The Pirates! In an Adventure with Communists Part 9

Nietzsche rummaged about in his desk and held up a helpful visual aid.

'You see? It's real magma, you know, imported from Italy,' he added proudly. 'Very soon I shall control every nation in Europe, with my puppet governments spreading my philosophy far and wide, and me pulling the strings, like a huge gleaming puppeteer. I did think about making actual puppets, but in the end I decided the waxworks would be less bother. That's the great thing about crowned heads they don't actually have to do anything, just stand around looking expensive, and n.o.body will realise anything is amiss.'

'Well, it's all very ingenious,' said the Pirate Captain. 'But I'm afraid you've been forgetting your one terrible weakness!' And with that the Pirate Captain triumphantly whipped out his s.h.i.+p's compa.s.s. 'Now what are you going to do? My magnetic compa.s.s will scramble your tin brain.' He sprinted forward, clambered daringly up Nietzsche's arm and pressed the compa.s.s against his metal forehead.30 The colossal tin Nietzsche hefted a weary sigh. 'I'm not sure I know where to begin. For a start, your compa.s.s is tiny. And it doesn't contain a magnet. Also, tin isn't magnetic.'

'Aarrrr,' said the Pirate Captain, feeling a little ridiculous now, perched on the giant's shoulder like a big version of Gary, the s.h.i.+p's parrot. 'So,' he added, 'there's this farmer with a wolf and a chicken and-' But before he could get any further a swat from Nietzsche's big tin hand sent the Captain sailing through the air. Luckily, his fall was broken by the model city. And luckier still, he landed on Hyde Park rather than the Houses of Parliament or one of London's pointier landmarks. There was a crunching sound, and the whole of London cracked down the middle and collapsed.

'My model town!' wailed Nietzsche, holding his hands up to his head in frustration. 'Two years that took me to build. Two years!' He bent his metal legs and kneeled on the floor. 'You've ruined it, you clumsy oaf!' A single drop of oil rolled from one of his eyes.

The Pirate Captain picked a few bits of Marble Arch out of his beard, fought back the urge to apologise, and whilst Nietzsche was preoccupied cradling the remains of Buckingham Palace, he, Marx and Jennifer bolted from the room. They charged down the stairs, with the Captain leading the way, but because he didn't have time to consult the tattoos on his feet telling him which direction was left and which direction was right, they were pretty quickly lost in the opera's maze of corridors. The trio paused, panting, as a steady clanking sound grew closer.

'I think we've upset him,' said Marx.

'The Captain does rather seem to have that effect on people,' said Jennifer.

'Quickly! Through this door!' said the Pirate Captain.

28 Philosophers don't just war with words. In 1946 Ludwig Wittgenstein reportedly chased Karl Popper round a Cambridge common room with a poker, in a dispute over whether there can be such a thing as a philosophical problem.

29 Nietzsche introduced the concept of the superman in his book Thus Spoke Zarathustra. DC Comics introduced the concept of 'Krypto the Superdog' in Adventure Comics #210 (1955). This is just one of the many reasons why Marvel are better than DC.

30 In September 2005 pirates attacked a vessel en route to Singapore that was carrying 660 tonnes of tin, worth $4.7 million. A month later the s.h.i.+p was found sunk, with the cargo still onboard, probably because the pirates realised tin makes for rubbish bendy cutla.s.ses.

Twelve.

EEL STAMPEDE!.

During his long career and many adventures, the Pirate Captain had often found himself saying, 'Quickly! Through this door!' In the past, saying, 'Quickly! Through this door!' had variously led to: a room full of scorpions; a nest of killer African bees; the ceremonial chamber of a sinister cabal of Satanists; and a pit of stinging nettles. Saying, 'Quickly! Through this door!' had never yet led to: a stable full of fast horses; a useful cupboard of muskets; a pile of ham; or the shower room of a young women's tennis club.

This time, 'Quickly! Through this door!' resulted in the three of them tumbling straight on to the opera stage. The huge replica volcano bubbled malevolently away just in front of them. The Captain decided it might be time he gave serious consideration to using some other phrase, seeing as he seemed to be having such poor results with his current effort.

'Funny sort of smell,' said Marx, frowning. 'Like some sort of creature.'

'Bush babies? Sloths? Slow lorises?' said the Captain hopefully.

'More like bear,' said Jennifer, pointing to a group of bears who were lumbering across the stage towards them.

'Oh dear. I'm not very keen on bears,' said Marx. 'I have an irrational fear that they'll rip me to shreds.'

The trio made to turn back the way they'd come, but there, waiting ominously in the wings, stood Nietzsche. He waved at them, and then he drew a big metal finger across his throat, which the Pirate Captain was pretty sure wasn't supposed to signify anything good.

'Right,' said the Captain, taking charge. 'Up the volcano. We'll be safe there because bears can't climb things. It's something to do with the shape of their shoulders.'

They started to clamber up the side of the replica volcano.

