Scurvy Goonda

by Chris McCoy

  “B-bacon, Mr. Goonda?” said Bugslush.

  “Holy crow,” said Scurvy as Bugslush placed a two-foot-long slab on his plate.

  The honey possum picked up a silver gravy boat.

  “Some bacon s-sauce for your b-bacon?” said Bugslush.

  “Please,” said Scurvy, and Bugslush poured a long stream of greasy sauce over Scurvy’s slab of bacon.

  “May I bring anything for y-you, President Skeleton?” said Bugslush.

  “That will be all, Bugslush,” said Persephone. “Mr. Goonda and I have much to talk about.”

  With a bow, Bugslush left the room, thrilled to be dismissed.

  As soon as the door shut behind Bugslush, Persephone picked up a large glass of scarlet wine and swirled the liquid with small rotations of her bony wrist. She looked at Scurvy, studying him. It had been so long. She took a drink, but to Scurvy it didn’t look like she was really tasting the vino—it simply went down the hatch, and a strange plunking sound came from her torso, as though the liquid was thunking into … a plastic bag?

  “Here you are,” said Persephone, coyly. “Here. You. Are. Indeed.”

  But Scurvy already knew he was definitely here, and even though there was more bacon around than he had ever seen in any one place, he didn’t like the way that this heavily accessorized skeleton was looking at him. There was something going on behind those empty eyes. He put his head down and took a huge bite of his bacon slab, hoping that when he looked up again, she would be gone.

  “You know,” said Persephone. “I forgave you for not saving me all those years ago. After all, the boat was on fire, and you probably weren’t able to come down into the galley, even to save a devoted friend.”

  “Right, the sinkin’,” said Scurvy. “I remember that night. I attempted tah get downstairs and grab yer cage, because a captain never lets any of his crew perish. But ya should have seen tha fight on deck—two of tha king’s ships and mercenaries galore.”

  “Hmm … sounds rough,” said Persephone. “Not as bad as being trapped alone in a burning cage, but still… quite bad.”

  “I tried, Persephone. I tried tah get through tha fire, but I was tossed overboard in tha fight. I was meant tah go down with that ship.”

  “Then prove that you tried, Scurvy!” said Persephone. She knew it was an unfair request, but she had been waiting to talk about this for three hundred years. The possibility that Scurvy hadn’t abandoned her was overwhelming. If she was going to completely reverse her thinking after three hundred years, she was going to need evidence.

  Scurvy rolled up the legs of his pants, exposing calf muscles covered everywhere in coarse black hair. That is, everywhere except in two odd spots—blotches of exposed scar tissue.

  “See these?” said Scurvy, pointing at the hairless patches of skin.

  “I do,” said Persephone.

  “I have them because I was attacked by an ab-com from the other boat when I was trying to run downstairs tah get ya. I couldn’t get there, Persephone. I’ve carried these scars fer three centuries.”

  Persephone considered this.

  “I see,” she said. She wasn’t sure if Scurvy was telling the truth—he could have received those scars anywhere.

  “You swear that you got attacked that very day.”

  “I swear tah ya. Tha reason I got tha scars is that I was trying so hard tah get tah ya before ya were hurt that I wasn’t payin’ as much attention tah my fightin’ as I shoulda been.”

  Persephone noticed that Scurvy had stopped eating the bacon. That was the clincher—he never stopped eating except to make an important point.

  And now she loved him more than ever.

  “Oh, my darling,” she said, and drank the rest of her glass of wine, which splashed audibly into her trash bag.

  “Scurvy,” she continued. “The reason I invited you here tonight is… it’s because I want to be with you.”

  As soon as those words came out of Persephone’s beak, Scurvy realized he had made a mistake. In lying about how he had tried to rescue Persephone—when in reality he had been far too busy fighting to worry about some creepy skeleton bird—he had inadvertently given her the impression that he was valiantly looking out for her. The truth was, he’d gotten the burns on his legs when he’d been cooking bacon naked and dropped the pan.

  “Er,” said Scurvy. “What does that mean, exactly? That ya want to be with me.”

  “It means that I want you in my life,” said Persephone.

