Dead Lovers Tell No Tales

10 de julio Anno Domini 1693

Sweetest Gwenne,

The salt sprae of the morning and the bright copper sun off the Yaran cove brought todae a terrible sobrietie; a shame for the actions of my evening. Ye can guess it, can ye not? For how else shall a man, burdenned with a lust aflame within his chest, spend of an evening alone in his quarters, once the bosun and the porter had rang the bell? I dream’d of caves, sweet Gwenne, darling Gwenne, wet, dark caves yawning wide and swallowing me up.

A Spanish nobelman shall not comport himself in an un-Godly manner, or so my God-damned father told me. But he was not betwixt us in that cave, was he, my darling? Alone we were, and the beast within me was freed of its cage, and ye loosed yourself upon me like an animall of your own, lithe and slender and deadlie with your little bytes and kisses and gassps of hot whisky breathe. O through your breeches how warm and wet you were that I could not but slip my fingers up into ye, my sweet little jagwar...

...Whenever I meet God himself in Heaven (or that other fellow in Damnation) I shall regale Him with my proudest momente, of feeling you shudder as the crashing waeves of Poseidón as I rubb’d and scour’d over and over again unto your howling come-off. And ye, mi gatita, shall ye tell of your slender fingers set to searching my pantaloons until they burst their seams and my fat horne lay quivering in your palm, readied to fire as a cannon primed and loaded?

I must needs recall that your goal is my capture, or barring that, my deathe, and this I cannot and shall not abyde. But I know, my whisky-swilling fuck kitten, that ye are fairely panting with desyre at the thought of reprising the events of that night. So I enjoyn ye, my love, meet me in Jamaica. We shall cast off the old world, make of the Caribbean territories our own Carnivale of Venezia, and answer to no Man or God. Will ye do it?

Do not make me waite, darling Gwenne. I shall die of it.

Tuyo en pasión,

Ignacio

the 8th of Januarie 1694

My Deare former hart Ignasio Iggie,

Plaine and cleare our Barbaydose trip was a walk in hell becose of your idiocie. In Jamaica, Hispaniola, Marigalante, and Martineek we were truly as one. But not in Barbaydose.

First to fall was your cock. In litill tyme it was all dry in-and-out with me, where you fumbled, having no ink in your pen left. All becose of the admeeral's gunne Petit Mort.

I knoe it took you by surprise to find me with the admeeral, bot you should not have his Petite Mort gunne all for yourself. It would faire better in my hand, so nachurally I went to him to make the gunne mine. Bot the companie of a finer gentleman with a beautiful whore-pipe distracted me. Hung like an ass was this admeeral with a pair of plums I could not keep out of my mouthe. Bot did you have to kill the man?

Befor you pushed into the chamber the admeeral worked me like labour leather and I begged for more, having not been pleased by your fumbler of a spigot, and so he licked up my cunny jelly as though starved for years. Like a press-gang I pushed him to climb aboarde again to navigate my windward passage, and I am not speeking of the seas or his ship, though he is a true man-of-war from what I seen and felt.

This is not an affronte bot a challenge to duel - your dagger against my clam, come get your pearl and prove you are not juste a greedy fumbler. Where is my wooden knight from the deep dark cave that opened me like a flower, kept me wet and encercled? My hart breaks at the thought of your flat wick, and the gunne you favour in your hand more than my bosom…Most possibly not yours any longer

Gwen.

15 de marzo Anno Domini 1694

Moste unchaste hija de puta Gwenne,

I have sent men to their Creator, screeming their throtes bloody for mercy I would not grant, for offering unto me far smaller insult than ye have done.

I remind ye that I am knowen at all pointes of the compass as El Calavera, King of Yara, the Black Son of Spain, and that the meer mentioning of the name Capitán Ignacio Corso sends every milk-pail north of Nassau a-scurreeing back to his mother’s filthe. And yet, though ye not be deserving of it, I am preepared to make proof how magnanimus I can bee.

Think for a momente, my littel gin-soked wylde-cat, of the power we could hold over these ripe territories. I may yet gifte your sweete-meats again with my coral branche and strike soundings in the full depths of your bellie, and ye may yet find yourself a-clutching the finest gift El Calavera can give.

Your Iggie proposes a union. Sweet as a mangoe our partnership might bee, if ye have but the mind to take a byte.

Ignacio

the 10th of June 1694

My deare hart Ignasio Iggie,

Your proposul of mairrage was truly welcome, and the food and whiskey and wine and rhum and knife throeing did earne my hart. Bot in truth, I always had knowne it would come.

What I had not knowne was your finest gift unto me, as you said, would not be the Petite Mort gunne but a CHILD. I have no need of a child, not now or ever. I have need of equelity in our fuchure mairrage.

I asked you to shair Skull Cave as our home. No, you said. I asked you to shair that Barbaydose admeeral's gunne. You cursed it. Cursed! In mairrage, must be equels not adversaries. What is yours is mine. It is marriage law. As equels, I would surrender my commisshun to take you into my custodie and throw you to the bony lion, the King of England himself. IF are you my loving husband.

Before we wed we muste reach a aggreemint--bothe must rool as Captains of one ship by bothe holding La Petite Mort.

Your loving fiancee while I breath till deathe,

Gwen.