Captain Bradan and the Kidnapping of the Sausage Sensei
“As they reveled in those transcendent flavors, cultural divisions gave way to a profound unity through cuisine.”
The sails of the pirate ship Scourge hung limp and motionless — not a whisper of wind to fill them. Captain Scoop Magilla wiped the sweat from his brow as the relentless Gulf sun beat down. Three days now, they had floated as the scorching heat sapped their strength.
Penny leaned over the port rail, squinting at the horizon through her spyglass for any hint of a breeze. She sighed in frustration. “Your turn, Percy.”
With a crackling squawk, the green parrot spread his wings and took flight from Penny’s shoulder. He pumped his way up higher and higher until he was just a fluttering speck against the unending blue.
Scoop and Penny watched and waited as the bird made a slow sweep. Finally, he folded his wings and dropped back down, landing on the rail.
“Not a ripple as far as the eye can see — smooth as a desert.”
They had nearly drained their water casks and their rations of hardtack were seriously low. If the winds did not pick up soon, the baking heat and thirst would end them all.
Hours passed. Scoop licked his cracked lips. He shielded his eyes from the glare as he scanned the western sky once more.
Was that movement on the horizon? Or is it just a mirage wavering in the heat haze?
As he stared, a faint burbling chorus reached his ears, rising and falling like a murmur of distant voices.
“What in blazes…?”
Out of the horizon, a ship’s urine-yellow sails bulged with some unknown force that drove the vessel towards them. As it closed in, the odd sounds gradually became identifiable as thunderous belching.
When the galleon finally sailed into clearer view, realization dawned on Scoop. “It’s that terror of the Medium seas, Captain Bradan!”
This brought a mix of dread and hope. While Bradan was notorious for villainy and — quite frankly — outright roguery, the sudden appearance of his ship potentially meant salvation from starvation and thirst.
Examining Bradan’s crew with his spyglass, Scoop saw them lined up along the deck rails, guzzling a yellow-green beverage. He realized, owing to Bradan’s known history, they were chugging Mountain Dew by the gallon and releasing sonorous belches that rippled through the sails to propel the vessel forward.
Everything about Bradan’s ship appeared soaked and crusted in various Mountain Dew hues, from the crew’s gaudy clothes to the railings that were sticky with dried soda residue.
As the Dew Raider drew up alongside the Scourge, Captain Bradan’s head popped up from behind the railing. His matted green beard was tangled and unkempt; his wild hair tinted an unnatural shade of neon green and stuck out in all directions. Even his weathered face had a yellow-green pallor from his excessive Mountain Dew consumption. He grinned with mossy teeth at their sight and held up three perspiring green glass bottles.
“Ahoy there, buckos!” he said. “Fancy a refreshing Mountain Dew to wet yer whistle?” His voice was salty yet tinged with the same unnatural green hue that permeated his entire being. The various stains on his garments, shades of yellow and green, only added to his Dew-soaked appearance.
“Ugh, you mean to say this rust bucket gets pushed by your crew’s…burps?” Penny grimaced, nose wrinkling. “Ugh…. boys.”
Bradan pressed. “Don’t worry, lass — I’ve plenty to spare! As you can see, a few bottles of this draft will put the wind right back in yer sails!”
Before Scoop could accept the Mountain Dew, Penny stepped forward with an upturned nose. “No thanks. I’m a Dr. Pepper gal myself.”
Braden gagged and ducked behind the rail.
Recovering himself, he came up and stroked his beard. “Only Texans like that silly drink — if you can call it that.” He eyed her sharply. “And I hear it in your voice. You must be a Texan. Be ye familiar with the central parts — the Hill Country — lass?”
Penny nodded. “I grew up in Driftwood before I took to the seafaring life.” Penny slapped Scoop on the shoulder, causing Percival to jump. “What business is it to ye?”
Bradan’s face turned a darker shade of green. “I’m afraid I have to inform you that the Sausage Sensei has been captured. We dunno where they took him.”
Penny’s eyes bugged in alarm. “The Sensei? Kidnapped? How?”
Scoop furrowed his brow. “What’s a… sensei?”
Percival let out a squawk. “The Sausage Sensei! A legendary master of meat! His smoked sausages are to die for!”
Scoop raised an eyebrow. “A sensei of sausages? You can’t be serious…”
Penny nodded. “The Sausage Sensei is no ordinary pit master. His origins are a mystery. One day, years ago, he simply appeared, like a gift from the barbecue gods themselves. Whispers spread from town to town about the magical sausages and smoked meats he creates over glowing pecan wood fires.”