  “Well, that’s great! I mean, we’re doing that right now, aren’t we? Technically, I’m in yer life—if I’m sitting across tha table from ya, I’m occupying space in yer life, ya might say, so we’re right where we need tah be.”

  “That’s not exactly what I mean, Scurvy,” said Persephone. “I want you. Always. Here and everywhere else we might go.”

  “But, Persephone, you were my bird!”

  “I used to be your bird, but now I want to be your wife,” said Persephone, twirling a wing bone in the curls of her blond wig. “Say yes, my darling. Or else, my darling.”

  V

  Swamster was not built for the outdoors. All around him, filling up the transport trucks, were members of President Skeleton’s elite guard: a Bazlook that looked like a sloth with a tiny head on an enormous body, a Bradook that had the appearance of a blond furball with tiny eyes poking out, a snaggletoothed Krumsplat that had the appearance of a rabid porcupine and moved along by hurling itself high into the air, splatting to the ground, and then repeating the process.

  “Ye look uncomfortable with that crossbow,” the Bazlook told Swamster.

  “I’m more accustomed to finger-sandwich platters,” Swamster explained.

  “Well,” said the Bradook, “you better get used to it, because it’s going to be a busy hunting day.”

  Swamster had never hunted for anything in his life, aside from just the right swimsuit to disguise the bit of extra around his waist.

  The caravan approached a road that cut through a field of spotlights pointed at the sky, and the Krumsplat handed around sunglasses—looking at the beams could damage the eyes. The spotlights had been designed by the first inhabitants of Middlemost, who figured if they could make their world look like a star, all potential invaders would leave them alone for fear of being burned up. The spotlights had worked wonders ever since.

  “How much longer until we reach the place where the boy was seen?” said Swamster.

  “Soon,” said the Krumsplat.

  “Let’s say that we do find the boy,” said Swamster. “We kill him, let him know who’s boss, kill him, that kind of thing. Are we supposed to just leave his body lying out, or can we at least send it back to Earth so that his family can bury him properly?”

  “President Skeleton said I should eat it,” said the Bazlook. “And she told me to make sure you have a bite, to toughen you up.”

  “Eat the boy. Excellent. Can’t wait.”

  VI

  Scurvy scowled.

  The truth was, he was simply not a one-woman kind of pirate—something that wasn’t all that unusual among men of his seafaring occupation. And he truly wasn’t a one-woman pirate if the woman in question happened to be a skeleton cockatoo. His world travels had revealed to him that there were many, many ab-com women. Before he had even met Persephone, he had been married three times.

  Scurvy had taken his first wife, Sofia, while he was haunting the islands of the Mediterranean, bouncing from the Islas Baleares to Corsica to Crete, and living a sailor’s life. Sofia stayed with him for as long as she could stand the claustro-phobic ship holds and the savage confrontations that were a part of Scurvy’s everyday pirate existence, until the day finally came when she left him for a watchmaker from Constantinople, whom she had married secretly, claiming that her marriage to Scurvy had never been legal, due to the fact that a barnacle and not a priest had performed the ceremony.

  For his second marriage, he had picked a tall, mysterious woman from Casabla
nca named Amal—a woman so mysterious that she never removed the veil that covered most of her face. But he was mesmerized by her striking eyes—she had to be an unimaginable beauty under those alluring veils, he was sure of it.Amal was more patient with Scurvy’s lifestyle than Sofia had been, and she would wait for him in Morocco while he was away at sea for months and years. Whenever he made his way back to northern Africa, she was always standing at the end of the dock, veils blowing in the Atlantic winds, meeting his ship as it pulled into port.

  Eventually, Scurvy discovered that Amal wore a veil because she was a bearded woman in the circus, but he got over this minor detail quickly—he wasn’t a picky man. He and Amal spent their nights talking about beard maintenance, and because of her tips Scurvy’s mane had been silky smooth for three centuries.

  His third wife had been Cindy, whom he had left on Antarctica because she so thoroughly aggravated him. She was probably annoying the penguins there today. He didn’t like thinking about Cindy, because it wasn’t usually his style to leave women at the bottom of the world, and he still felt guilty about the whole situation.

