Grand Voyage- Log 2

Log 2: The Stuff in a Name
“I said I was sorry,” the young man moaned, several large lumps having formed on his face. He was bound by thick brown ropes and had been sat down back in the viewing room. Opposite him sat D’Artagnan, four veins still popping unpleasantly.

“No, no,” the money lender sighed, rubbing his forehead, “it was my fault. I shouldn’t have been so harsh on you, even if you are a thief. I’m just-” he tightened his grip on the hilt of one of his knives “-a bit protective of my money.”

“Then why are you always lending it out?” the boy asked, “wouldn’t you run out faster that way?”

“No,” D’Artagnan replied, “because whoever I lend money too has to pay me back eventually, usually with more money than I lent them.”

“If they have to pay back more anyway, then why do they even borrow some anyway?”

“It’s usually to start a business or something like that. As long as they pay me back, though, I don’t care what they use the money for.”

“Where’d ya get all the money?”

“I’m a traveller. A lot of the money I came here with came from the last island I stayed at.” D’Artagnan chuckled, “They were pretty rich there.”

“Wellllll,” the marimo boy drawled a tiny bit, “why are you trying to get all this money then? It looks like you’re pretty rich already.”

“I’m not rich enough yet. And besides, with the taxes on this house, I’ll be staying here another few weeks.”

“Taxes?”

“Enough!” D’Artagnan thundered, “I’m gonna end up explaining how the economy of the world itself works!”

“Don’t be stupid,” the lad replied, “even I know what the economy is.”

“Oh really?” the money-lender asked, raising an eyebrow, “what is it then?”

“Something to do with trees, right?”

“NO!”

“Excuse me, sir?” came the manservants voice. D’Artagnan stalled from sending his sandal into the marimo lad’s face and looked over at his butler.

“Yeah?”

“The workmen just finished painting the ship. I presume you would like to see it?”

“All right!” D’Artagnan cried, pumping his fist into the air, “I’ll be right there!” He started to move towards the door, when he stopped, and glanced back at the young man (who was busy blowing bubbles with his spit for some reason). “Well, it would be too dangerous to just leave you here,” the blonde man sighed, grabbing the brown ropes and tugging the lad after him.

“No!” the marimo boy cried, “I almost got it to the size of a baseball that time!”

Back at the cafe, the same waitress who was speaking to the boy earlier cried out as a plate sailed by her head and smashed into the wall. She looked up, fear in her eyes, as she gazed at a small cadre of men sitting at a table, laughing and yelling whilst guzzling more sake.

“Please, sirs, if you could just-” another plate went flying by her head. She let out a small whimper and ducked beneath the counter.

“Shuttup!” one of the men yelled, “We’re under the protection of the Cazzuto Family! And if Don Cazzuto finds out you talked back to us....” The men cackled sinisterly. “Now, now,” came a smooth, silky voice. It came from a rather tall, thin, and a bit snakelike man who was wearing a cobalt blue jumpsuit, and had blonde hair splayed all over his head, “you boys all know that I’m the only one who reports to Don Cazzuto-sama.”

“B-but of course, Ice John-san,” stumbled one of the men, “we wouldn’t be defying you, would we?”

“Of course not,” Ice John purred, leaning back and sipping from his water bottle again.

“Trouble! Trouble!” yelled the cook as he dashed out of the kitchen, causing all eyes to focus on him, “We’re running incredibly low on supplies! That punk kid ate ‘em all!”

“No more sake?!” the men howled, reaching for the pistols attached to their waists, but halted when Ice John brought his water bottle down on the table with a thud. Silence quickly returned.

“Some kid ate all the food?” Don Cazzuto’s right hand man hissed, standing up and walking over to the waitress and cook, “tell me his name.”

“W-we don’t know,” the waitress stammered, “h-he never gave it.”

“I see,” the gangster grumbled, rubbing his chin, then leaning forward again, “then tell me what he looks like.... and where he is.”

“Woah!” the marimo boy cried, his eyes reassuming their star appearance, “cool~!”

He and D’Artagnan were standing on the edge of the island, a small beach that ended abruptly and lead straight into a deep ocean. In front of them was a large ship, with light tan wood and the railings painted a cheery blue. A large assortment of blank white and black sails sat proudly on the top, and a large pole with a crow’s nest on top wound its way between them, sticking out on top of the ship. The mast, in the shape of a almost cartoonish skull with a pirate’s hat placed jauntily on it, pointed out proudly in the front.

“A beauty, ain’t she?” the money lender said proudly, almost glowing with joy, “I won ‘er a few months ago, back on the last island. Took me a while to get the right people to make her fit for sailing.”

“Can I have it?!” the boy asked excitedly.

“Of course not!” D’Artagnan snapped, sending his sandal into the marimo’s face, “it’s MY ship! Not yours!”

“But why would you need a ship this huge?!” the boy complained as the sandal dropped, leaving an imprint in his face, “with your business you could probably just leave in a smaller ship or something!”

D’Artagnan sighed. Why did the punk kid have to ask so many questions. “Have you ever heard of the One Piece? The greatest treasure in the world?”

“Yep,” the boy replied offhandedly, “I’m looking for it.”

“Well, I wanna go find it, and then, with all that money, I can YOU WHAT?!” the money-lender’s eyes popped in shock.

“Yeah!” the lad continued, “I’m a pirate, after all!”

“A PIRATE?!” D’Artagnan’s eyes were replaced with swirls, “who the hell are you?!”

“Dhahaka D. Knave,” the kid revealed, “pirate extraordinaire!”

“Well, er, I guess its nice to meet you Kna- DHAHAKA?!” the money lender’s eyes popped again, “YOUR LAST NAME IS DHAHAKA?!”

“Yeah.” Knave said simply, before returning to oggle at the ship, while D’Artagnan sulked in the corner and mumbled to himself.

Calm down, calm down, he thought frantically, there’s no way, no way. His mom or dad probably named him that without knowing. No way anyone’s actually related to that-

“Hey, you!” came a rough, gutteral voice from a few feet away. D’Artagnan straightened up, hands reaching for his knife hilt, while Knave attempted to spin around as well, but due to his binding, tripped and fell into the dirt.

Several of the rough men from the bar earlier stood there, leering and pointing pistols at the two. Their leader, notable only because of a massive, brown-ish scar on his face, sneered and spat at them.

“You dere! Ta green one! You da one who took all the food, ‘ight? Yew know who aowns that cafee? Dis town?”

Ah, crap, D’Artagnan thought, this kid’s gonna get me killed.