o1 // voice
[When the voice feed starts, it sounds as if the muttering could be someone musing to themselves. An accidental recording, perhaps? But as it rambles on and on and on, it becomes clear that there is some sort of purpose to it, anyway.]
When a man finds himself midway to being marooned, it is both customary per the will and reason and otherwise wisdom of the Code to leave with him at least a single shot in his pistol, so he might relieve himself of the pain of his marooning if he find cause, or at least shoot himself a single seagull meal in some small compensation for his marooning. A last meal of questionable merit, says I, given the toughness and greasiness of various and sundry and all flying seabirds--whoever thought that this end was acceptable was no man at all.
When a man finds himself marooned, he finds himself thinking of ways of escape. Some might find themselves thinking of changing their ways and revising the reasons of why they were marooned in the first place but I've never known myself to think that way, and I have known myself for some years now. At least ten. Ish.
[A beat.... Ah, yes. Moving on.]
I myself have always known myself to dwell on matters more immediate and pressing, forgoing the more cowardly single shot and forgoing the final meal and turning my thoughts instead to that which would be my deliverance.
And possibly rum, if things are going quite well. Perhaps some company, though this is indeed a rare and precious thing on a marooning--expedition. Abandonment. Yes.
And yet here am I, with all my effects present and every shot present in me pistol and I have seen your ladies of negotiable company and affection and yet I still find that I myself have been marooned. Now where the bloody hell is my ship, forthwith, and if I don't find it presented to me or vice-a-verse-a, tête-à-tête, you will find that I can use that every shot in that pistol left to me, and I am a very good shot--savvy?
So make with the ship, toot sweet. [A beat.] And rum. There must be rum--more rum. This is an island, innit?
When a man finds himself midway to being marooned, it is both customary per the will and reason and otherwise wisdom of the Code to leave with him at least a single shot in his pistol, so he might relieve himself of the pain of his marooning if he find cause, or at least shoot himself a single seagull meal in some small compensation for his marooning. A last meal of questionable merit, says I, given the toughness and greasiness of various and sundry and all flying seabirds--whoever thought that this end was acceptable was no man at all.
When a man finds himself marooned, he finds himself thinking of ways of escape. Some might find themselves thinking of changing their ways and revising the reasons of why they were marooned in the first place but I've never known myself to think that way, and I have known myself for some years now. At least ten. Ish.
[A beat.... Ah, yes. Moving on.]
I myself have always known myself to dwell on matters more immediate and pressing, forgoing the more cowardly single shot and forgoing the final meal and turning my thoughts instead to that which would be my deliverance.
And possibly rum, if things are going quite well. Perhaps some company, though this is indeed a rare and precious thing on a marooning--expedition. Abandonment. Yes.
And yet here am I, with all my effects present and every shot present in me pistol and I have seen your ladies of negotiable company and affection and yet I still find that I myself have been marooned. Now where the bloody hell is my ship, forthwith, and if I don't find it presented to me or vice-a-verse-a, tête-à-tête, you will find that I can use that every shot in that pistol left to me, and I am a very good shot--savvy?
So make with the ship, toot sweet. [A beat.] And rum. There must be rum--more rum. This is an island, innit?