with similar contempt. I began to rot in that prison, but one morning a man more distinguished than the others opened the door and let me out. He was Captain Ribs, he announced, the leader of the pirates, and he had a proposal for me. He led me to his cabin and asked me to sit down and offered the chips and beer I craved. When I was full, he scrutinised me closely and said:
“‘We’re a man short and to run the ship with maximum efficiency I need to find a replacement. You’re the only candidate for the position and so I want to offer you the job. If you don’t want it and would prefer the life of a slave in the hellish butter mines of Kowpoo, I’ll understand.’
“‘I need to think about it. What exactly is the job?’
“‘Lookout.