Percival bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Mystical flavors never tasted before!”
“Stop it, the both of you!” Scoop interrupted, waving a hand. “You’re making me more hungry than I already am. If I had any spit left, I’d be drooling.”
Penny ignored him. “Entire families traveled for miles just to sample his brisket.” Penny’s eyes shone with reverence. “His very presence blessed the Hill Country with an aura of smoky bliss.”
Scoop eyed her incredulously. “A mythical master of barbecue appearing out of thin air, bringing heavenly smoked meats to the masses?” Scoop cocked an eye. “You’re putting me on.”
Percival clacked his beak. “It’s all true! The Sensei is the real deal!”
Scoop sighed, trying to push away the thought of food. “Well, if this legendary hero is as amazing as you say, how in blazes did he manage to get himself kidnapped?”
Bradan sighed and cast his eyes down.
“I witnessed the Sensei’s abduction with my very own eyes. The Texas Independence Day BBQ began like every other year…”
Bradan paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, eyeing Penny. When he continued, there was a tremor of barely contained emotion.
“None could have predicted the darkness that would befall our revered Sausage Sensei…”
Scoop leaned in, intrigued but also wary of trusting Captain Bradan. The man’s reputation for double-dealing, dishonesty, and general pirate skulduggery was as famous as his affinity for Mountain Dew sodas. Yet something in the green captain’s eyes gave Scoop pause. Perhaps there was a scintilla of honor buried deep within this notorious cutthroat.
The Previous Day
The Texas sun blazed high over the grounds of Galveston State Park, filled with thousands of proud and very hungry Texans.
It was perfect weather for the annual Texas Independence Day barbecue celebration. With the air thick with smoked brisket, sausage, and ribs, the crowds feasted and reveled in their beloved state’s history and culture. Many wore cowboy hats and boots with Texas-sized belt buckles and pearl snap shirts. The Texas flag flew high everywhere.
Music from fiddles, banjos, and guitars sung out while people two-stepped and doe-si-doed. By the pavilion, little kids played corn hole while dogs hunted around picnic tables for dropped morsels.
Captain Bradan and his pirate crew stuck out like sore thumbs in their green attire as they wandered among the revelers. He eyed the various meat smokers with envy.
“A pirate’s life grants little opportunity for savoring the finer cuisines,” he lamented to his first mate, Sawyer, who was busy sipping a cup of to-go tea from another stall.
At the center of attention stood the legendary Sausage Sensei, unveiling his latest masterpiece: the Brisket Boudin and Jalapeño Cheese Sausage. The Sensei beamed with pride at his mouthwatering creation blending tender smoked brisket, creamy pepper jack cheese, and fiery jalapeños.
The crowd oohed and ahhed at his masterful description of the flavors.
Ladies fanned themselves. Cowboys whooped and fired pistols skyward, saluting this sure-to-be iconic and coveted Texas delicacy.
As the crowd jostled for position to sample it first, the Sensei stepped forward and heaved open the heavy smoker door. After briefly disappearing into the billowing aromatic smoke, he reemerged, holding aloft the first perfectly smoked sausage rope with a tightened, burnished red-orange casing.
Taking a deep breath, the Sensei paused as a hush fell over the crowd. Then he took a bite, his eyes closing in transcendent joy as the juices ran down his bearded chin.
“Perfection!” he proclaimed.
The crowd erupted in cheers as the Sensei withdrew more links until both arms overflowed, walking among them to share this quintessential Texan creation. Some wept at the first bite, others whooped in delight — but all united in witnessing barbecue history.
Bradan’s crew watched with keen interest. One pirate chugged a Mountain Dew, belching mightily to the disgust of those nearby.
“How uncivilized!” gasped a pearl-clutching lady, fanning herself.
“Git on outta here with that swill!” yelled a ranch hand, brandishing a rib bone menacingly.
The pirates shrugged off the insults.
“A masterpiece, that sausage. The Sensei’s secrets would fetch a mighty fine plunder on the high seas,” Bradan muttered to himself.
But just as the celebrations reached its peak, the thunderous rumble of approaching hooves and wheels suddenly interrupted them. A sinister black stagecoach drawn by six massive black horses came barreling down the path.
The stagecoach careened to a halt in the middle of the park with horses whinnying and rearing up on hind legs. The coach door burst open and a pack of rough-looking men spilled out, brandishing lassos and branding irons.