'Goodness me,' said the Captain, 'the workmans.h.i.+p that's gone into this thing is very impressive.'

'Cold comfort, Pirate Captain.'

'No, but really. It must have taken him ages.'

There was a snuffling sound, and he looked back to see the bears gamely following them up the volcano.

'Actually,' said the Pirate Captain. 'It might be sharks that can't climb things.'

'Look! It's the Pirate Captain! I didn't even know he was in the opera!' said the pirate with gout happily, peering through his opera gla.s.ses. He waved. 'Yoo hoo! Pirate Captain!'

'I'm confused,' said the Crowned Head of Bulgaria, leaning across to the albino pirate. 'Is the hirsute pirate chap meant to be a metaphor for something?'

'I think he's possibly meant to be a goblin king. I've lost track a bit,' said the albino pirate.

Pretty soon Marx, Jennifer and the Captain could go no further. They'd reached the rim of the replica volcano's crater. The magma looked a lot like fondue bubbling away, and the Pirate Captain couldn't help but wish he was back on the boat, dipping things in melted cheese.

'Of course,' he said, 'what most people fail to realise is that it's actually the pyroclastic flow that's the really dangerous thing during an eruption rather than the rivers of red-hot lava.'

'You do seem to know a lot about volcanoes, Pirate Captain,' said Jennifer.

'Oh, I'm just a layman, to be honest,' said the Captain modestly. 'I went on a tour of Pompeii that one time.'

'Did you learn anything that might help us in our predicament?' asked Marx.

'The most important lesson I took away from the place is that if you're about to die from a volcano, then it's really vital to strike a heroic sort of pose. I don't want to be preserved for eternity cowering with my head between my legs like those Roman lubbers.'

'That's not much help.'

'No. Sorry. Well then, I suppose we could try plugging it.'

'With what?'

The Captain looked the hairy communist up and down. 'What would you say your physical dimensions are?'

'Captain!'

'I was only asking,' said the Pirate Captain defensively, deciding that Marx probably wouldn't be big enough anyhow. He looked about, at a loss. 'Pish. Where's a prize ham when you need one?'

'I fear it is the end for us,' wailed Marx, as the bears inched closer. 'Is this the way you saw yourself going, Pirate Captain?'

'In fact,' said the Captain grumpily, 'it's pretty much the exact situation I usually try to cheer myself up with when I'm in a bit of a fix. "At least you're not about to be eaten by bears and/or fall into a replica volcano," I tell myself. So now I've got to come up with an even worse scenario, which is a nuisance.'

'It seems such a pity that two great minds should finish in such a way,' said Marx bitterly, teetering on the edge.

The Pirate Captain tugged at one of his bushy eyebrows as he tried to remember something. 'I seem to recall reading somewhere that in this sort of situation you're meant to make yourself look as big as possible.'

'Really? Not a fan of big things, bears?'

'Apparently not. I'll climb on your shoulders so it looks like we're just one big relatively hairy creature. Jennifer, you hide behind us, and do your best not to menstruate.'

'Why do I have to be the bottom half of the creature?' moaned Marx.

'Because I make a much better head,' said the Captain. 'I roar like a lion. It said so in the newspaper. Also I'm good at doing claw shapes with my hands, see?' The Captain did some claw shapes, and Marx reluctantly let him climb up on to his shoulders. They both fluffed out their beards to try to add to their fearsomeness.

'Raaargh!' said Marx.

'You can't go "Raaargh",' said the Captain. 'That just makes it look like our belly is growling.'

'Sorry,' said Marx.

'Those bears are going to eat the Pirate Captain and Jennifer,' said the pirate in green.

'Don't ruin the ending! You're always doing that,' said the pirate with a hook for a hand, looking cross. 'Just because you've seen this opera before doesn't mean we all have.'

Several of the crew leapt to their feet, ready to rush on the stage, but the pirate with a scarf held them back.

'If we just run up there,' he pointed out, trying not to sound bossy, 'we'll be eaten by the bears as well.'

'Oh dear,' said the albino pirate, sitting back down again. 'I don't like the sound of that.'

'Yes, you see this is why it pays to think plans through past the very first bit. Really that's what distinguishes "a plan" from "running about in a flap".'

The pirate with a scarf looked thoughtful for a moment, and then a wily look crept across his pleasingly rugged features.

'Captain!' he shouted.

'h.e.l.lo there, number two,' the Pirate Captain called back, still making claw shapes at a bear. 'Fancy seeing you here! I've got all sorts to tell you, but unfortunately I'm a bit tied up at the moment.' He nodded at the bears.

'The pomade, Captain! The bear-grease pomade!'

'Oh, for goodness' sakes, I have got a few rather more pressing concerns,' grumbled the Captain. 'But if you insist.' He cleared his throat and waved at the audience.

'Perkins' Gentlemen's Pomade Gives me flexible style.

Even when menaced by bears and a volcano, I can still make ladies smile.'

Then he got Marx, straining under his weight a bit now, to do a little jig. The bears and the audience looked baffled.

