Written whilst in a moment's madness, as the fever was upon me, here's a short and silly salty tale suitable for young and old alike about one of the most infamous and fearsome creatures of the briny deep, the chartreuse seahorse, Seasick Cecil! Even merchant marines and stevedores shudder at the telling of it. Ooo! It's scary! *BG* ;~)

The One What Bitsed Me Washboard's Leg Off!
(An obscure foot note in the annals of maritime jugbandalry)

Avast ye landlubbers! Ar! That's right I was once known as Master Gadget Master, ar, but that was a long time ago, ar, and me mem'ry's not what it used t' be. But near as I can ar'member, it was on a Sunday the sixth of September, of '78, that I was shanghaied by the Band Of Buzzards to serve aboard The Ship O' Fools. A surlier ensemble of unscrupulous, seafarin', scurvy scoundrels and assorted scraggly street scum I ain't seen the likes of afore or since. Ar!

Let me give ya a sense of what was transpirin' by settin' the stage and intoducin' the crew's compliment. Let's see, first, at center stage, there was the skipper, Scarecrow The Insignificant, scratchin' and sawin' on his instrument of choice as if possessed by some supernatural spirit. By his side, as always, was Cosmic Gypsy Sea Dog, a sneering, snarling, savagely astute visionary of surgically precise six strings strummin', nothing to sneeze at. Next was the Spoonman himself, boasting the singular most astounding display of utensil manipulation ever witnessed, a not to be missed, amazingly seismic percussion spectacle, to be sure. And last, but certainly not least, Space Bass, well versed in the classics, a symphonic treasure chest, studied and schooled in the production of lush tones and lustrous tunes, sure to please the most discriminatin' palates. Ar! Why, they could seduce mister Jolly Roger's skull an' crossed bones clean off it's staff, slick as you please, and set 'im to shimmyin' the skeleton shuffle right b'fore yer eyes. Ar!

Well, we set sail for the seven seas after sayin' so long, see ya later, sayonara and asta la vista to several Seattle seaport scullery wenches. There was Sally, ar, the one what sold sea shells by the seashore and then there was Sue. Ar! There's many a sleepless night I spent stuck up in the crows' nest musin' o'er, er, oh, uh, excuse me, I digress. Where was I?

Ah yes, I was sittin' neath the mizzenmast, on the poop deck, takin' a....sabbatical. Scrub 'er down and polish 'er brass straightaway. Those were me orders. Instead, I was staring at the surrealistic horizon, observin' the deceptively subtle serenity that surrounded us, and in silence reminiscin' me unserendipitous situation, whilst scrapin' the barnacles loose from me skivvies.

The sea was stifling, breezeless and sweltering. I was a sweaty, skuzzy mess and I stank with a sailor's stench the stinkiest stuff you ever smelt. Ar! Ya see, we was stuck on the outskirts of the prevailin' winds in some sort o' slack water. Our progress was at a stand still. It was just then that I happened to glance at me timepiece. It showed seven minutes past seven o'clock. When, suddenly, the skies were sullied by a stratocumulus cloud mass that positioned itself above us. Moments later we was socked in by a mist as dense as spoiled soup that obscured our sight. Soon the surf started to seethe with swells that surged and slammed our vessel broadside, tossin' us like a Caesar's salad. I scanned the scene with me one good eye seekin' some semblance of the sun to steer by, but it was scuttled by a surprise souwester' that swiftly swept a swirlin' squall across our stern. Explosions of thunder crashed and flashing shafts of lighting streaked from the heavens striking and shattering our spar to pieces in a shower of sparks. A dozen or so sea spouts spired and spun about us. Our compass was useless against the tempest.

Suspectin' the worst, I swallowed a slug o' some swill that 'ad most certainly sat stagnant for weeks. The sickly taste made me nauseous but somehow seemed to ease my distress so I swigged several more snorts. (BELCH!) It had a desensitizin' bouquet, disturbingly complex, robust yet somewhat sophisticated, reminiscent of soiled hosiery and perspiration of pedal extremities, hence the name, Chateau Le Stinky Socks. "They should've served this with last night's sushi smorgasbord," I soliloquized in a whispered voice.

A stinging soaking splash spilled over me. We started listing leeward. Awash in the waves I lashed myself to the mast. I squirmed and
shook in the shadow of that storm, seized by a spasm that that sent shivers up me timbers! I stood steadfast and stouthearted against the shock and screeching shriek of the fiercely gusting winds, secretly scrutinizing our situation and surmised, "Saints preserve us, ah shucks, we're sunk!"