They were a gang led by the crooked cilantro baron, Juan Chipotle, leader of the guacamole-addicted Sombrero Gang.
“Seize the Sensei!” Chipotle bellowed. “For the glory of Mexico!”
The crowd scattered in panic as Chipotle’s men charged forward. Texas lawmen jumped into action, leaping onto their horses while firing their Peacemaker revolvers.
In the confusion, several gang members tackled the Sensei and trussed him up like a country pork loin. They dragged him towards the stagecoach as the lawmen’s bullets whizzed by.
“No, you can’t take my creation!” the Sensei cried out, kicking and struggling against his captors.
But it was no use.
With a hard swing of a branding iron, one of the gang knocked aside the final lawman blocking their path. They then hoisted the squirming Sensei into the passenger compartment and slammed the door.
Just then, a mighty voice rang out across the park. “Avast, you cilantro-scented scoundrels!”
All eyes turned towards Captain Bradan and his pirate crew charging towards the stagecoach, cutlasses drawn. Bradan leveled his sword at Chipotle. “Release the Sensei at once, or taste the fires of Davy Jones’s locker!”
Chipotle sneered. “This does not concern you, seafarers. The Sensei’s talents belong to Mexico now!”
He cracked his whip, and the stagecoach lurched into motion, smashing through tables and food carts as it headed for the park exit. Bradan and his men gave chase.
In a daring move, Bradan let fly his grapnel line, catching onto the back of the speeding stagecoach. The horses pulled with tremendous force, the stagecoach’s wheels kicking up clouds of dust as it gained speed.
The line went taut, nearly pulling Bradan off his feet as he was dragged forward before digging in his heels.
“You shall not escape, lubber!” Bradan roared, straining against the line. But no matter how furiously his crew hauled on the rope, they couldn’t overcome the stagecoach’s momentum.
With a last crack of the whip, Chipotle spurred his horses into a full gallop. Bradan watched helplessly as the coach disappeared into the distance.
“Curse that pepper weed philistine!” Bradan shook his fist. “We will have our vengeance! Mark my words, that blight will rue the day he incurred the wrath of Captain Bradaaaaaan!”
But Sawyer, still sipping a cup of tea nearby, spoke up with a dismissive slurp of his lips.
“And just how do you propose we do that, Captain? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re a bit…how shall I put this delicately…ill-equipped as pirates to pursue a bloody stagecoach across the bloody Texan wilderness?”
Bradan opened his mouth but slowly closed it. Sawyer was right. What were they as seafaring pirates to do to catch up to horses and a carriage on open land?
The captain’s shoulders slumped. As much as he hated to admit it, they had no means to chase down Chipotle.
“The vermin are getting away…this time,” Bradan muttered.
Sawyer drained the last of his tea. “So what’s it to be, sir?”
The question hung between them. Bradan turned away, unable to even look in the direction the stagecoach had fled.
“Back to the ship, Mr. Sawyer. Our hands are tied.”
The pirates trudged back towards their ship. Slowly, the ship drifted away, leaving Bradan to stew over their failure to rescue the Sensei.
Present Day…
“This indignity shall not stand!” Bradan roared, slamming his fist on the rail, making Scoop, Penny, and Percival jump.
Bradan’s face was now a dark shade of olive green.
He stabbed a finger towards the horizon.
“I want that genius returned safely! And woe be upon those Sombreros if even one blonde hair on the Sensei’s face is harmed.”
Sawyer exchanged a glance with Scoop before responding.
“Of course, Captain. But…how? Their trail will be nigh impossible to follow by now.”
Bradan opened his mouth to roar again, but slowly closed it as realization crept in again.
He glanced at his crew, noticing their equally dejected expressions.
Just then, Penny stepped forward. “And that’s where I come in, gentlemen.”
All eyes turned to the red-headed, pint-sized pirate. She leveled her gaze at Bradan.
“If we made landfall at Padre Island, just south of Corpus Christi, we’d actually have a shot at cutting off their path inland before they reach the border.”
Bradan’s brow furrowed as he processed this.
“G’on…”
Penny pulled out a map and spread it on the nearby nav table. With her dagger tip, she traced a path from Padre Island over to a crossroads marked as the “Seven Sisters” outpost.
“By my estimation, that stagecoach will have no choice but to resupply at this depot before pressing on south to the Rio Grande. If we can beat them there…”
She looked up, allowing the implications to linger.
Bradan stroked his beard, considering her words. “A sound plan, lass. But we’ve no means to traverse the land and reach that waystation ahead of the coach.”
