McSweeney's Beard Oil, For All Yer Beardy Needs: Part Two

 

               The last time I spoke to ye, I had told ye of McSweeney’s Beard Oil, for all yer beardy needs. I had told ye of the miraculous nature of this Beard Oil, and of its wonderous abilities—argh. I had begun the story, but me time fell short. Today, me hearties, I will finish me story, and the tale of how I discovered McSweeney’s Beard Oil, for all yer beardy needs.

               The last time I had regaled ye with me tale of oars. I was in the clinker, for public intoxication. Being sorrowed for me lack of facial hair, I had seen the warden of the clinker by the name of McSweeney. His beard flowing like honey for a jar, I asked him how his hair could grow to such lengths. He had told me that it was all because of an oil, and to visit him, once me time was due.

               A week later, I was released from my time, and a searched for McSweeney. Alas, I could not find the man, and I was in despair…argh. When I had almost given up hope, a man hailed me from across the docks.

               “Do I have the pleasure of being in the presence of one Cumbert Swishysword?”

               “Aye, that ye be.”

               “The very one who was incarcerated for his regrettable behavior while intoxicated?”

               “Aye.”

               “The very same person who insulted the Lord Marshall by throwing a rotten kiwi at his wife?”

               “Aye.”

               “And the very same one that was instructed to seek the guidance of Mr. McSweeney after his release for information on the location of the ‘Oil’”

               “Aye!”

               “Then,” said the strange man, “I may have information that will be very informative for you. Shall we retire at one of the local establishments?”

               The man meant to say, that we should stop by the tavern to discuss our affairs. Argh, but he did talk like a louse.

               When me and me hearty had set ourselves down in the pub, the lawyer-man looked over his shoulder, then peered at me out of the corner of his eye.

               “Now, Mr. Swishysword, I do hope you realize the dangers in a mission such as the one you are choosing to attempt. The trials; the tortures—”

               “I do be prepared.” I said to the man.

               “Very well,”

               “Where is the Master McSweeney? I was instructed to be talking to him about the location of the Oi—”

               Faster than a snapping piranha after drinking a gallon of espresso, the man clapped his two hands around me mouth to silence me words.

               “Don’t speak so freely in here! There are men who would kill for the knowledge of the location of the—the item in question.”

               “Mphmph.” I did say.

               “I do beg your pardon?”

               I pushed his hands aside. “I did be saying: Argh.”

               “Ah yes, argh indeed.” The man leaned back into his seat, but his tiny eyes flickered across the room.

               “Am I to understand, that ye are aware of the location of the—item?”

               The man nodded and reached into his coat. “Master McSweeney wished for me to present you with a map to the location of…the item.”

               He slid a wrinkled paper across the table. It was brown and weathered like the smile on a convenience store clerk’s face, argh. I flipped the map over and stared at the wavy lines and squiggles. There were images of beast arcane, and symbols profane.

               “Does that be a cow with a fedora on its udder?”

               “Yes.”

               “I see—truly this will be a hearty journey me hearty.”

               “It will be dangerous to go alone.” The man said, “You should take this.” He reached into his coat a second time and pulled out a tiny aquatic, flightless bird.

               “This,” he did say, “Is a penguin.”

               “A penguin? Surely this cannot be of any use, har har.”

               “You will need it for navigation across the sea. It has a highly tuned sense of direction and—”

               I had lost all knowledge and reckoning of what the man said next, for fear had gripped me heart with cold fingers of the Raynaud’s syndrome.

               “Do ye mean—I must cross the sea?!”

               “Well, of course.”

               “Argh!” I shouted, “It canst be done!”

               “Er, I assure you that it can be done…with quite regularity as it happens. In fact, there are Polynesian navigators who make the journey in a canoe made from a single log. You will be going in a much more substantial vessel—”

               “I be Cumbert Swishysword.”

               “I am aware.”

               “Sailor of the Seven Creeks!”

               “Yes.

               “And terror of the fruit markets.”

               “And the Lord Marshall for that manner. He was most distressed—”

               “But I ain’t bein no sailor of the seas. It’s too dangerous.”

               “That is precisely why,” The man said, placing the chick on the table, “You’ll take this.”

               I looked hard at the bird and it looked hard back at me. I blinked me one eye; it blinked both of its. Finally, I spat to one side and said, after I wiped out the bird’s spit from me eye, “I may be a pirate, but I be no such fool. I will not go on ye’s fool errand.”

               The man shrugged and pushed back his seat. “A pity, I suppose you never will grow your beard into its natural glory then.”

               I looked into me mug of ale and saw the scraggly bush that graced me lower chin. Would I be cursed to wander with such follicles streaming from me pores, or would I be forced to…cross the seas?”

               “I will be doing the journey. I will not fail to heed thy message, me hearty.”

               “Excellent, I am sure that your ship is adequate for the voyage?”

               I do hesitate to say that I slumped in me seat. “Aye.” I rose from me chair, grabbed the bird and slid the map beneath me coat and strode out of the tavern.

               Actually, the publican asked for me payment for the ale, and when I couldn’t pay him, his men threw me out in the street.

               After I rose from mud and brushed the dirt off of me trousers, I looked at the bird in hand. “Be ye worth two in the bush?”

               The bird did not reply, but it excreted defecation on me hand in response.

               “I be thinking ye are not.”

               “SQUAWK.”

               “Argh.”

               Then, just as I turned to me ship, Me keen senses were alerted by a cry.

“Stop that man by order of the Lord Marshall!”

I, being a model citizen, shouted” Aye, catch him.” Then I realized that the soldiers were chasing…me.

Argh, but I be out of me time again, I suppose I be beckoning a regular contributor to this here document space. Mayhaps ye will join me next week for the next part in me harrowing tale? Thar be kumquats.