Enticed by the strange shapes Bromsky is creating with his cigarette’s smoke, and which comes out of a selection of his foam’s pores, King Krackskull accepts the offer and is immediately overwhelmed by a fit of cough.
“You’re sure gonna die,” Labaguette remarks.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Bromsky and Shotsky exclaim in unison, “a good cough, the first cough, it always helps clear the lungs of your types.”
“It’s no laughing matter!” Captain Traumatic insists as the King’s crimson head enlarges, ready to explode.
“No longer a King,” Labaguette remarks, “a fool and one about to conk out too.”
Then the King, in a last prominent fit of cough, falls to the ground and the stitches that held his crown tightly secured to his head give way, before it becomes separated from the King’s skull, leaving bloody marks on the torn flesh.
“YOU DID IT YOU LOT!” he exclaims, half grimacing with pain, half smiling.
“We did what?” Bromsky asks.
“You removed the crown that was stuck to my skull!” the King yelps.”
“We helped!” Shotsky repeats, as if he’d won the battle of Waterloo.
“You’re gonna die!” Labaguette repeats, “la petite mort, that’s how.”
“No voodoo on my ship!” the Captain orders Labaguette, shoving the bird, as is customary, into his jacket’s pocket and sealing it.
Meanwhile, Birdseye lifts the crown into the air, removes the particles of flesh, blood and stitches still attached to it and attempts to make it shine for all to see but, finding no light, he turns on his own goggles.
“It sparkles,” Brombsky says, admiring.
“We don’t need no gold,” Shotsky remarks.
To be continued…