Works for Me

"Another Robert Burns, sir?"

Those first words were some what bemusing for Ransom. Gone was the mud, blood, and battlefields, which was rather a surprise for Ransom.

"Yes, thank you," Ransom replied once he had gotten his bearings, which, being an interdimensional adventurer extraordinaire, didn't take as long as it might for some others. Ransom was never one to refuse a drink in any case.

The out-of-time and out-of-space man sat at the edge of a bar on the deck of a ship, the hot sun beating down onto his pale skin. Judging by the plethora of decorations emblazoned with proud letters, this was the Titanic. Or some close approximation of it. This Titanic seemed to be a sea-faring ship and not up in the sky where it should be.

"Would you like some shade, sir?" the bartender asked, noticing the beads of sweat forming at the neck of Ransom's crisp white suit.

"If you would, thanks," said Ransom, grateful for the respite from the heat, "I dislike the heat."

The bartender pulled on a lever and a pleasing clunk signified the arrival of a large colourful umbrella opening up over the bar, it's only patron sighingin relief.

"Strange to dislike the heat in your line of work, sir. Travelling all over the world, I would have thought you would like it."

"Travelling?" asked Ransom, slightly bemused.

"Yes, sir, for your books. You are quite famous even here on the crew of the Titanic, the Never-Docking-Ship."

"Oh yes, of course, my books..." Ransom downed the rest of his drink and padded around his person for evidence of who he was here. "Nice music, by the way," Ransom said, trying to stall the eyes of the bartender who seemed to be expecting an autograph or rendition of whatever work Ransom produced.

"Yes, sir, it's Alamo Waltz. It sounds like the burlesque show is in full swing. Damn shows always take away my customers."

Ransom's hands searched through his bag, a worn and weathered canvas parcel bag slung over his shoulder, and found a hardback book.

"Burlesque?"

"Another drink, sir?" asked the bartender, eyeing the book with a smile.

"No, thanks, but I'll take a ginger beer," Ransom said as he leaves through the book, The Kingdoms of Great Mexico. It's pages were full of exciting adventures that someone, apparently he, had written.

Ransom picked up his glass of cool ginger beer and began to read through the book with great interest. Not even the sound of a klaxon disrupting the melodies of the band broke his focus on the exciting words in the pages of the book.

"By the Empire," said the bartender breathlessly.

An airship belonging to pirates, as could be identified in Ransom's book by a handy chart, launched large harpoons onto the deck of the Titanic, sending floor boards and passengers flying in every direction.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said a calm boice over a tanoy, "This is your captain speaking. We are experiencing a pirate attack. We ask you to remain calm presently. Our pilots are being launched as we a speak."

The dirty sound of diesel engines filled the air as two small planes were launched from a concealed catapult at the prow of the ship.

"It's like a tale from your books, sir."

"It's just a pirate attack. It appears to be quite normal, if I'm honest." Ransom's eyes were fixed on the planes as they danced and dived in the sky, leaving contrails in the bright blue canvas. A truely majestic sight.

"No sir, that!"

Ransom broke his view from the dogfighting and turned to see what the bartender was pointing at. Jaxx, presumably from the bright blue hair and unidentifiable drawl, was causing untold destruction and death in yet another form he had taken.

"Oh that, no that also seems to be quite common."

A precision aimed harpoon hailed from the airship in the sky and pinned Jaxx ro the deck of the ship, the blade lodged in his leg.

"Take 'em alive, boys!" said one of the pirate commanding the boarding party, "The broads, the engineers, and this big whack! The Capn' will want to see this."

"What about this Joe? Decked to the nines, he is." Ransom felt someone tugging on the sleeve of his white suit jacket. A tiny pirate wielding a Tommy gun was roughly pulling at him, a mischievous grin across the pirate's face.

"Hey, that's that writer, ain't it? Ransom what's -it?"

"Should we feed 'im to the fishes?"

"Kill me?" said Ransom, his voice oozing with sarcasm, "What a finally tuned response to the situation that would be."

"Shut it."

"Yeah, take 'im with us. Might be able to ransom him off for some quid."

The little pirate chuckled. "Ransom."

"Oh yeah," said the other pirate with a laugh, "I never noticed!"

Ransom looked back over the bar. Only the glass of ginger beer was left, the bar tender having fled the scene long ago.

Taking the glass in his hand, he was roughly shoved in the direction of a small transport plane to, presumably, be taken to the main airship.

"Should be interesting."

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