In an instant the sea sagged. A second later it sank. Then it split asunder! A steady stream of sulfurous stench, scalding steam and sooty smoke rose from the chasm, as if the sharp sword of the sea devil, Lucifer himself, had sliced it. The scar separated the surface off the starboard side of the ship.

That's when I saw something that would surely strike scaredness into the soul of any swab what gazed upon it. Well sir, ya says, spit it out. What sort o' slimy sea serpent was it, famished sea lion, smelly salmon, snooty expectant sturgeon? 'T wasn't so simple. I saw the saltiest scourge to ever swim the south sound estuaries, that scrawny scaly scallywag, that skinny, scheming, scrappy scamp, that shrimp of a shark, the chartreuse seahorse, Seasick Cecil!

This wasn't just any seahorse. He was a monster, six, seven centimeters, if he was an inch. He had this single saber tooth, a razor sharp incisor that he'd slash you with. (SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!) Erstwhile he'd simultaneously spew sludge like secretions and cast scurrilous aspersions in numerous directions. Besides, he had these steely eyes. All glazed over and glossy they was, from starvation. Ar! Well he wasn't stoppin' by to pay us a social visit. As he sprang from the maelstrom I could see his icy jaws was salivatin' to be masticatin' somebody and ol' Master Gadget Master's skin 'n' bones was his selected savory suppertime snack.

I was certain a scuffle with the accursed beast would spell casualties
or at least disastrously catastrophic destruction. The fearless crew scattered, scurryin' like rats from a sinkin' scow. Whilst a stupendous struggle of fist o' cuffs ensued betwixt that nemesis and me. The scrimmage sapped me stamina and me strength was slippin' fast. All seemed lost! Exhausted, I summoned every once I could muster to search for a shillelagh or spear for defense. I spotted some ship stores strewn and sloshing about, cans of stewed and strained spinach in a sweet syrup sauce. I skipped several like stones at the cantankerous creature's cavernous esophagus. "How's that taste ya stunted stubborn stubby stump?" I stuttered. The sarcastic taunts only succeeded in increasing his ferocity. I snatched me washboard to use as a shield against his malicious assent. He smashed me cymbal in a symbolic show of force. Then he started scratchin' the washboard usin' his tiny spiny fins as brushes. The stylishly systematic synchronicity of his syncopation was hypnotizin'. Entranced, yet incensed, I screamed, "Skullduggery, that's the last straw showoff!" I extended me washboard's telescopin' support, stabbin' and thrustin' it like so, desperate to save us from a shipwreck and seein' Davy Jones' storage shed first hand. I sallied, "So ya wants t' swashbuckle eh? I shall smite thee to very shores of the river Styx if that's what it takes! Surrender or be slain!"

That's when circumstances took a swerve to worse. I slipped on some seaweed and settled on me posterior. Cecil wasted no time instantly severin' me make shift cutlass in two with a single stroke of his fearsome incisor. Helpless, I soggily sat staring face to face with destiny. When, as suddenly as it started, it was finished. Strangely satiated or perhaps just simply satisfied, I was never sure. He ceased his menacing pursuit and swam away, ne'er to be seen nor heard of again. Though it seems to me I perceived a slight swagger in the way he slowly sauntered off, as if to say, "See ya later!" Ar!

Well mates that's the whole fish story. Now some of you may assume this is simply a silly nonsense story scrawled by a psychotic schlockmeister schlump. Still others may suppose these lines to be a
sham, a ruse, insane oceanic scuttlebutt or just the scribbled inspirations of a screwy stowaway slacker. So I swears a solemn
promise, should so much as a solitary phrase of this manuscript be false, may I be struck by an extremely localized tsunami.

Seriously mates, it my sincere desire that this little illiterate alliteration has supplied some small measure of whimsy. If so, then this witticism has successfully accomplished its' mission.

Now, I don't mean to abandon ship or desert ya but I've got t' shove off, that is, skedaddle. But don't ya be forgettin' ol' Master Gadget Master and ar'member, if you're ever crusin' the salty seas, there's a shiny simulated solid silver Mardi Gras shillin' t' th' one what spies 'im, (AR!), the chartreuse seahorse, Seasick Cecil. (AR!) The one what bitsed me washboard's leg off! (AR!) Thar she blows!