What the fuzzy wuzzy did you just say to me, you freshwater pirate? I’ll have you know I’m the captain of the Karaboudjan, and I’ve sailed across the numerous Seven Seas, and I have over 300 seamen on deck. I am certified in Celestial Navigation and I’m the head honcho of the entire Society of Sober Sailors. You are nothing to me but just another technocrat. I will make you see stars the likes of which has never been seen before on God’s green Earth, mark my breathalysing words. You think you can get away with saying that spitfire to me in the newspaper? Think again, fatface. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of reporters across Belgium and your address is being researched right now so you better prepare for the storm, you fancy-dress fascist. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re finished, bloodsucker. Not only am I extensively trained in port n’ starboard, but I have access to the entire arsenal of Red Rackham and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable bashi-bazouk off the face of the continent, you little shipwrecker. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comments were about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have quit acting the goat. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you raggle taggle ruminant. I will rain fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re gallows-fodder, you miserable molecule of mildew.