The ship ripped apart the fog as it sped up its way to escape, escape the pursuer; another ship, much faster if it wanted to be, much stronger and much more powerful than the pursued. It seemed as if it was taking pleasure in making the pursued run for its life, which was bound to be almost in vain. But it seemed to continue, as steadily as it could, pursuing the former, enjoying every single cry of despair the crewmembers of the pursued gave out, every move the ship made trying to escape and every moment that brought closer the end of the pursued.
The night was dark, fog as opaque as a wall, and the pursued, a simple fluyt merchant ship, was trying as hard as it could to escape, which as I told was almost impossible, the ship that had taken them by surprise. The chase had begun from there, in the midst of the blinding fog, with no clue of bearings or of location. Crewmen aboard ran across the deck, opening this sail, closing another, doing everything in their power to escape, because fight was out of question. The merchant vessel had only six guns, three on each sides, and seen the size of the chasing ship, fight would have led to immediate defeat.
The pursuer, the pirate ship, continued it steady chase, seemingly torturing its prey before finishing it all. It followed the fluyt, not even bothering to catch up with it. It trailed the fluyt like it had its head stuck to it.
Finally, after a long last, the figure standing before the wheel of the pursuer raised its hands as a sign to stop the pursuit. Everything seemed to have gone dead silent, what could be heard was only the wind swirling into the sails and the waves clashing against the hull. The figure moved forward into the light of a candle, his long hair floating in the wind, his tricorn laid carelessly on his head, his shirt torn to display his chiseled chest, tattooed with a skull on the right and a rose on the left, there he stood. There he stood; captain of the “Hell Venturer”, Captain Richard, or more commonly known as The Predator.
He put his hand on the railing and tapped it with an air of music accompanying it with a murmur of an incomprehensible song. He halted, facing the impatient predators of the crew, he grabbed the rope which was swinging by his side and yelled “Let’s finish with it lads! Off with it!!”
This was followed by a loud cry of war given off by the deadly crew. All the lights went off, making it impossible to distinguish the ship amongst the fog. Clive returned to the wheel, proudly holding it with both hand on the gear, he watched his crew gain its post, and his guns set out and the Jolly Roger going up.
Just like a python engulfing the mouse in its body, the ship went, this time with its true speed, tearing apart the waves and piercing across the blinding fog. It sped up through the sea and in less than no time was head to tail with the fluyt. The hell venture made a slight movement to the starboard and sped up to come side by side with the fluyt. Still speeding, it turned port side, giving the fluyt a slight knock on the hull. A shot fired from the fluyt, like a cry for mercy, begging the pirate ship to leave it. But it was answered, by not one, but six shots from the Venturer. The pirates swung across the ship to land on the fluyt, cutting, ripping, and killing every man on their way. Of course, the merchants fought back, but they were pitilessly slaughtered by the barbarous pirates.
Few times later, the fight ended, without much effort, or much difficulty for the pirates. The captain and the other and the other survivors (whose numbers were really minimal) were gathered up on the deck and tied together. The ship put on fire and left there to burn, in the middle of the ocean, middle of the fog, middle of nowhere, left for dead, left to be burned alive.
The Hell Venturer continued its way, moving steadily, leaving its prey behind, sinking, sails on fire, burning pitilessly the five men left aboard, burning along the screams, the cries, the implorations of those poor sailors who shall now sea no shore, but those of death.
The pirates did not even bother gathering the merchandise of the fluyt to sell it in contraband; they only took the few bags of money and barrels of rum. Clive stood before the wheel, proud of his deed, smiling at the screams of his victims, when he shouted: “Isla Del Diablo!”
The predator moved along, leaving its prey suffering, enduring the torment preceding Death. All it wanted was to see the blood, to hear the cries, to feel the fear of one, to kill and to survive. All it wanted… was Prey for Pleasure.
