Stickyfingers sat in the corner of the steadily rocking room, gripping the hilt of his tri-edged rondel.
"Fink, boyo..." He whispered to himself... "'Ow did da Bosun do it?
He shut his eyes, visualizing the green-haired Lieutenant.
Arms raised about parallel... shoulder blades wide.
The dagger goes down-- direct, without overreaching. Like the chop of an axe... all of a Coral Boy's weight and power focused on the strike.
Aim for the leatherneck... the spot between the helm and the chestplate... fleshy bits and not bone.
Trap the weapon.
Trap the arm.
Grab at any loose clothing.
Kick the enemy in the crotch.
Spit in his stupid, f*cking face.
The Bosun taught a hundred different lessons... before, during, and even after putting Stickyfingers' own stupid f*cking face on the deck.
'Again,' He'd say...
Again... and again... and again...
