Jack was still feeling unsettled from his conversation with whashisface. Just a might unsettled, the feeling was. Hardly noticeable. Could barely pick out the wild-eyed, desperate look of panic in him with a two-foot long scope.
That was, of course, if you were like that strange scragly looking pirate with the fake eye.
The whole trouble started when he accepted that key, he was sure of it. He still didn't know where he was, but any place that came with the provision of never leaving did not appeal to him. Not at all. Not when there was a whole wide world out there left waiting for him to explore, instead of standing here in this strange hotel, meeting and seeing all sorts of oddly dressed blokes.
God, he hoped there was rum. And wenches. And... more rum. With that craving being craved, Jack had it in his mind to set off to find some liquid reprieve when he heard the ding, ding, ding of a call bell sounding off from behind him. A man was there -- again, oddly dressed; did these people never hear about fine fashion? -- and seemed to be requesting service. Maybe even a room. Maybe even a key.
Well, Jack couldn't have that. He'd much rather trade his key to the new arrival and undo this not-agreed-to accord he seemed stuck in. Moseying as calmly as possible up to the man, Jack leaned an elbox against the desk, sliding into the man's personal space.
"You really don't need to be doing that," he said as disinterestedly as possible.
Bertie jumped a mile, eyes going salmon-wide, walking stick nearly flying from his grasp. When his brain finally came out from under the bed and decided to process the newcomer, he smiled delightedly.
"I say! What an absolutely smashing getup! I've seen some fancy-dress togs in my day, but this is the tops! Who's your tailor, then? Got time for any late arrivals? I didn't bring a costume, but give me a spare set of bedsheets, a tuft of fern and a stiffish martini, and I can Cicero with the best of them!"
What luck! Bertie must have stumbled across a costume party, and there were few things he enjoyed more than an open bar, a few creative outfits and a turn 'round the dance floor with an obliging bird. And really, a costume party could be the only explanation as to why a pirate was standing in the lobby of a fine hotel.
Oh, and the man could talk! Jack reeled away a few inches, trying to distance himself from the onslaught of questions. And avoid that walking stick he seemed to have a hard time holding onto.
The man had to be one of the gentry, some high class Bob if he was carrying such a thing. Jack had only seen govenors and their ilk carry walking sticks. But he never heard a member of reputed polite society babble at him quite like that.
Grabbing on to one word out of the melee, Jack repeated intelligently, "Costume?"
"Costume, certainly!" Bertie wondered if the fellow was hard of hearing, or drunk. If it was the latter, then that boded quite well for the remainder of his evening. "You've done a marvelous job, especially with the plaits in the old soup-strainer." He mimed stroking an invisible goatee and beamed a smile at the man. "I must say, you almost look like a real pirate!"
Soup-strainer? Jack had never heard his goatee referred to in such a way, and he mimicked the gestured by twining his fingers between the braids subconsciously.
The claim that he wasn't a real pirate, however, caused a pout. He tugged at one of the beads at the end of the braid. "Look like a real pirate? Son, I am a real pirate," he proclaimed as if to a particularly slow child. Or another William Turner Jr.
Bertie laughed merrily at the claim. He was a credulous fellow at the best of times, but there were limits to even his gullibility. "Now, steady on! There haven't been real pirates since Victoria took the throne, and that was bally ages ago! Though that Errol Flynn fellow does an awfully good job swashing buckles in Hollywood..."
Shaking his head, he seemed to finally remember the purpose of his unscheduled stop, which unfortunately meant not staying for the party. "In any case, old thing, I'm afraid that I'm facing a bit of a conundrum, and I was hoping that you could help. Is there a telephone in the general vicins?"
That he didn't believe Jack about being a pirate bothered him. It bothered him more than he ever thought it would. It bothered him more than a man speaking words that Jack had never heard of or about things that he was sure didn't exist, like telephones and the like.
Everyone knew Jack was a pirate. Because he was Jack. And... a pirate. Looked like a pirate, talked like a pirate, pillage and plundered and raided like a pirate. He'd never come across anyone who had scoffed at his occupational career indentity, except in the expectation category when it came to his cognizant abilities in the undertaking of such duties. But those people were easier to swindle when the time came.
Oh. Oh right. Good then!
Straightening himself up into his best persuading stance, Jack smiled. "Telephone isn't what you'd be needing, mate," he advised. "What I think you'd really be needing, seeing as this is a fine establishment of an established hotel, is... a key." Jack produced his key from the finger-less glove he wore on one hand like a bit of magic.
