The Ink Spot, Friday, September 26, 2025

[fears_no_one]

Flint had no idea people were visiting this weekend. That would require, well, talking to people, and right now he was far too busy with his latest Charles Dickens novel.

He was sitting in the window for a small change, and the door was open, for a larger one.

The Ink Spot was open!

Comments

[calico_jack]

Jack, pockets stuffed full of whatever sort of food one could fit in one's pockets, was off for an amble in this ridiculously clean town. He stopped to snicker in approval of the name of the shop, then noticed who was in the window. "No fucking way."

He barged into the shop. "You're dead?!"

[fears_no_one]

Flint reached immediately for his pistol. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

[calico_jack]

"Burning in hell along with you, I assume," Jack retorted, reaching for his pistol in turn. "It's much cleaner than I was led to believe."

[fears_no_one]

Not for the first time, Flint wondered what the fuck Charles Vane saw in this man. "This isn't hell, you idiot," he snapped, lowering his weapon. Shooting Rackham would just be wasting ammunition. "It's Maryland. How did you get here?"

[calico_jack]

"I went to sleep in my own bed where Anne, presumably, got tired of me finally and murdered me in my sleep, and thus I arrived here," Jack said.

[fears_no_one]

Flint reached out and slapped him upside the head. "That wouldn't hurt if you're dead." Then he repeated because it clearly didn't resonate the first time, "Idiot."

[calico_jack]

"Owwww," Rackham complained, holding his head. "I've never liked you."

[fears_no_one]

"The feeling is decidedly mutual," Flint grumbled.

[calico_jack]

"Soooooo," Jack said, drawing the word out. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

[fears_no_one]

"I washed up on shore," Flint said.

[calico_jack]

"Ahh," Jack said. "You realize this isn't convincing me this isn't hell. I met a devil at the park."

[fears_no_one]

Flint looked dubious. "Of course you did," he said dryly.