Penny’s eyes gleamed. “I may have a solution.”
She turned to Percival. “Fly ahead and seek an old friend of mine named Slow Jim. He’s usually found at the Tumbleweed Pub in Corpus. He’ll provide us with mounts to make the journey.”
The others laughed at the strange name, but Penny raised a hand. “Don’t be fooled. Slow Jim is anything but slow. He can procure horses for us. Find him, and we’ll have our transportation.”
Percival bobbed his head eagerly. “Aye aye, captain! I’ll have this Slow Jim waiting for ye by the time you make landfall!” The parrot launched himself into the air, rapidly becoming a green speck against the vast blue sky as he sped over the horizon.
A spark flickered in Bradan’s eyes as the plan took shape in his mind. He straightened and turned to the crew.
“Well then, what are we waiting for, lads? Turn about and load up on the Dew! We’ll not allow this egregious insult to go unanswered! No matter what oils we burn or jagged trails, we must follow!”
He barked out orders, and the crew scrambled to adjust their heading back towards land. As the ship swung about, riding a fresh wave of belches, Bradan stood at the rail glaring towards the horizon.
“Make no mistake, Chipotle,” he growled under his breath. “We’re far from done with your ilk… Count on it.”
With the ship’s course set for South Padres Island, Bradan wasted no time putting the plan into motion. As the mainland shoreline came into view, he barked orders for his crew to ready the landing parties and make preparations to disembark.
By the time they dropped anchor, Percival was already waiting for them on the beach, bobbing excitedly. As soon as the gangplank extended, the parrot took flight and fluttered around Penny’s head.
“I found him! I found Slow Jim, just like you asked!” Percival cawed proudly.
Penny grinned. “Excellent work. Where is he?”
“Right here, little lady!” a gravelly voice called out.
They turned to see a wiry old man with a weather-beaten face ambling towards them, leading a herd of horses. Despite his aged appearance, he moved with an almost frenzied energy, jabbering away a mile a minute.
“JimmyJamesSlowbutfastasawilleyecoyotehere’sthemustangsyouneedlassiereadytogofasterfasterthanacheetahscataloopthere’sahorsyhereforeveryoneofyougotthebestmountsthissideofthepecosjustpointwhereyouwanna go and hang on tight!”
Scoop and the pirates gaped at the man, trying and failing to keep up with his rapid-fire speech. Bradan let out a bark of a laugh.
“Well, I’ll be scuppered. This ‘Slow’ Jim is certainly…aptly named.”
Penny stepped forward, matching the man’s manic energy. “Much obliged, Mister Jim. We’ve got a mission of utmost importance. Gotta beat a stagecoach tearing across Texas to the border.”
“Nobignodealalltheroadrunnerhastodonowistofollowmedon’tbitemytonguedon’tbitethesaddleheehawgiddeyupgiddeyup!”
With those parting words, Slow Jim turned and raced off down the beach with the herd of horses trailing behind him, kicking up an immense cloud of sand. Scoop sputtered as the dust storm left in the man’s wake briefly enveloped him.
“Was he speaking English?” one pirate muttered in confusion.
“Just get on your horses before that coot leaves us behind!” Penny shouted.
Soon, they were all mounted up and following the herd, struggling to keep pace with Slow Jim’s blistering speed across the South Texas brush country.
Every few miles, Bradan would call for a stop to resupply the horses with his special fuel: massive gulps of Mountain Dew soda—naturally.
The effect on the animals was profound and disturbing. Their eyes would dilate, muscles twitching erratically as the potent caffeine and sugar coursed through their veins. Bradan insisted this “Dew Power” would allow them to run at far greater speeds for much longer than ordinary mounts.
True to his word, the Dew-powered horses tore across the rugged terrain, pounding the earth so hard that Scoop could scarcely keep his seat in the saddle. Jaw aching from being jostled relentlessly, he could only gape in awe at the sight of Slow Jim up ahead, his wiry frame seemingly unfazed as he cackled madly into the wind, spurring his own steed to even more impossible speeds.
For two hard days, they pressed on at this punishing, chemically enhanced pace. Bradan allowed minimal respite, pushing the company to the limits of their inhuman stamina.
Finally, on the third morning, the vanguard scouts returned with news that sent a ripple of excitement through the ranks.
“Seven Sisters just ahead! And there be a fresh sign of the stagecoach!”
Bradan’s face split into a feral grin as he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. The rest of the company streamed out behind him in a frantic rush toward the distant cluster of adobe buildings and water troughs.
