Scarface Rufus, ye foul, gibbering, scullion urchin! Ye're a fine talker, matey, but ye'll sing a different tune with 17 inches o' cold steel in yer gullet is what I'm thinkin'! I've a mind tae flay ye alive and then hang ye dangling from the nearest yardarm so the seagulls can peck out yer eyeballs, ye scurrillous swab! Damn ye fer a whoreson and a heathen dunghill rat! If yer brains were made o' black powder there'd nowt be enough in there tae knock a flea off yer festering eyebrow! Yer a walkin' disgrace to the pirate trade! I've seen yer kind before, matey, all puffed up with pride like a spiny blowfish and blowin' off steam like Vesuvius on a rainy day, but when it comes down tae brass tacks ye've not got a single loaded long iron on yer gundeck! Ye're the kind that sleeps in the gutter with pigs, cos no one else'll have ye! Aye, and I've a mind tae strip ye bare and tie ye down in the sun where the fire ants can slowly drive ye mad! There are so many ways I've got planned tae end yer sorry life that even me parrot can't count 'em all...and that bird can count tae seven hundred and seven! Say yer prayers ye blasted guttersnipe, and prepare tae meet Old Nick and all his demons in the fiery place that's been prepared fer you and your ilk!!!

Iron Roger Bonney