“By the blessed, blazing, smoking and stinking cannons of this shit! I’ll—
“I’ll be damned!”
“Fucked, for short” Labaguette mutters.”
“We’re afloat,” the Captain confirms, “what the bee-Jesus is all this?”
“We must close the gates, stop the water pouring in,” the King suggests.
“Some glass ceiling,” Labaguette answers, “we’re in a lost-at-sea-bottle game.”
“KING KRACKSKULL! LABAGUETTE!” the Captain yells, “RUN INSIDE, FAST!”
“But, but, zat iz impoz—“.
The Captain snatches the parrot and pushes him in his jacket as he and the King run for cover.
As soon as the Captain closes the latch and securely bolts it above them, a few drops of salty water seep through from atop, squeezing from between the wooden floor boards, smudging their garments with a mauve tinge. The Captain tastes it.
“Definitely sea water,” he remarks.
“It’s mauve,” Labaguette whispers from his pocket, “it could be anything: sewage, tears, industrial waste, painted petrol, molten lava—“
The Captain squeezes Labaguette’s beak shut so tight that the bird desperately gestures with his wings, crossing them for a truce. Once released, he leans half-way out and stares into the Captain’s eyes, promising with just one look that he will not utter another word for quite some time, if not less.
But, by now, the entire ship is violently jolting, rocking forward and backward at the same time, being hopelessly tossed like a dry leaf on a wild river. The sounds of rough water rushing and splashing are all around them.
“They will build a submarine someday,” the Captain remarks.
“They?” Labaguette asks.
“We’re flying,” the old woman says.
“We’re floating,” the King insists.
“They?” Labaguette reiterates.
“We’re sinking,” the Captain adds.
To be continued…