However, their exhilaration was short-lived. As they thundered into the ramshackle way station, it was to discover the place utterly decimated and devoid of any quarry.
“Crell’s hooks, no!” Bradan roared, slamming his fist into his palm. “We’re too late! The vermin have fled!”
The scene was one of utter chaos. Chipotle destroyed the provisions, leaving hitching posts and troughs smashed, and their remnants strewn about amidst piles of scattered items. Scoop knelt down, sifting through the wreckage with a grief-stricken expression.
“Hardtack…jerky…ruined. Not a scrap of food left.”
Penny stalked through the debris, nose wrinkling in disgust until her boot struck something solid. She bent down and retrieved a tarnished metal placard, brushing it off to reveal a relief image of a locomotive.
“They must have taken the iron horse from here,” she announced. “Going by rail would be the only way they could have made this much ground ahead of us.”
Bradan seethed, his face darkening several shades past its usual shamrock hue until he resembled molten slag.
Scoop gritted his teeth, hating the futility of their situation. Bradan, too, looked fit to burst as his furious gaze swept over the devastation wrought by Chipotle’s men. Finally, he seemed to deflate somewhat; the anger draining from his expression as reality set in.
Until Penny spoke up once more.
“We may still have one chance to catch them before they make the border.”
All eyes turned towards her. Standing amidst the ruined provisions, she clutched the locomotive placard with a set to her jaw.
“If we could rebuild the hand cars, then we too could take to the rails.”
A silence met her proclamation. Even Bradan seemed taken aback by her daring proposal. Finally, Scoop found his voice.
“I’m…not sure I follow, Pen. How could a few rickety hand cars possibly let us chase down a steam engine?”
Her green eyes flashed.
“With enough manpower…and, I admit, enough Mountain Dew. If we lash a few hand cars together and propel them with the crew metabolizing that caffeine…”
She let the audacious implications hang in the air. Bradan’s face split once more into that manic grin.
“Why…any port in a spit take!” he crowed. “By the green and briny depths, that’s madcap brilliance if I’ve heard it!” He threw his arms wide, clapping Scoop and Penny’s shoulders with enough force to buckle their knees.
“Well then, you scallywags best start gathering every rail dog and pump cart in this forsaken whistlestop! That liquor-legged cyclops Chipotle won’t know what hit his cabbage-scullered train once we build us a locomotive!”
The assembled pirates met his announcement with a ragged but enthusiastic cheer. Scoop shook his head in disbelief as they scattered to scour the ruins for anything resembling a rail car. Only Penny seemed invigorated by the sheer insanity of her plan, rolling up her sleeves as she moved to oversee the construction efforts.
The resulting hours became a blur of frenzied labor as they collected and lashed together any intact hand car, rail pump wagon, or even flat car with ropes.
As dusk fell over the depot, the motley rail system stood completed. The workers securely coupled five hand cars together into an ungainly train and fitted it onto the existing rail lines. In the lead car, they constructed a makeshift furnace housing using old water tanks. They stoked a blazing fire to provide a head of steam. And in the rearmost car, a small pyramid formed of empty bottles surrounded a larger cask filled with the neon green Dew.
Bradan surveyed the strange new creation. Nearby, Scoop looked on with skepticism.
“If this steam donkey is the only stallion in your stable, I fear we be fetching mercy afore the setting sun,” Scoop said.
But Bradan clapped a brawny hand on his shoulder, nearly driving Scoop to his knees.
“Have faith in Mad Penny’s methods, old salt! Why, I’ll wager a keel-haul that wee lass could make a man-o-war soar on angel’s breath alone!”
His raucous laughter echoed across the depot as Penny herself emerged from the ramshackle engine housing. She brushed her hands on her trousers, lips set in a satisfied line as she moved to join them.
“All stokers are ready to go. Once everyone’s aboard and settled for a brew, we’ll have all the power we need.”
Bradan threw his head back with a hearty belly laugh before waving her words aside.
“Well then, bugger my barnacles for taunting fate! If ever pirates were greenlit for an assault on iron and steel, so be it!”
He turned and raised his voice to his assembled crew.
“Take your positions, lads! Engine mates to your throttles while deckhands man the pumps! We’ve a schedule to keep with a Mexico-bound train!”
At his signal, the pirates scrambled into place. A grizzled old mate took his position at the engine housing controls, slowly opening values to feed the boiler’s head of steam. Another group surrounded the aft car’s Dew stockpile, each grabbing a bottle and making themselves comfortable.