  Between wives, there had been girlfriends—more than Scurvy could count—at ports across all seven continents. But as Persephone sat across the table from him, he knew that she was thinking that he was a soul mate or some such thing … which was simply not the case. She was a cockatoo who had creeped him out three hundred years ago, someone he hadn’t really thought about until he got the recall notice, and there was no good way to tell her as much. She didn’t seem like the understanding, oh-well-we-can-still-be-friends type.

  “Look, Persephone,” he said. “There are some things that ya should know.”

  Abruptly, Persephone picked up a silver bell near her plate and rang it several times.

  “What’s that for?” said Scurvy.

  “It’s for something I think we both want,” said Persephone.

  “I haven’t seen ya since the late sixteen hundreds,” said Scurvy. “Why do ya think ya know what I want?”

  “Because I know you.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true, me birdie.”

  “Well, if I’m wrong, I have ways of making you change,” said Persephone. “Change is good, Scurvy.”

  A few seconds later, Bugslush entered the room carrying a velvet pillow. On top of the pillow was a gold ring. He brought it over to Scurvy and got down on one knee. Scurvy’s blood ran cold.

  “Bugslush,” said Persephone. “I think you have something to ask Mr. Goonda.”

  Bugslush cleared his throat.

  “President Skeleton,” said Bugslush, “wishes to ask for your hand in m-m-marriage.”

  “Refuse me,” said Persephone, “and it’s the gallows, my Scurvy-Durvy Bo-Burvy. I will hang you very, very high.”

  VII

  Ted crouched behind a rock next to Dwack, near a road that dead-ended at a factory far in the distance. Dwack had explained that because of its remote location, the road was used frequently by individuals who wanted to get around on their own terms, far away from the eye of the government, which was why ACORN knew about it. They had provided Ted with an excellent map of where he, Dwack, Vango, and Dr. Narwhal should set up their ambush.

  Though whom exactly they would be ambushing, Joelle-Michelle wouldn’t say.

  Erka erka erka! came a strange sound from down the road. Joelle-Michelle had made Vango the lookout, which required him to alert the others of oncoming transports with a birdcall. Joelle-Michelle had allowed Vango to choose the alarm himself, and he eventually picked erka erka erka after being discouraged from going with his first choice of gobble gobble.

  Erka erka erka!

  The bird call was the signal for Dr. Narwhal to station himself by the side of the road. He had been provided with a broken bicycle to make it seem as though he had simply been cycling along the abandoned road when all of a sudden his tire malfunctioned. Ted thought it more than dubious that Dr. Narwhal would have the proper center of gravity to permit bicycle riding.

  The idea was that an approaching truck would slow down at the sight of a stranded arctic moon whale standing on the side of a dusty highway, and it was Dr. Narwhal’s job to wander directly into the middle of the road and make sure that the truck stopped. As soon as that happened, Ted and Dwack would storm the truck.

  ERKA ERKA ERKA! came a louder Vango call. Ted felt nervous sweat starting to drip down his face.

  ACORN had been watching a certain truck for the past week as it shuttled back and forth from the factory to Ab-Com City. But though its spies had not yet risked getting close enough to the truck to actually determine who was piloting the vehicle, they had learned what the truck contained.

  Thousands upon thousands of doses of Greenies antidote!

  ACORN would continue to monitor the foursome’s activities with powerful binoculars from a safe position more than a mile away. After Dr. Narwhal stopped the truck, Ted and Dwack would launch a mini-attack that would flush the guards out of the truck.

  This would most likely result in them being killed, therein proving their loyalty to ACORN’s noble mission.

  Hopefully, in the process of being ripped apart or blown into bits or eaten alive, Ted and Dwack would be able to draw all of the truck’s guards out into the open. Thus, ACORN would know exactly how many soldiers to send to attack the truck again further down the road.

  “Wait,” Ted had said when Joelle-Michelle had first explained the plan to him. “You’re saying that, almost certainly, we’re going to be killed.”

  “Absolument,” Joelle-Michelle confirmed.

  “But I don’t want to be killed,” Ted had replied.

  “Quite understandable,” said Joelle-Michelle. “But all of us who have joined ACORN must do many unpleasant things, unfortunately.”

