Message In A Bottle

Dearest Captain Pizz,

It's been a year since we've last seen land. The men are becoming restless and stand on the deck nightly, attempting to catch seaspray in their peeholes. I don't understand this behavior but I imagine it is simply a way to dull the pain of a dreary and mundane existence at sea.

It is for this reason that I started a drama club aboard the ship. The men are encouraged to write plays and to act them out in front of an audience of their peers.

So far this has only backfired twelve times.

Most recently, a young fellow named Tamlin staged a show in which he played the part of a deadly virus. His portrayal was so accurate and so flawlessly convincing that, ten minutes into the show, he managed to infect half the crew. Sixty men perished while vomiting up their own spines and defecating forth their still-beating hearts onto the ship's deck. Forty more managed to survive the outbreak but immediately began to gnaw off each other's tongues in a state of madness and, to this day, pretend to be fully awake when they sleep.

Other than than these small mishaps, the drama club is a huge success and has been getting rave reviews by those without scurvy. The ones with scurvy feel the plays would be better if they contained a bit more Vitamin-C.

Captain, please send us a steering wheel. It is time for us to come home.

Your friend,

Maltador Amorand