Finally, after everyone was situated, Bradan boarded as well. He took one last sweeping look over the lashed-together train with its sputtering boiler and soda furnace. Then, turning to Scoop and Penny, he flashed that wolfish grin as he produced his own bottle of Dew.
“Well, then…it’s full Dew ahead!”
With a mighty twist, he upended the bottle down his gullet. His eyebrows shot up as he chugged, cheeks bulging out grotesquely until —
HHHHHUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!
A tremendous phlegm-rattling belch erupted from his lips, echoing across the depot like a peel of thunder. Behind him, his crew let out their own retorts, their combined flatulence rippling through the furnace housing to emerge as blasts of scorching vapor.
The train shuddered as if awoken from slumber. The whistle let out a piercing shriek before the locomotive lurched forward, wheels slowly gaining speed as it trundled out onto the main line.
Scoop could scarcely believe his eyes as the entire train found its momentum. Soon they had built up to a steady rumbling pace that saw the landscape whipping past in a blur.
Bradan leaned out the window, bawling laughter as he hurled taunts back at the receding depot behind them.
“Pucker up and hang on, you sods! We sail now on winds no Spaniard ever dreamed — flatulent fury of Dew-powered pirates!”
He cackled again, green teeth gleaming against his wind-whipped beard.
“Full froth ahead, lads! Toot toot and BELCH ON!”
The thundering roar of steel wheels spinning over the rails filled the air as Bradan’s burp-powered locomotive gained on the fleeing quarry ahead. Through squinted eyes, Scoop could just make out the telltale black plume of smoke rising from Chipotle’s engine in the distance.
Dark clouds had been gathering on the horizon, whipped up by an approaching storm front. The first distant rumbles of thunder rolled across the desert as fat raindrops began splattering the roof of the train cars.
“We’re closing in, mates!” Penny shouted over the din as a flash of lightning forked across the sky. “Get ready for the fight of your lives!”
Scoop’s heart pounded like a war drum as their engine car careened behind Chipotle’s cab. Not hesitating, he whipped out his grapnel line and swung across the gap, boots slamming onto the passenger car rooftop. He rolled hard, coming up in a crouch as bullets started pinging off the metal around him and cold rain lashed his face.
The Texas-sized storm was unleashing its full fury now. Howling winds whipped the stinging downpour horizontally, making it nearly impossible to keep his footing on the slick rooftops.
Sombrero henchmen swarmed up onto the rooftop and formed a defensive column before the engine cab.
A hulking brute of a man stepped forward, leveling a rusted shotgun at Scoop. “This is as far as you go, gringo!”
The deafening roar of the scattergun blast nearly deafened Scoop. He threw himself aside as a torrent of buckshot shredded the spot he’d been standing. Shrapnel slashed his cheek, and he tasted a coppery tang as blood filled his mouth.
“You missed, pendejo!” he spat, locking eyes with the gunman as he sprang back to his feet. Gripping his spork tightly, he charged with a feral yell.
Sparks flew as weapons met in a furious flurry of blows and parries. Scoop battered away the man’s shotgun with vicious overhead chops, forcing him back step-by-step across the swaying rooftop. His enemy was strong but clumsy, each counterstrike leaving another opening that Scoop exploited without hesitation.
Finally, a perfectly timed feint opened the brute’s defenses just long enough for Scoop to bury the spork’s tines deep into the meat of his shoulder. With a strangled bellow, the man dropped his gun and stumbled backward, leaving Scoop free to turn his attention to the other battles raging across the train.
It was pure chaos.
The storm raged in full fury. Scoop blinked against the stinging rain lashing his face. Lightning arced across the black clouds, accompanied by a deafening thunderclap that seemed to shake the very rails beneath their feet. Henchmen slipped and fell from the slick steel surface, only to be dashed beneath the train’s wheels.
On the next car, Penny was a blur of flashing steel. Her feet danced with preternatural grace as her cutlass wove a razor cyclone of death. One wild overhand slash was all it took to open a crimson blossom across another sombrero’s throat, his life’s essence swiftly whipped away by the howling winds.
One sombrero, overconfident, pressed his attack with a wild overhand chop. Penny simply stepped aside and opened a slick red smile across his throat with almost contemptuous ease. He crumpled soundlessly to the deck as she whirled to engage the next target.
A furious duel unfolded nearby between Bradan and a towering bear of a gunman. The captain looked like a skeletal wraith next to this muscled bulk, yet his sword became a green blur that forced the larger man backward.
