September 19, sometime in the Baroque Era, with a touch of present day.

Written with penmanship of Rococo, the witty navigator of the Phantom Acoustique.

Yaarrrr! Me hearties. This one’s fer you. Me name be Rococo. I stand fer pride o’burly, though it be tough to say why me Cap’n gave me th’girly name. ARG! Cheeky dresses ‘n happiness portraits ain’t me! I be once a pyrate always a pyrate ’til Cap’n gave’ee second chances (3,4,5,6, 99 bottles o’ rum chances!). Asa now, I lost as’t who I actually am…???


No! Scully. I be livin’ under a new code. Me’s oath be, “I swear to honor goodness and promote chaste living for all the days of my service aboard the Phantom Acoustique.” That’s me promise to Cap’n Gavotte. Lyin, cheatin, robbin, and killin be dead ta me. No more piracy! Ye don’t own me, Scully! I own ye, fer Pete’s sake, yer a HUNK O’ GOLD!!


Arg!! This skull of me has a voice. Him calls me by m’pyrate name, Dillon. But it’s o’waste listen to ’em. He’s the very voice o’greed. But what I be sayin’ before he ruined me flow… Lemme ponder fer justa…

Aye! I be shown’ ye me true colours ‘fore he blabbered on, freakin’ bonehead.

It don’t matter who I be. What most matters  be that we fight ‘er best all the days we live. Dead man’s bones carry deaf tales (maybe thar smoothtalkin’ landlubber psychics can tell ya o’thing er two about what thee gotta say) s’ya gotta get’er while yer young. Get ta sailin’ in life, don’t haveta be on the ocean. Though that’s me place in life, hearties. Yarr, sea salt mistin th’air, sprays o’whale o’blowin, it’s be the life fer me. But yer life, howz’bout we talk o’er drink or two? (Vinegar n’ water be t’yer tastin, or else bottle o’ rum and a seabiscuit, arg!!) Tell me in yer words what ye be doin’ in all of a liveliness.


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