It is neither the top nor bottom of the morning.

HMS Centerfold has been docked in the Beektown Port for so long that some townsfolk have begun viewing it as an extension of town: a tiny floating plot of land in the shape of a ship. Naturally, real estate speculators have come around eyeing the thing, only to be shut down upon discovering that the ol’ Capt., Sir Jiminy Akton, still plans on leaving, eventually. Yes: eventually. In the meantime, however, everyone—seamen and townsfolk alike—are cooped up in the hold, getting drunk off the local speciality (a kind of psychedelic moonshine they’ve taken to calling “Feeb”), spectating a flurry of on the board (*onboard*, more like) fistfights. The townsfolk are spending money they can’t afford to lose; the crewmembers bartering with scarce personal belongings: foreign currency, family heirlooms, etc. Among this group of rowdy bettors is the mayor himself: Freak “Yes-That’s-His-Real-Name” Cheatley, whose aggressive gambling habits have sunk the municipal budget almost 30%, and who ALSO isn’t planning on reining it in anytime soon. His gambling, that is.

Another thing: there’s no gangway to/from the ship, making it impossible to board without getting wet. Unless you’re the “corpse” of Capt. Jiminy, who’s currently being transferred via crane onto the weather deck, dangling a handful of meters over the harbour’s toxic sludge with ⅔ of his body crammed into an extremely stiff rug. Last night he got so unbelievably drunk that he collapsed, going so inert, pale and motionless that he was mistaken for a corpse. So they rolled him up into this crusty ol’ ottoman rug, which was elaborately hoisted onto this crane to be transferred, come morning, onto the ship. But now he’s awake: dazed, confused, probably suspecting major insubordination. He might be screaming, but it’s hard to say. Someone’s probably getting tossed overboard for this.