Their blades clanged and screeched, ringing out over the chaos like a blacksmith’s hammer on steel. At one point, the big man feinted a clumsy horizontal slash that Bradan practically walked under. His own counter drew matching weeping slits across each of his opponent’s meaty thighs.
With a hoarse scream of agony, the giant went down on one knee, clutching the ruptured femoral arteries. Bradan didn’t even break stride. He whirled to deflect a charging attacker’s cutlass with ruthless efficiency.
All around them, Percival added to the pandemonium. The parrot swooped and dove to rake eyes, ripping gashes across every bit of exposed flesh. One particularly well-aimed strafing run left a henchman flailing sightlessly over the edge of the train to be chewed beneath the steel wheels.
Scoop raced and leapt from rooftop to rooftop, cutting a path through the melee toward Chipotle’s engine cab. At last, he took a final desperate leap and slammed shoulder-first through the cab window in an explosion of shards.
He landed hard. He rolled across the iron deck as his spork skittered away. As he blinked away daze and blood, and found himself face-to-face with Juan Chipotle himself, sneering behind the controls with saber in hand.
“You Yankee pigs just don’t quit, do you?” He leveled the blade at Scoop’s throat. “I’ll bleed you like a stuck pig, then watch while my hombres do the same to your little girlfriend out there!”
Scoop tensed, trapped against the wall. Chipotle took a step closer, his blade rising for the death stroke.
But at that moment, an impact rocked the cab as something massive slammed against the door, buckling it inward. Chipotle spun at the noise, bringing his sword up defensively as the door finally exploded in a screaming hurricane of shattered metal.
Bradan was there. He wheezed like a demonic bellow. His clothes were in tatters and his neon beard wilder than ever, his own blade rimmed in fresh crimson. For a frozen heartbeat, pirate and bandit leader locked eyes across the ruined cabin.
Then Bradan charged.
Their blades sparked and clashed with shocking force. Give-and-take, cut-and-parry, riposte-and-remise, the two masters dueled in a blinding dervish of swordsmanship stripped to its most primal ferocity. When their blades locked for an instant, their faces were mere inches apart, spittle flying and both snarling like rabid dogs.
On and on it went. Thrust and counter-thrust echoed like thunderclaps. Scoop could only watch on in awe as Chipotle gradually gained the upper hand, his superior size and brawn, beating Bradan’s blade aside repeatedly until they fought practically atop him where he crouched.
With a final bellow, Chipotle performed a devastating van dorn windmill strike that not only parried away Bradan’s desperate attempt at a stop thrust, but shattered the pirate’s sword entirely. It whined away in two separate arcs of spinning steel to clatter across the deck.
Bradan froze.
Chipotle reversed his grip on his saber and swung for the kill. “When I’m done with you, that little red puta is next!”
“Noooooo!” Scoop couldn’t help but shout, raising his hands uselessly before his face as everything seemed to slip into slow-motion.
But just as Chipotle’s blade flashed downward, unstoppable as the descent of a guillotine, the green feathered form of Percival exploded in a fury of slashing talons over Chipotle’s face. He recoiled with an unholy shriek, dropping his sword to clutch at the ruined, bleeding pits that had once been his right eye.
Scoop took advantage of the distraction to retrieve his spork and — with a grunt of purest vindication — drove it squarely into Chipotle’s groin so hard that it sunk up to the handle.
Scoop couldn’t quite mask his eye-watering empathy at the unholy shriek that erupted from Chipotle’s lips. The big man went rigid as a statue before collapsing in a pool of agony.
In the silence, Percival calmly returned to his perch on Scoop’s shoulder, giving one last dainty shake of his feathers to rid them of the bandit’s ocular gore.
Scoop heaved a sigh, glancing over to where Bradan leaned against the wall, staring wide-eyed at the tragic heap of Chipotle. Their eyes met over the body, and Scoop managed a tremulous half-smile as he held aloft his bloody spork in salute.
As the engine finally ground to a halt mere yards from the Rio Grande, the heavens above continued its blinding deluge of rain and shearing winds. But soon frantic calls and pointing fingers drew every eye skyward as the rains finally parted to reveal a brilliant double rainbow arcing over the entire scene. Its hues shone like a heavenly benediction upon them all.
Even Bradan stared up at the spectrum, oblivious to the streaks of blood and soot mingling with rain to streak his face. The pirate’s expression was one of childlike wonder, all his rough bravado washed away by nature’s simple beauty for one transcendent moment.
