Agatha Leviathan, the seventh queen of Blackbean, sails gracefully into the Bay of Lemons. She stands on the prow of an undermanned sixareen, balancing out the cargo of dessert spoons and meringue nests that spill out over the back of the boat and queue up in the vessel’s wake like a collection of powerfully unwholesome lily pads. Her jowls trail behind her in the breeze. She has in her left hand a bunch of barely ripe bananas; in her right, a solid silver truncheon.
Jonathan, dodging from starboard to larboard, handles the solitary oar.
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'Damn' sighs the Queen, exhausted, dropping the tools of her folly.
'Hate to say I told you', Jonathan smirks without having to say a word.
The banana and silver truncheon trick hasn't worked in ages...
Dropping the oar after dropping his shit-eating grin, the mercenary disembarks and makes a point of basking in the moonlight, though even the half-turned away moon seems to be embarrassed.
'How shall we endure now' weeps the self proclaimed Queen.
‘We still have the ice cream sweetheart and this place isn’t called the Bay of Lemons fer nuthin.’
Feeling too old now, they begin …
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