By Bastian Best’s aunt
In the deep recesses of Quichan history, there is a legend, a legend of the undead. It is not clear when this legend began. Perhaps at the very beginning of time (see Genesis 1:1).* To meet the protagonists of these legends, you must make a day’s journey from the north coast of St. Quiche to the deserted isle of Casket’s Key.** There, you will march deep into the mangrove forest to find a lake of sulphur. This lake, seized by mysterious forces, glows yellowish-green.***
It lays dormant, quiet.
That is, most nights of the year.
For on this date, August (insert date the newsletter goes out****), a force overtakes the lake. Currents, perturbed, lick the mangrove-strewn shore. And out of the depths rise up Sir Picky Mirth I, St. Quiche’s greatest pirate known to mankind, and his merry band of sailors. *****
They rise, they rise out of the murky, glowing waters, machetes lifted to the night sky. Then they turn one to the other, nod in assent–assent to what, no one has been privy to that secret–and march slow-mo across the sulphur-scented waves till they take refuge on the dry shore.
There, the story becomes fuzzy. For at times, they are said to visit the governor of St. Quiche, haunting him for his murky fiscal policy. At other times, they are said to be seen walking the streets of Rumstad, singing One Hundred Bottles of Rum on the Wall in ghostly wails. Others claim they have seen our undead trying to quench their everlasting thirst at the bar of The Last Resort only to disappear in smoke as the first rays of light hit the golden sand of our beloved shores.
These sightings have never been substantiated with reliable evidence.
Until now. Or until tonight, actually. Because I will be there, waiting on the shore of Casket Key’s lake, with my trusty disposable Kodak camera. I will witness as our undead pirates surface from the glowing depths. Armed with extra lighting, courtesy of my journalist nephew, and a Dictaphone for which I must remember to buy batteries, I will be the first to gain incontrovertible proof that dead pirates do indeed live again.
Or not live again. We’re really not sure how this all works, from a biological standpoint.
But to find out, you must wait for Part II of . . .
A Day in the (Not) Life of the Undead
Bastian Best’s Aunt.
P.S. For purchase of my relaxing incense, please visit my Etsy store.
* Editor’s note: Highly unlikely any of this happened circa Genesis 1:1 as these “legends” involve the pirate Sir Picky Mirth I, and he wasn’t born till the 18th century.
** Editor’s note: A day’s journey? Please. Ninety minutes, tops, unless you plan on travelling in an inflatable pool floatie thingy.
*** Editor’s note: Oh, please. It’s the sulphur that makes it all glowy and gross
**** Editor’s note: You couldn’t be bothered to confirm the date I was sending this? Really?
***** Editor’s note: Does this sound an awful lot like that Pirates of the Caribbean movie? Yeah, I thought so too.