Searchin' in his bin o' rubb-a-dubbz, ZMSG found inspiration in TomSawyerr'thad'ed. The BlumpKing with'n aw0ke. wh00t'er'duh blowfish. His eyes dart to a lovely gal passin' him in the street'z. A sly twitch of the port'r side Brow of the bow, as he breathe'nz enz his pride of his own culture. He remembers the gunship wasn't remember't for the handcannon'z. It was his attitude and ethicK. 'e doth when't on his own tugboat mission in search of why he found his family back on the shores of the Kin'dread. He start't a 'member'n somethin' about waterfall'z n whizkey'z hooterz, n hollerz, and findin'n peace with'n. He slow'ter down with a shift in his inner pace, lookin'n to sea if'n there was a catch, somethin' to plow, someone to pork, someone to poke, or someone 'terDump. He realized, this was the work of his 4fatherZz. 

Somethin'n bout a duelreKterd began playin'n ZMSG'z 'aed'o'dee 'ed'z. Feckin'n O'Reilly'z. Givin'n berth'a dese damm't'if'ay doo and damm't'if'ayy don't. A Catch 22! His keys be changin'n pitch and tone too fast'fer duh gander'n guffaw'erz. He prompt'erd'ly size't up the lass wanderin'. Attractive. But how fast was she? Port throw'z the pitch. Timed2'ea starboard side step in, the southpaw strait konnect'z with the lass'z purse. The pocketbook is thicc'. Easy to feel out, easy to locate. He clickz his tongue rather loudly to start off a chain reaction of event'z. With a humm to his own drumm as he release'z 'is n'ert worry about the queer'eYe't 1'z question'n his faith in Clay soils, and a fondness of the colour red. Visibility for one. But maybe the next paragraph of this USS ZMSG'z chapterDz. Port'rd boot turnz'oot n'a 'brupt step, off the h33l off-course. Port'rd thumm'drumm'z ferta' guudz. Thicc' wallet, ez'ku'hah McNabber. The McHawkShot was a kriti'kd hit, the handkonnen sends off a message to the inner'd pocket sat outside'a his vest pocketT. Pocketbook exchange complet't, he sits into starboard kicker as port'r heel becomes toe. Starboard anchors, winds up, and the pitch is off. He keeps his inner't'un'n tunnel down his own query'eyed'channel. Breez'tan'z tech stood up in full force as a minor Fowl had hooter'd. But who what the hooter, and who was the collar? What colours were they? Vessel'z change, but a true kin'2a Pirate Sailor is findin'n'er 'armory inna kneeZ. 

The attractive lass wasn't far off't'erdz draw. But this was the Briga'deer'et General'z Gunn, that just so happen'ta be a Sunn of a Nunn as well. The Sleuth't up for the s'loop'tuf gypt'sea'z, a practicin'n the waters of the midwester'nly manner'is'm'z. A hunch had been had, and her hunch was correct. This was indeed, the wing'nutt'est of the win'n'whingen weiner'z. The Konn his Gahd-Dayum Self. The GnarKotikz set sail as he had lit a handroll't spliff to help release his inner worr'ee'z. MickFolk and Sicilian'z do intermingle the way his fingers motion't wit' his own sail'z flappin' and flippin'n a wind. She sudden'ly th'rew'd'ow'n'terDutch and rush't a starboard to3, feet'nt set but she handle't her bag with the ease of gree'ze of a pigglet'z back in an slow roast. The Base't Baste't Bast'erd'ly felt a breeze, until 1 of his 51 gunnz salut'ut't. Star brow of the bow yiel'tz up'werd'zly. The Konnect't Kutt'er turn'ta shore. The gypt'sea was furious today. Her port'r side hand held the kannon, but kannon versus konnen lead'z to a ROFLstawmp'n. Alas, the durden shore show'nt eet'z swang. Port'rd Kannon unleashes 2 .45 shot'z, as if the Gen's Gen of the General's Gunn couldn't keep time with his toes. He was alreaddy halfway duck't off behin'a tree by the time the first shot had rung. 

Such a shame to have to kill such a pretty lass. 

Bang bang, lighter than the lightnin' of a crack from 'an Gun. Seem'sterd'bee 1 or 7 of the 51 nunnz'n'tha'Drummz let out some fire for the Bellend'z Vis'terd. Sternside of the vessel remain'z up'werdz'erly as he sits into his newfound slumphole'n'a wall. The cold feelin' of cool't off concrete upon his Bear'z'tha'cuvver'tKinna back. His overcoat had swung a'topp'n his starboard side should'r. Whom'st'ever'terda commision't 'his wHack0ez job was klever'ly a kutt above the rest of the 'jypht. Remember'n his Phyluhm'a'Drumma'z were alway'z'tha gunn'n kunn'z'o'steal. But this seem'terd'bee a matter of crossin'n dock'z ter'der port'r'dz. Visible light spectruhm'a alway'z zZhin'ES tThru. So ZMSG relight'z his spliff and walk'zterd'a scene of the sack. Sack'ter for the roccin' kicker' stickin' know'ma'daddily doodle'z all dipsy-damm't day long stood stern as ZMSG approach't. He report'rd what he had scene'n'herd, good Lad this'n was. But did we have a confirm't Durdyy on our handz? The 51 drummsalute was sent to handle the sitch, so the Sleuth't GunShip tugg'z'tzelf on down the query't canal, searchin' for somethin' bout a rule book or summthinn'. Like a code that was hand't down to the generation below them. He suddenly remembr't before the last gunship set sail upon these shores. He had been sittin' atop his kin'z spot in the Fall'z ferda Famiglia had decided that maybe clean money was the way to go. But the gunshipp PHounded himself in the space where a certain doc'tuh had a certain charmm'n nature to her own inner't stream. The crack of a whip hittin' the ChiTown soundz at the time of that space scent'a'scent up ZMSGz spinal chord. His brain reharmoniz't n'fun'd it's personal flow once more. The bow of the Bow went stern and return'z to centerstage. The lady found herself bein' drug along by 14 kid'z utilizi'n onn'a dem ZkipRopeZ. The Loom'o'Shank'zH03z return'z

An alleyway presents itself in the beautiful queery'ey't KanaL of these street'z of our'z. Bless't b'toot'dee Signals of our Sea'z

Void listened with great attention to the oration of the Thug about his recent encounter, and was lost deep in thought as a result.

He struggled to make out the true meaning of what was being said, in this way it kind of reminded him of that ancient tome Systematic Immolation of Thought which he had recently tried to pick up in the Detroit Public Library (and had once again failed to grasp). Much like that work of art, the oration he had just had the privilege of witnessing probably also contained some deeper meaning that was begging to be understood, but was out of reach for Void's short arms.

Though Void really had trouble making out its contents, he was convinced it did have the certain kind of quality to it that any good work of poetry has. It was lyrical in a way, the passages flowed like a river and were slowly pulling you in, forcing you to drift along its strong current. The wordsmithing at display here was something akin to the dactylic hexameter employed by ancient Homer in its effects, it lended ENERGY to the tragedy.

Void was too scared of making himself look like an ass by making any dumb comments, so he just nodded, smiled and clapped profusely.

The sleth't up GunShip USS ZMSG stood toe'z up slump't'n'a'hump on the trunk of a stairway. Rollin'n his own coughi'n GaSS, the spliff jigg'd fer Glee.

Grazie! Grazie!

Port'r'Terded to3 return'z to countin' time