Bertie was nonplussed, and understandably so. He had no intention of checking in to this establishment, as undeniably spiffy as it was, when he had the fond insults of his Aunt Dahlia and one of Anatole's dinners to look forward to. With that thought in mind, he respectfully doffed his hat; just because a fellow was in his cups and talking nonsense didn't mean he didn't deserve a dash of civility.
"Ah, terribly sorry about that, old bean, but I'm afraid I can't stay. I've a lovely supper that's probably congealing even as we speak, and I'm afraid that in order to reach said supper, I have to find a telephone or get some directions to Brinkley Court. Maybe the manager has one. May I speak with the proprietor, please?"
"Lovely supper, eh?" Jack pondered aloud, narrowing his eyes conspiratorily in the man's direction. "That's a fine thing, too, good food. But tell me, mate, are you really to be wanting to show up, late as it is, asking for the table scraps for the banquet what has been served? By the time you're directed to your proprietor and get your directions and mosey on over there, supper will already have come and gone."
Jack paused, and leaned in close again. He was doing what he did best, twisting around the facts to suit himself. He offered a sympathetic smile. "Wouldn't it be better, then, to stay a night here, get all rested up, have some of the lovely food what they must serve in such a fancy place as this, and then be going to your Brinkley Court in the morning?"
A fine thing? The poor fellow had obviously never had one of Anatole's five-course forays into the garden of delight. But Bertie was rather peckish, and sleepy to boot, and the prospect of driving who-knows-how-long in pitch blackness over treacherous terrain was a bit unpalatable for the young socialite. "Well, I suppose that one night couldn't hurt. Aunt Dahlia will understand, she always does. Eventually." He reached out a hand for the key...
"That won't be necessary, sir." Jerking with surprise, again, Bertie spun back to the desk to see a bellboy suddenly standing there, key in hand, smiling oddly. "We've got plenty of space for everyone. If you'll just sign the guestbook, sir, we'll get you settled in and have your car taken to the back."
"Oh, right ho!" Feeling much more centered now that he was being told what to do, Bertie picked up the fountain pen and signed his name with a flourish. "I'm a bit pressed for ready cash right now, just send the bill along to Brinkley Court, there's a good chap."
"Certainly, sir," the Bellboy smiled, handing over Bertie's key. "Welcome to the Hotel California. You can check out anytime you like."
Pocketing the key, Bertie turned back to the piratey chap. "Rather glad that's settled, then. All is now well in the Wooster bosom. Oh, that's right, Wooster's the name, Bertie Wooster, absolutely chuffed to meet you! And you are?" He held out a friendly hand.
Jack was sure freedom was in his reach once more. Just a little bit closer, little closer and he'd take the key and Jack could be rid of this whole muddled accord he'd accidentally stepped into, and then --
Bugger. Buggerbuggerbugger. He shot the Bellboy a sulky glare over the newcomer's shoulder. The Bellboy just returned it with one of those enigmatic smiles, the kind that both intrigued Jack for the secrets it promised and disturbed him for, again, those same-said secrets. At the word's "Welcome to the Hotel California" Jack turned partially away. That course was lost now. This stranger was doomed to exactly the same fate as Jack. He could be no way out any longer.
Jack eyed the hand suspiciously when it was offered to him. He'd had bad luck with hand shakes in the past, but this man, this Bertie Wooster, didn't seem like any kind of threat. What really more could he do to Jack, trapped here like they both were? Hesitantly Jack clasped his hand, murmuring, "Captain Jack Sparrow."
"Captain Sparrow?" Bertie echoed, shaking the man's hand. "Navy man, then? Maritime maneuvers, cannons blazing, King, country and the colonies? Sounds like an absolutely thrilling life! Never known a military man myself, unless one counts a colonel that tried to foist his daughter off on me." He shuddered at the memory, shaking it off and looking more closely at his surroundings.
"Amazing how fortuitous one's fortunes can be, isn't it?" he chimed. "I get horridly lost on the way to my aunt's, and I happen to find this excellent hotel! Uncanny, isn't it? What brings you to Worcestershire, Captain?"
Jack laughed at the assumption he was Navy. If only old Norrington were to here to hear such a thing, and think on it: ol' Jack being Captain of the Fleet, chasing down scruvy pirate dogs like himself all throughout the Caribbean. What a thought to be having. He tried to picture himself wearing one of those ridiculous wigs and couldn't hold back another chuckle at the image. "Navy would be the exact opposite of what I am, if I were to be being anything what's not impossible and still in existence as is. Navy isn't neither of those two things. Savvy?"
He began to pry his way out of the handshake as soon as it started, still not very comfortable with the idea of having his hand compromised. Though the pirate brand might just go a longer way than telling this bloke that he could never be Navy. They'd never have him.
