"Prepare to fire... the ink!" Mark yelled like a maniac as he watched the Canadian paddling her raft closer to the British frigate. "God I sound like Davy Jones. Maybe that's why I'm growing such a ridiculous moustache these days," he reflected.
"Sorry sir, quills went out of fashion four centuries ago. Shall I fetch the printer ink?" grunted a voice outside the door.
"You mean you haven't loaded the blasted cannons? Go load them, and then fire them all!" Mark yelled back. "So #3, any last words?"
Carina tossed a ginger lock from her eyes and stared into the eyes of her former boss. Hers narrowed in hatred, before she stared at the item around Mark's neck. Taking a deep breath, she tipped her chair back ever so slightly and spoke just as gallons of printer ink hurtled towards Charpa's raft.
"If only someone could help me take off Jessica Alba's underwear,"
On board the British frigate, Captain Pinxit and his merry men were preparing a feast. Each member sat on the deck of his ship happily awaiting the arrival of the raspberry ice cream.
As first mate Ellis Fields went to eat from his bowl, a fish net stocking-ed boot smashed the ice cream into smithereens.
"So gentlemen, anybody believe in ghost stories?" Charpa whispered.
Ellis looked up from his ice cream, noting how time seemed to slow down as Captain Pinxit fumbled for his pistol.
"Are you a ghost?"
"Much worse my friend. I'm Canadian."
Ellis took a quick glance up and noticed about twenty satirical writers hanging from the netting. God knows how they got up there. He watched helplessly as the woman reached for a thin machete she'd concealed in her jacket.
And then one on the netting suddenly fell in and disappeared into the waters.
"Skoob!" she spat. "You have two seconds to tell me what the fuck you did to him!"
"Desole madamoiselle, mais je suis francais! Je ne te comprends pas!"
"Shit he's speaking Welsh. Someone get Masterchev down here!"
"Actually Charpa, he's French," replied another man who looked very much like Dean Martin, except now he was wearing an antelope's antlers for no reason. "He doesn't understand what's going on."
"What could possibly be happening?" Charpa muttered, until the entire British frigate lurched forward.
A column of black liquid was hurtling towards the ship.
"Brace yourselves!" yelled Jaggedone. "It seems I can't blow us all up after all!"
Like a hurricane, the wall of ink crashed into the deck and knocked the Canadian off her feet. Inky blackness flew into Jean Le Fete's eyes, and for a second he had two epiphanies.
The Oracle of Spoofs. He knew where it was. But they had to escape Mark first.
He'd left the light on in his bedroom.
As the wall of inpenetrable ink subsided, a firey wrath erupted from under the water. Sodden in black liquid and weakened, Charpa and Jean stumbled towards the edge of the ship whilst Morse and Birbee approached Captain Pinxit.
"Look mate, is there any chance we could use your ship. We're after the Oracle of Spoofs. We'll give it back honestly," Birbee whispered to Captain Pinxit, who nodded twice.
Charpa stared at Jean, who stared at Charpa, who stared as Colonel Juan, Masterchev and Jaggedone slipped on the inky deck.
And then she remembered.
"Shit Jean. Skoob fell!"
As she dived into the water, a figure climbed up the netting of the ship and pointed a harpoon filled with ink at Jean's head.
"Another bloody gun? Can't you just give me Italian food? I hear that gives you the shits even worse," Jean moaned.
It was a sodden and slightly singed EQ.
"You have three seconds to surrender or we'll fire the colour ink. What's it going to be?"