It was dark, it was dank, and the captain had a killer hangover.

Wait. He didn’t taste gin, or vomit, or even more tellingly: both. No. This wasn’t a hangover.

Boots clomped down with more noise than he’d previously imagined possible. Maybe it was a hangover. Or worse – Oh God.

It was one of the ragamuffins.

Maybe if he kept his eyes closed the bastard would amble uselessly off the side of the deck without him having to lift a finger.