"This would not be the fortunes I'd be hoping to have cast down upon my head if I could be helping it." He fought back a grimace that stood at ill ease after laughing. "Not in Worcestershire, as far as I reckon, either. I were just past Trinidad when I wrecked. Fancy we're still in the Caribbean then, or at least the colonies."
"...in the Caribbean?" Bertie raised a skeptical brow. "Now see here, old thing, I enjoy a good jape as much as the next fellow, but that's spreading it on a bit thick! I mean, look!" He strode over to the large Hotel doors and flung them open, peering into the blackness. Surprisingly, it was easier to see now. "There's no mistaking Worcestershire. Country roads lined with trees and hedgeways and... sand?"
There was lots of the stuff about. Miles and miles of reddish-yellowish sand, extending out to the dark horizon. There was not a single tree, hedge, road or motorcar to be seen.
"...what the devil is going on? What happened to Worcestershire??"
Jack really wants to say, Told you so, trailing a zig-zag trail behind Bertie as he heads for the door. So he does. "Not a lot of sand in Worcestershire, I take it. There is, however," he says, creeping around to Bertie's side, with a finger in the air, "lots of sand in the Caribbean. Loads of it. On every beach you can name." There's just lots and lots... of sand.
Jack really hates sand. Or maybe "hate" is too strong a word. Passionately dislikes and actively tries to avoid if all chance lets him. Staring at it face to face, as it were, isn't doing much in the way of avoiding. He spins around, facing Bertie, refusing to look at it.
"Don't know what happened to your place, mate, but I figure it's nothing what a long drink can't help."
And that's exactly what Jack wants right now. Rum. And lots of it.
Bertie wanted a lot of things. He wanted the outside to be Worcestershire again. He wanted to be tucked safely into his own bed at Berkeley Mansions. He wanted this to just be a funny story that he told to the Drones at one of the Fine Arts Committee meetings. He wanted Jeeves.
In lieu of those options, however, getting absolutely soused sounded wonderful. "I concur most heartily, Captain Sparrow. Lead the way." Setting what he hoped what a resolute jaw, he followed the pirate into the Hotel proper.
There was always the morning. If the desert still happened to be there in the morning, he'd decide what to do then. For now, Bertie needed a drink.
That was, of course, if you were like that strange scragly looking pirate with the fake eye.
The whole trouble started when he accepted that key, he was sure of it. He still didn't know where he was, but any place that came with the provision of never leaving did not appeal to him. Not at all. Not when there was a whole wide world out there left waiting for him to explore, instead of standing here in this strange hotel, meeting and seeing all sorts of oddly dressed blokes.
God, he hoped there was rum. And wenches. And... more rum. With that craving being craved, Jack had it in his mind to set off to find some liquid reprieve when he heard the ding, ding, ding of a call bell sounding off from behind him. A man was there -- again, oddly dressed; did these people never hear about fine fashion? -- and seemed to be requesting service. Maybe even a room. Maybe even a key.
Well, Jack couldn't have that. He'd much rather trade his key to the new arrival and undo this not-agreed-to accord he seemed stuck in. Moseying as calmly as possible up to the man, Jack leaned an elbox against the desk, sliding into the man's personal space.
"You really don't need to be doing that," he said as disinterestedly as possible.
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"I say! What an absolutely smashing getup! I've seen some fancy-dress togs in my day, but this is the tops! Who's your tailor, then? Got time for any late arrivals? I didn't bring a costume, but give me a spare set of bedsheets, a tuft of fern and a stiffish martini, and I can Cicero with the best of them!"
What luck! Bertie must have stumbled across a costume party, and there were few things he enjoyed more than an open bar, a few creative outfits and a turn 'round the dance floor with an obliging bird. And really, a costume party could be the only explanation as to why a pirate was standing in the lobby of a fine hotel.
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The man had to be one of the gentry, some high class Bob if he was carrying such a thing. Jack had only seen govenors and their ilk carry walking sticks. But he never heard a member of reputed polite society babble at him quite like that.
Grabbing on to one word out of the melee, Jack repeated intelligently, "Costume?"
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The claim that he wasn't a real pirate, however, caused a pout. He tugged at one of the beads at the end of the braid. "Look like a real pirate? Son, I am a real pirate," he proclaimed as if to a particularly slow child. Or another William Turner Jr.
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Shaking his head, he seemed to finally remember the purpose of his unscheduled stop, which unfortunately meant not staying for the party. "In any case, old thing, I'm afraid that I'm facing a bit of a conundrum, and I was hoping that you could help. Is there a telephone in the general vicins?"