'No, Captain,' shouted the pirate with a scarf, as patiently as he could. 'Try putting the pomade in your hair. It will make you smell like a bear.'

The pirate with a scarf then got the other pirates to take out their tins of pomade and made sure they all covered themselves with as much of the gloopy bear grease as possible. It looked a bit like ectoplasm, and some of the pirates started doing ghost impressions at each other, but then they remembered that they were at the climax of an adventure, so they stopped messing about and bounded on to the stage.

'Grrrr! I like eating picnic baskets,' said the pirate with rickets.

'And I'm a polar bear,' said the albino pirate. 'From the North Pole.'31 The bears sniffed at the pirates, then seemed to lose interest, and they wandered off to chew the scenery.

'It's working! They think we're greasy fellow bears,' said Engels, sprinting up the side of the volcano and giving Marx a welcoming hug.

'Everyone be careful not to look too attractive, especially you,' said the pirate with a scarf to the pirate with bedroom eyes, 'just in case the bears should mistake you for a potential mate. If we learnt one thing from our last adventure, it's that creatures' s.e.xual appet.i.tes are best kept in check, or it leads to all sorts of problems.'

But before the pirates could begin to celebrate, or even just have a rest, there was a roar and an angry belch of black smoke and the colossal tin Nietzsche clumped on to the stage.

'Now who on earth is this?' said the Crowned Head of Portugal. 'These operas really are very difficult to follow.'

'I think he's Thor, who I believe is the G.o.d of hammering things,' said the Crowned Head of Bulgaria, studying his programme. 'Though it could also be a rock giant.'

A couple of the pirates looked momentarily triumphant and pulled told-you-so faces at their captain, because this proved that they really hadn't been exaggerating back in London. But then it dawned on them that being proved right about the existence of gigantic metal monsters is one of the worst things you can be proved right about, certainly nowhere near as good as being proved right about, say, having a magic hat or being a fantastic kisser or something like that. But those members of the crew who managed not to faint on the spot charged dutifully towards the mechanical man, waggling their cutla.s.ses and bellowing deliberately hurtful nautical oaths.

'That's it, lads,' said the Pirate Captain encouragingly, as a few of the less important crew got squashed under one of Nietzsche's enormous tin feet. 'He can crush your bones, but he can't crush your indomitable spirit. Obviously, I'd love to help, but these futile sacrifices look like quite a lot of effort. And we can't risk me getting all sweaty. Because when you think about it, sweat is basically just hot water. And what happens when you put something in hot water? It shrinks. Which would be a disaster. What would you do with a shrunken captain?'

The pirates thought this was the opening line to a new shanty and began to sing, but another swipe of the colossal tin Nietzsche's arm sent most of them tumbling like skittles, though not quite enough fell down for any of the watching crowned heads to shout, 'Strike!'

'Oh dear,' said the Pirate Captain. 'The tide appears to have turned. Which is a nautical way of saying that things have changed for the worse.'

He hopefully lobbed one of the empty tins of pomade at Nietzsche, but it just bounced off.

'Bother. We had exactly this difficulty in our adventure with Ned Kelly. It's his indestructible skin that's the problem.'

'I believe there may be one thing sharp enough to cut through his metal hide,' said Marx.

The Pirate Captain tried to think of sharp things. 'A crow's beak?'

'Sharper than a crow's beak, Captain.'

'A crow's beak made out of diamonds? Can you get those?'

'No.' Marx pulled out the slightly battered copy of the Pirate Captain's Wit and Wisdom. 'I was referring to your razor-sharp intellect.'

There was a bit of a pause. 'You're saying,' said the pirate in red, who was doing his best to hide behind the orchestra, 'that the Pirate Captain should philosophise a way out of the situation? Our same captain who, let's not forget, only last week was wondering out loud about whether eggs were a type of fruit?'

'Exactly!' cried Marx. 'A battle of wits. It will be like one of those Socratic dialogues from ancient times.'

'Except I don't remember any dialogue where Plato was trying to talk Socrates out of a diabolical plan for world domination,' pointed out Engels.

Nietzsche clumped heavily across the stage towards them, casting a monstrous shadow as he went. The Pirate Captain looked at the mechanical man's terrifying legs. He looked at his terrifying arms. He looked at his impa.s.sive metal face. And it occurred to him that if he had realised that the life of a philosopher boiled down to an endless series of perils, he might not have been quite so keen to take it up as a hobby.

'I can't help but think,' said the Pirate Captain, 'that possibly my abilities as a darling of the intellectual world have been a bit exaggerated.'

'Nonsense, Pirate Captain,' said Marx, fixing him with a serious stare. 'You, sir, are one of this era's great minds.'

'Oh well, when you put it like that.' The Captain cleared his throat. Nietzsche loomed menacingly over him. 'Excuse me, Clanky,' said the Pirate Captain. 'Can I call you Clanky?'

'I would rather you didn't,' said Nietzsche.