Transmission starting...
Sender:MacElroy, Nathan - King o' Libertonia Location:Dreadnought-LDX-247, Norfolk Shipyard Recipients:The Royal Libertonian Navy, especially Exotic Dancer Christycakes Robinson
*As the videofeed finishes loading, a tall, muscular man,
- his bare and oiled-up chest partially covered by his impressive red beard -
can be seen sitting in what happens to be the Captain's seat on a Dreadnought's bridge.
It's Commander MacElroy.
And he's wearing a crown.*
'Ey 'dere Christay.
'Ah am a lil' sorray, 'cause the Boss' busay all the time, y'hear.
She gon' back to partay, an' 'ah dun' be thinkin' she gon' 'ave time to reply aneytime soon, y'see.
But y'know me Christay, 'ah ain' a bad lad an' 'ah gon' reply to that there message o' yours 'fore y'cry y'self t'sleep.
*He empties a bottle of... Molly Whiskey in one go before going on.*
Now fer a first, 'ah was OFF DUTAY at the time, aye?
Aye. So was the entire crew, by the way.
Ship ain' in operational condition, y'hear? Ain' meant t'fly 'round.
Fer a secon', if the crew of this 'ere fine ship be a disgrace as you's sayin', what the 'ell is the ol' 'Rango's crew then, eh?
'Ah am sayin' that' the secondarey flagship or summit, ain' it?
An' ye cannae take on that 'ere undercrewed rustbucket?
Durn thing ain' even got a name! We's been 'aving problems with 'um transmitters an' it been givin' us random designations all the durn time.
How the 'ell is aney'un s'posed t'keep track o' that an' keep the whole fleet updated, y'doltbag?
*Now he bends down and picks up a box of fine Bretonian cigars, opens it, and lights one with a smile on his face.*
Aaaneywaysh, 'ah wanna say 'ere that y'better whip 'em idjits aboard the 'Rango into shape an' stop givin' 'em private visits on-dutay when y'get into "that certain mood", aye lassie?
Some good ol' trainin' wouldn' 'urt 'um, y'know? Could use that chain o' yours outside the bedroom fer once.
Or ye coulda' stop walkin' 'round dressed in 'um skimpey outfits o' yours.
'Ah mean, lass, 'ah know y'like 'um, but not everyone needs t'peek at yer loveley behind, aye?
Think you's catchin' ma drift 'ere.
*Some smokepuffs later, he leans a bit forward, a serious look on his face.*
Now as fer the nerve thingey...
Well, Christay, 'ah understand that you's still not gotten over that the Boss, 'ah mean, Sarah left ye, aye?
But realley, didye 'ave t'risk all that junk out 'dere so y'coulda' jus' talk to 'er?
Couldn' ye jus' wait like everyun' else woulda been doin', Christay?
By Zeus' arse, y'got 'er number 'fterall, don' ya?
*He shrugs for a moment and leans back again, hands behind his head.*
Speakin' o' numbers, 'ah took the libertay t'hand out yours to a few members o' the crew, y'know.
'Ah mean, ever since we been hangin' up 'em posters of ye in that skimpey an' slightley transparent green dress, yanno the 'un, crew morale's been up, an 'ah figured y'might give some of 'um a shot, aye?
'Cause, yanno, 'tween us Christaycakes, yer simpley too durn horny, realley.
An' 'ah jus' wan' t'help ye.
Oh, an' 'ah 'eard ye even 'ad some, yanno, "controversial political discussions" in private with Logan.
'Least that' what's been comin' outta' the rumor mill, aye.
"MAAAC! GET YOUR DAMN ASS OVER 'ERE ALREADY!"
*Turning his head around, he starts shouting over his shoulder.*
'AH BE THERE IN A SECON' MA' QUEEN! JUS' FINISHIN' SOME BUSiNESS!
"SCREW BUSINESS!
YOUR QUEEN WANTS HER KING!
RIGHT HERE!
RIGHT NOW!
GET 'ERE!"
*Grinning once more, he turns around to face the camera again.*
Well, ye 'eard 'er. 'Ah better get goin'.
An' Christay, realley, personal insults?
T'me? 'Ah am waaay too old fer that kindergarden trash, aye?
'Ah gon' forward yer message to 'er t'morrow, since she be doin' talk with a coupla' lads like Davey aneyway, 'ah think.