  “Joelle-Michelle, I am up for awful tasks. Just assign me any one that doesn’t involve me being ripped to shreds.”

  Joelle-Michelle considered this request.

  “Non. I think we’ll just stick with having you flush the guards out of the truck. It would mean so much to me.”

  And with that, Ted Merritt began to understand why guys do stupid things for pretty girls.

  ERKA! ERKA! ERKA!

  The huge truck bearing the presidential seal was now close enough that Ted could see it from his hiding spot as it kicked up clouds of dust and barreled over potholes. He looked down at the VIDGA-dipped badminton racket Joelle-Michelle had given him to use as a weapon. If dying was what it took to impress her, then he would go down fighting.

  Ted watched Dr. Narwhal bravely take a few steps toward the center of the road, waving his flipper to get the driver’s attention.

  “Hellooooo,” said Dr. Narwhal.

  An otter head with a rooster crest poked out of the stopped truck.

  “What are you doing here?” said the rooster-otter.

  “Out for an innocent bike ride, and I’m afraid I’ve got a flat tire,” said Dr. Narwhal.

  “You’re not supposed to be out here. This is a restricted road.”

  “It is? Oh, darn. I never noticed. I’m positively addicted to my exercissse,” said Dr. Narwhal. “I’m Dr. Narwhal, by the way.”

  “They call me Scozzbottle.”

  “Well then, Scozzbottle,” said Dr. Narwhal. “Mind giving me a lift?”

  Scozzbottle eyed Dr. Narwhal curiously. Behind his rock, Ted’s hand was shaking as he gripped his badminton racket.

  “You’re not allowed to go in our direction,” said Scozzbottle.

  “YOU KNOW,” said a deep voice from inside the truck. “WE HAVE A BIKE PUMP IN DA BACK. I BROUGHT IT IN CASE WE WANTED TO PLAY BASKETBALL.”

  “There should be some duct tape in the tool kit,” said another gruff, rumbling voice. “Might work as a patch.”

  Scozzbottle stared at Dr. Narwhal.

  “I’d be ever ssso grateful for your help,” Dr. Narwhal said politely.

  “All right,” said Scozzbottle.

  With t
hat, the three largest ab-coms Ted had ever seen emerged from the truck. Scozzbottle lumbered toward Dr. Narwhal’s bicycle, followed by a goat made of stone and sod, and a hyena with spots made of orange and yellow flames leaping from his pelt.

  “That’s Fyrena, and that’s Wockgrass,” said Scozzbottle, introducing his coworkers.

  “HELLO,” said Fyrena.

  “Howdy,” said Wockgrass.

  Fyrena walked over to Dr. Narwhal’s bike, holding the roll of duct tape.

  “BIG HOLE IN DA TIRE,” Fyrena snarled.

  “I know,” said Dr. Narwhal. “I mussst have run over something sharp.”

  “You should get a bigger bike,” grunted Wockgrass. “This one’s frame ain’t meant to hold somebody your size.”

  “Too true,” said Dr. Narwhal. “I keep hoping that if I use the bike enough, I’ll lossse weight, and then I won’t have to get a new one.”

  “That’s called a circle of denial,” said Scozzbottle, astutely.

  Dr. Narwhal flicked his eyes toward the rocks where Ted and Dwack were hiding, silently telling them, NOW!

  Dwack looked at Ted and nodded: It’s time.

  Ted shook his head at Dwack in response: I’m not sure it’s time. His hands were shaking on his badminton racket. The three Presidential Guards surrounding Dr. Narwhal’s bicycle were so huge.

  Then Dwack took a terrific leap and soared right at them.

  “Hey there!” yelled Dwack, and the moment Fyrena looked up, Dwack was on him, slashing with the VIDGA solution–covered cane that Joelle-Michelle had given him—and missing completely.

  When he saw Dwack plummeting toward him, Fyrena rolled out of the way, Dwack tumbled to the ground, and the chaos began. Fyrena propelled himself at Dwack, whacking the vampire’s cane aside with an enormous paw and sending it banging to the ground, and then Dwack and Fyrena were rolling around on top of each other, punching and spitting and hacking and gouging.