When Penny arrived, all Scoop could do was shake his head in a silent gesture of disbelief. She eyed the broken remains of Chipotle for a long moment before giving him a smile.
“You know…for a pathetic utensil, that spork of yours always seems to get the job done.”
After securing Chipotle’s body, Bradan, Scoop, Penny, and Percival began a systematic search of the remaining passenger cars.
“The Sensei has to be here somewhere,” Scoop said, catching his breath. “Chipotle wouldn’t have gone through all this just for some recipes.”
Bradan grunted in agreement, using his sword to lever open a jammed compartment door. As it groaned aside, a disheveled figure tumbled out into the dimly lit corridor, trussed up like a side of beef.
“Unhand me, you blackguards!” The Sausage Sensei’s eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the neon-bearded pirate looming over him.
“Easy there, silver-tongs,” Bradan replied with a lopsided grin, quickly cutting the old pit master’s bonds. “You’re among friends now — relatively speaking.”
The Sensei looked from Bradan to Scoop uncertainly, rubbing his wrists where the ropes had chafed them raw. “Friends? And just who might you lads be?”
“Name’s Bradan,” he said with an elaborate bow. “Scourge of the Baja Flats and Terror of the Lemon Reefs. This be young Scoop of the Bottlecap and Penny of the Scourge.”
The Sensei’s eyes widened as he looked past them towards the surrounding destruction. “Nice to meet all y’all. But Madre de Dios…such violence.” He shook his head slowly.
“Won’t be the last time folks put boot to bilge over your stuffed bounty, old drover,” Bradan said with a bark of laughter, slapping the Sensei’s shoulder with enough force to make him wince. “Any harbor rat with a nose for business would sell their soul after catching a whiff of one of your barbecue feats!”
Scoop fought back a smirk at the pirate’s typical lack of tact. Even after the brutality they’d all witnessed, Bradan remained steadfastly…well, Bradan.
The Sensei straightened up. “Very well then, capitán. Let’s gather whatever men and provisions remain. I think this calls for a celebration!”
As the surviving crew assembled, Scoop studied the culinary master. For a simple backyard pit master, he seemed to take the week’s harrowing events with remarkable aplomb.
They repurposed the remains of Chipotle’s train cars for an enormous bonfire. The Sensei presided over it like a 16th century wizard overseeing a sacrificial pyre, stoking the roaring flames with fierce intensity.
As the aroma of sizzling meat wafted through the air, Bradan’s pirates mingled and swapped tales of the day’s audacious pursuit and bloody battle. Scoop watched them all with a newfound sense of camaraderie.
When at last the Sensei hauled forth the first blackened, succulent brisket from the roaring pit and began slicing it into thick, quivering sheets, a hush fell over the assembly. The old pit master’s eyes burned with passion as he arranged the feast before them all like a master conductor calling his magnum opus into being.
Each delicacy unveiled made Scoop’s mouth water uncontrollably, especially the crispy beef ribs glistening with rustic espresso barbecue sauce, wild boar sausage links redolent of hickory and honey, and the charred jalapeño pepper bread glazed with garlic butter.
As the Sensei stepped back to survey his hard-won masterpiece, a raucous cheer erupted from the gathered throng. They descended en masse, all discipline and restraint abandoned as they fought to cram plates and bare hands with as much of the celebratory fare as possible.
In that moment, Scoop felt a profound sense of unity and fellowship. As they reveled in those transcendent flavors, cultural divisions gave way to a profound unity through cuisine.
He caught Bradan’s eye, who quirked an eyebrow at Scoop, licking brisket juices from his wild green beard as Percival danced happily on his shoulder. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a reverence for what they had endured to protect the Sausage Sensei’s talents.
It was about more than just recipes. They had gone through the highest highs and lowest lows, emerging with the realization that the true reward was something deeper: a communion over the simple pleasures of good food.
As Scoop accepted a heaping plate from the Sensei with a grateful smile, he silently vowed to never forget this night and the journey that led them here. Every future bite would remind him how even the most wicked pirates willingly fought to elevate this backyard pit master’s skills to the highest levels of human achievement.
The mysteries of wood smoke, rendered fat and precise seasoning, transcended the usual divides. In that moment, they all understood that such transcendent flavors could unite even warring factions in eternal satisfaction.
This massive cookout celebrated life’s most basic, unifying pleasures. Scoop would honor the profound reverence it inspired, no matter what future culinary injustices arose. As long as the sacred alchemy of smoke, heat and spice blends was upheld, nothing could spoil the simple deliciousness the Sausage Sensei fought to protect.
