Now that the last flatulent black-powder pop has dispersed in the wild Caribbean(!) breeze, it’s time to consolidate my ill-gotten profits. First there’s the grim but unfortunately necessary matter of triage–the Delight had a larger hold than my own vessel, so naturally I can’t take everything. I do the painful arithmetic and allocate the Boiled Sweet‘s storage space as efficiently as I can before throwing the leftovers overboard.
Having taken care of that, I give the Delight a crew and add it to my fleet.
Now–I suspect you’re wondering to yourself, what’s the point in moving half the Delight‘s treasure to my boat’s weensy waterlogged cargo hold, and straight-up pitching the balance into the ocean, if I’m keeping a ship that can demonstrably carry the entire load and in fact was doing so very happily until my administration took over?
It seems frustrating and immersion-breaking, but actually this is a well-researched inclusion on the part of the developers. Records kept by the Royal Navy attest that boarding and seizing an enemy ship was a tremendously exhausting practice, one universally dreaded and loathed, and that for the reserved men of the navy, the only surefire way to take the edge off was to play a few rounds of tennis in a regulation-size court. So while it’s a shame to clear out the Delight’s cargo hold, the modest loss of resources really is a small price to pay for a mentally well-adjusted crew of murderers.
Seriously, I don’t know. I’m not sure if I’m doing something wrong or the developers are, but I can’t seem to reverse the order of operations re: allocating hold space and adding hold space. Maybe I’ll figure this out later on, but for now, we’re gonna have to pitch a few crates of bermuda shorts.
I scooch my newly-leveled bad self into Grand Turk and set about liquidating. If I was smart, I think I’d probably keep the Delight as my flagship. Not that the word “cutter” puts the fear of God in fat merchantmen, but in terms of intimidation it’s hard to go down from “armed boat.” The name sets you down and explains, “Listen–unless you’re at war with some anchovies, or or the battle’s being held inside a bathtub, we’re probably not going to make a meaningful contribution.” Plus my hold size rules out any smuggling scenario that doesn’t begin, “you’ve got a fox, a sheep, and a head of lettuce.”
But, see, my short-term goals involve no actual seafaring. Mostly they involve stacking up with sweet gear and grinding the local Suspicious Man missionsHereafter referred to as ‘Spishie Mishies.’ until someone invests a cash register, then a machine that can make a cash register noise when I press a button, and then, perhaps, a pair of stunna shades. To that end, I’m selling the Delight and buying sharp stuff instead. Later for that “adequate watercraft” nonsense.
Ah, right where I needed him–a sketchy deep-pocketed bum glued to a chair in the corner of the town’s only tavern. So what’s on tap, oh pillar of the shitty community?
So follow this dandy around, glare at anyone who harasses him, and basically make him feel safe and welcome? Yeah, I can handle that. You sure you don’t want to randomly hire a boy band’s worth of backup thugs to help me out? I mean, it’s only money.
Well, I thought I was.
Actually, correction. These aren’t “thugs,” like my accomplices in what has already gone down as the the four hundred and seventy sixth worst mine-related fiasco in history. No, these fine gentlemen are “mercenaries.” The main differences seem to be an air of respectability, a lack of tacky bandannas, and also we’re all getting paid five thousand piastres less than that other job did. Seriously, if you’re adventurous, you could do a lot worse than get to the Caribbean(!) and ride this thug bubble. It’s gonna be ugly when it pops, but there’s plenty of money to make in the meantime.
All this really seems like overkill to protect one guy. Ah, well. Better too many guys than not enough.
NEXT WEEK: MASSACRE AT GRAND TURK
 Hereafter referred to as ‘Spishie Mishies.’