Fiction Friday - Pieces o' Eight

Tweet Here's my attempt for this week's Fiction Friday challenge on the Write Anything blog, also submitted to the Friday Flash collection. The prompt was;

“Include a telepathic parrot in your story..”

"What shall we do with the drunken sailoooooooooooooooooooooooooor!"

Captain Scarlight lurched across the street. His voice cracked as he held the already-flat note. He threw his arms around a lamp post for balance.

"Well helloooooo, Mistress Gaslight! Sooooo good to see ye!"

A parrot swooped down to the nearest windowsill in a flash of crimson and electric blue. It cocked its head on one side, watching the captain dance around the post.

"Thusie! Ye made it!" cried the pirate. He clung to the lamp post. He tried to haul himself upright as he saluted the parrot with his free hand. The bird rolled its eyes and clicked its tongue.

For the seventy sixth time, my name is Methuselah.

"Don' do that 'talk in me head' thing. ‘S weird," said the captain. He shuddered.

Your men asked me to intervene in your escapade, thought the parrot. 

"Awwww they spoil me fun!" shouted Captain Scarlight.

Several couples enjoying the early evening air crossed the street to avoid the drunken pirate shouting at his bird. A woman reeled in shock when the parrot put its wings on its hips.

Samuel, you're in very grave danger of embarrassing yourself, and subsequently me, thought Methuselah.

“Ye need to....loooooosen up!” The captain shook his fist at the parrot.

A young man in an apron appeared at the window behind Methuselah. Flour dusted his hands, and streaked his hair.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“What do you want, pipsqueak?” The captain staggered across to the window. He slammed his fists onto the sill. The parrot fluttered out of the way, landing on Captain Scarlight’s shoulder.

“Why are you shouting at that bird? Is it yours?” asked the youth.

“Aye! What’s it to ye?”

“Well why are you shouting at it?”

“Am not! We’re havin’ a con-ver-sa-tion,” replied the captain. He enunciated each syllable carefully.

“You’re...you’re talking to your parrot?”

“No, he’s talkin’ to me.”

I do wish you wouldn’t persist in laying the responsibility upon me, Samuel, thought Methuselah.

“Shurrup, I’m talkin’ here,” said the captain. He wagged a finger at the parrot.

"You're telling me that you can hear that bird talking?" The youth stared at the parrot.

"Aye!"

"Say something then." 

The youth folded his arms. Methuselah rearranged his wings, and puffed out his chest.

"PIECES O' EIGHT!"