Come, gather ’round, ye scalawags. The seas be quiet, the air is still, and it’s past time that Old Bill filled your head wi’ t’ truth of this fine ship, t’ privateer Grantland.
Yarrr, Old Bill were not always t’ captain o’ t’ swiftest ship on t’ seven seas. True, they call me t’ Dread Pirate Simmons now, but in me younger years, I were no more ‘n Barnacle Bill, a lowly barhand in t’ Bay Colony, scribblin’ out me thoughts and tossin’ them into t’ briny morass. But aye, those bottled messages traveled far and wide, they did. The voice of Barnacle Bill, the stories of me voyages, me misadventures wi’ Blackjacko and First Mate Sal, gained me entry into t’ fearsome Espanish arrrrrmada.
I were little more’n a deckhand back then, but me work ethic and tireless production gained me followers, aye. Sailors and surfers alike appreciate that I’m lowborn, like them. Me father were a simple gold prospector:
Aye, look at me. A tadpole I were back then, smooth-faced and two-eyed. ‘Twas afore I took a broken bottle t’ me porthole whilst celebratin’ t’ victory of t’ Red Stockings, back in aught-four. Worth it, says I.
Where were I? Aye, me rise troo t’ ranks.
I spake t’ the common hand, I did. For I knew e’ery young landlubber enjoys T’ Karrrrrate Kid, and even t’ lowest bilge rat knows t’ career of Ryan Reynolds, t’is not SEAWORTHY! His pictures be sinkin’ ships all. Yarrr, denied by none!
Wi’ wisdom an’ insights like that, I soon helmed t’ most fearsome corsair in the Espanish arrrrmada, stocked full from bow t’ stern wi’ t’ most bloodthirsty an’ loyal pyrates ye’d never survive meetin’. Arrr, me fame and notoriety struck fear in t’ empire, it did. Tired o’ fightin’ an’ pillagin’ alongside slow-witted landlubbers like DJ Gallows, I brokered a separation o’ sorts from Espain. Oh, sure, t’ queen gets her cut o’ t’ Grantland‘s gold, but this here be Simmons’s ship.
Me ship, me hand-picked crew o’ swaggerin’ pyrates o’ prose. Klosterman, t’ Viking Pussy. He’ll kill yer brain wi’ his trickery, fashionin’ stupid arguments about meanin’less shite. T’ mountainous Wright Thompson. He’ll drink ya under t’ table an’ stick ya wi’ t’ bill. An’ we got a diverse crew o’ young’uns we stole out t’ scuppers o’ jollyboats: t’ wench Baker, a well-spake Negro, an’ a jolly giant from t’ Northlands named Jonah. Out from t’ belly o’ t’ whale he came, says I.
Wi’ this fine seasoned crew, Old Bill barely needs t’ touch t’ rudder o’ Grantland, seein’ t’ way she steers herself. Most hours, I rest easy in me stateroom, workin’ — if ye call it that — on what I pray’ll be a 10,000 word retellin’ o’ t’ finest tale e’er put to screen:
Old salts tell the tale of an accursed lad. When the moon grows full, the wretch assumed the form and manner of the dreaded fenris–surfing the streets atop his father’s hardware store van, as dolphins play in the wake of a ship.
Yarrr, a fine start that is.