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The Tuborg Beard Incident

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Captain Jack Sparrow swaggered across the deck towards his fine and fair, commodorial captive (freshly taken from a defeated Dauntless and still fuming about it). He found himself unable to stop his lips from forming a smirk, and it grew when he saw it echoed on several of his crewmembers’ faces. The prisoner just glared at him. Ah, but it was always such fun, having James Norrington as a ‘guest’.

“Well, well, Commodo…”

The strange popping sound reached his ears half a moment before a feeling similar to a thousand pinpricks engulfed his chin. Almost instantly it was gone again. If not for the collective gasp from all around him and the oddly cool feeling around his chin he might very well have discounted it.

A second popping sound – and Jack’s hand was moving even before the pinpricks returned, this time assailing his upper lip. But when he touched his face, they were already gone, and all he felt was a smoothness that would not have been out of place on a baby’s behind, but most certainly was it on the face of this particular fearsome buccaneer.

At first he groped at the lower half of his face with both hands, desperately and in vain seeking just a single, tiny hair. Then he began angling his neck strangely, grimacing, opening his eyes so wide that they nearly rolled out of their sockets – all in an attempt to assess the damage without the benefit of a mirror. Eventually he pulled at his upper lip and looked down, but all there was to be seen was paleness left by many years worth of protection from the sun.

Surrounded by the silence of living, breathing people, Jack took some moments to steady himself. Then some more, then yet a few. Eventually – very eventually – he slowly, slowly, very slowly lifted his head to face both crew and captive, feeling more naked than he ever had when he had merely been surprised in his birthday suit.

***

Elsewhere and elsewhen, a young man lowered his bottle of Tuborg Classic and let a hand glide appreciatively over his new acquisition. It felt nice, like it would lend him a certain roguish charm. Three barstools to the right along the circular bar, another young man – this one sporting a great, big, black beard, probably many years his senior – raised his bottle and smiled. The first young man grinned and returned the gesture, then drank some more beer.