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Everyone knew Jack was a pirate. Because he was Jack. And... a pirate. Looked like a pirate, talked like a pirate, pillage and plundered and raided like a pirate. He'd never come across anyone who had scoffed at his occupational career indentity, except in the expectation category when it came to his cognizant abilities in the undertaking of such duties. But those people were easier to swindle when the time came.
Oh. Oh right. Good then!
Straightening himself up into his best persuading stance, Jack smiled. "Telephone isn't what you'd be needing, mate," he advised. "What I think you'd really be needing, seeing as this is a fine establishment of an established hotel, is... a key." Jack produced his key from the finger-less glove he wore on one hand like a bit of magic.
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"Ah, terribly sorry about that, old bean, but I'm afraid I can't stay. I've a lovely supper that's probably congealing even as we speak, and I'm afraid that in order to reach said supper, I have to find a telephone or get some directions to Brinkley Court. Maybe the manager has one. May I speak with the proprietor, please?"
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Jack paused, and leaned in close again. He was doing what he did best, twisting around the facts to suit himself. He offered a sympathetic smile. "Wouldn't it be better, then, to stay a night here, get all rested up, have some of the lovely food what they must serve in such a fancy place as this, and then be going to your Brinkley Court in the morning?"
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"That won't be necessary, sir." Jerking with surprise, again, Bertie spun back to the desk to see a bellboy suddenly standing there, key in hand, smiling oddly. "We've got plenty of space for everyone. If you'll just sign the guestbook, sir, we'll get you settled in and have your car taken to the back."
"Oh, right ho!" Feeling much more centered now that he was being told what to do, Bertie picked up the fountain pen and signed his name with a flourish. "I'm a bit pressed for ready cash right now, just send the bill along to Brinkley Court, there's a good chap."
"Certainly, sir," the Bellboy smiled, handing over Bertie's key. "Welcome to the Hotel California. You can check out anytime you like."
Pocketing the key, Bertie turned back to the piratey chap. "Rather glad that's settled, then. All is now well in the Wooster bosom. Oh, that's right, Wooster's the name, Bertie Wooster, absolutely chuffed to meet you! And you are?" He held out a friendly hand.
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Bugger. Buggerbuggerbugger. He shot the Bellboy a sulky glare over the newcomer's shoulder. The Bellboy just returned it with one of those enigmatic smiles, the kind that both intrigued Jack for the secrets it promised and disturbed him for, again, those same-said secrets. At the word's "Welcome to the Hotel California" Jack turned partially away. That course was lost now. This stranger was doomed to exactly the same fate as Jack. He could be no way out any longer.
Jack eyed the hand suspiciously when it was offered to him. He'd had bad luck with hand shakes in the past, but this man, this Bertie Wooster, didn't seem like any kind of threat. What really more could he do to Jack, trapped here like they both were? Hesitantly Jack clasped his hand, murmuring, "Captain Jack Sparrow."
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"Amazing how fortuitous one's fortunes can be, isn't it?" he chimed. "I get horridly lost on the way to my aunt's, and I happen to find this excellent hotel! Uncanny, isn't it? What brings you to Worcestershire, Captain?"
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He began to pry his way out of the handshake as soon as it started, still not very comfortable with the idea of having his hand compromised. Though the pirate brand might just go a longer way than telling this bloke that he could never be Navy. They'd never have him.
"This would not be the fortunes I'd be hoping to have cast down upon my head if I could be helping it." He fought back a grimace that stood at ill ease after laughing. "Not in Worcestershire, as far as I reckon, either. I were just past Trinidad when I wrecked. Fancy we're still in the Caribbean then, or at least the colonies."
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There was lots of the stuff about. Miles and miles of reddish-yellowish sand, extending out to the dark horizon. There was not a single tree, hedge, road or motorcar to be seen.
"...what the devil is going on? What happened to Worcestershire??"
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Jack really hates sand. Or maybe "hate" is too strong a word. Passionately dislikes and actively tries to avoid if all chance lets him. Staring at it face to face, as it were, isn't doing much in the way of avoiding. He spins around, facing Bertie, refusing to look at it.
"Don't know what happened to your place, mate, but I figure it's nothing what a long drink can't help."
And that's exactly what Jack wants right now. Rum. And lots of it.
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In lieu of those options, however, getting absolutely soused sounded wonderful. "I concur most heartily, Captain Sparrow. Lead the way." Setting what he hoped what a resolute jaw, he followed the pirate into the Hotel proper.
There was always the morning. If the desert still happened to be there in the morning, he'd decide what to do then. For now, Bertie needed a drink.
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