Firstamongstdaves
The following is the text of a letter recovered from the Royal Historical Society of London's archives, dated 27 February 1807.
My dear sister Lucinda
This letter hopefully finds you well in Merrie Olde England, and not off fornicating with some halfwit in-bred aristocrat from the Lakes District like last time I unexpectedly returned home only to find you with ankles skywards and squealing like a piglet, being penetrated by a man with a rural estate, 13 toes, and the dress sense of an absinthe-addicted French milliner. If you're going to gold-dig, try not to have the diggee mine your shaft in front of your brother.
I have arrived in the Carribean on an island called Shartak. I have formed a clear view of my environs: in a nutshell, lots of rum, no brothel. I have recently been promoted from Colonel of the 1st Imperial Privateers Regiment to Major-General, which means more drinking money for me, not more borrowed money for shoes and handbags for you, I'm afraid. Clearly wearing no pants into combat as a sign of bravery impressed the Queen of Holland sufficiently to lay more gold braid on my shoulders. The natives girls like it - the lack of pants, I mean, not the gold braid. Or possibly both. Never mind. In and around the women folk of Raktam, a charming village in the centre of the island, I'm known as "General Coconuts" which I understand is a reference to my relatively large testicles, not my mental health. The poor native men seem to be somewhat shrivelled. Inbreeding, probably, a state of affairs you are intimately aware of, although I fear cross-generational intimacy with wild boars might also be responsible.
I wish I could say the Regiment was...no, damn it , I'll just lie. The Regiment is full of decent honourable chaps who'd never kill an unarmed wounded man, and never feel up the luscious buttocks of a cabin girl. Or boy, in some instances. They have conducted themselves with dignity, respect for their adversaries, and discipline. Sam Bellamy, the unkempt lout who brought us here in the first place with the false promises of honey-scented triple-jointed indigeneous groins and established sanitation, has still yet to let me know where he anchored the ship, preventing us from leaving for Jamestown. Instead, the only vessel in sight is a shipwreck full of pirates. One of these, a perfumed bottom-dweller from a whale station called Vancouver named Timothy Trust, founded a Gentleman Pirates Society. It looks suspiciously to me like some sort of naked group massage association. Naturally, Trust was invited to and has joined our ranks.
I wish I could say he is the worst of them. Ella Chen is from a small Spanish archipelego south of Japon, and we're not sure if he's a man or a woman save that he has his way with small deer approaching from the rear. Rotten Balls, a Londoner, never stops spawning himself. Captain Sammitch cheats at cricket, which is unforgiveable, and Prometheus cheats at cards, which is only permissible if you don't get caught. And Master Lucky, a northern Dutchman, has found uses for mangoes which frankly frighten me.
We have been involved in many missions. These include:
1. covering the roads of a town called York with our excrement. This was a poorly considered effort to turn the place into a rhubarb planatation, but the locals, some rabble called the Colonial Police, curiously objected to it. Rhubarb and excrement soup seems to be a hit in York, so we now wonder about the bona fides of their objections. I met a man there called Justice Hart of York, whose obsession with tiger penises went beyond mere herbal curiosity.
2. building a new ship out on Rodriguez Island in the west. Lots of wood, but no nails. Not our finest moment.
3. creating a bank, on the command of the Dutch queen to stimulate commerce in the area. As corsairs, we figured robbing the locals by subtlefuge would be an easy way to make some cash. Regrettably, the bank proved so profitable the bankers - principally two of them called Ibn al Xuffasch and Hideo Inakajimita -became legitimate businessmen. I hate turncoat scoundrels like that.
4. attacking a town called Dalpok near the shipwreck. This was a great moment, since we captured it and renamed it New Amsterdam, and sold it to a third party. While there I had a spectacular menage with two delectible native girls, whose names translate to Blue Hummingbird and Dappled Shadow. While much better, from my last observation of you with the inbred milliner, than you in bed, they had unfortunately planned to eat me for dessert. I consider it a matter of unrivalled skill that I was able to satisfy them both and yet scamper away before they literally bit off more than they could chew.
Please pass along my regards to my wife. I trust she has recovered from the surgery and had that unfortunate vegetable removed.
The balance of the text has been rendered illegible by spore fungus.
A second letter was discovered in recent times, dated 8 June 1810:
Dear Major-General Trust
I'm guessing you have cowardly absconded from the island, and did not take me. Bastard.
Much time has passed. Three stinking years. The Regiment retired its colours (I used the flags as toilet paper). I have no idea who the Queen of Holland is anymore. Or where Holland is, precisely. Its sounds like a land full of holes. The jungle fever has affected my brain, but fortunately, more important equipment is still fully functional.
The Pirate High Command is now entirely in charge of the island, I don't care what anyone else says. I have now killed 111 Yorkers. The Colonial Police is decimated and gone, so I don't even know why I'm killing them anymore, except to pass the time.
Get me a ship and off this poxy hellhole. I'm starting to easily go to sleep in deep water. What does this mean I've done to my brain?
I have the pleasure, etc blah blah
Major General Fortescue First-Amongst-Daves Coalition Beach, York, Shartak, Carribean Sea.
