Many ships had docked during the night, but there was one that magnetically drew every eye for a bare few seconds before the owners of the eyes recovered enough to look away. Whether curiosity or disgust or even some all-consuming dread caused this reaction is uncertain, even to those who have experienced the sensation. Some may discredit this feeling as superstition, and I had not blamed them until I too saw the ship that people dare not speak of whilst it claims safe harbor. The hull a dark tarry gray-black, charred on much of the outer surface; ragged once-white sails with rusty-red blotches spread throughout; an ivory figurehead depicting a bald creature with arms crossed along it’s chest and dangling tentacles wrapping themselves around the bow of the boat; and etched in beautiful silver filigree on the starboard side, the name of the ship: Siren. The townspeople knew what the presence of this daunting edifice meant: Captain Charlie was collecting his crew once more.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
   “Live or die, dude?” the friendly local hangman whispered to the condemned. No one in the crowded audience heard the mumbled question nor the reply.
   “You know the answer to that.” Indeed, the entire town knew the answer.
   A few weeks ago, a man had contacted local law enforcement. He claimed to know the identity of a dangerous serial killer running loose in the village. The trackers had sensed no nearby signs of hostile intent, but the readers found the source to be entirely truthful. The information seemed disproportionate to their evidence, and authorities were flummoxed. The informer had listed a couple dozen men, several children, and even a few owls found missing during the last thirty years. He offered the murderer on the condition that the vile creature be executed by drowning in holy water. After bribing a young priest for the needed amount of substance, the executioner quickly and almost gleefully accepted the terms. Effervescent laughter had spilled from the young informant. He boasted of being the criminal mastermind behind the murders, giving detailed descriptions of how he'd done it. The readers and historians had checked and had proven the veracity of the assumed maniac’s confession. The dumfounded law enforcement team set the execution date: they fully intended to follow through with their side of the deal. The town prepared for the celebration: hadn’t had a good execution for some time.
   “Last chance, dude: live or die?” the compassionate conveyor of death bound the captive’s wrists.
   “Do I really get a choice?” the man asked with raised eyebrow. The executioner just laughed.
   “Nah, dude. I just wanna hear you say it.”
   “Then I choose number two: die.”
   “But why, man?”
   “Better me than you.” The condemned shrugged. “If you catch my drift.”
   “Whoa, dude. Touchy, aren’t we? Nah man, I meant why  all this.” He waved to all the instruments used by the prisoner for killing and then to the tank below the killer’s feet.
   “Everyone needs a hobby.” The crowd began to get antsy and impatient, so the executioner slipped a noose around the convict’s throat, ‘just making sure the job gets done.’
   “If the water doesn’t kill me, do you really think a rope will?” the soon-to-be-dead flinched as a pickle hit him in the eye.
   “Hang the traitorous blighter!” the owner of said pickle hollered.
   “All right, dude, chill out.” The hangman turned to his rather civil-seeming victim. “You been cool, so any last requests, man?”
   “Could you tell pickleman a few things after I take the plunge: ‘nice shot; great choice of projectiles; and the word you want is treacherous, not traitorous.’”
   “No problem,” the hangman chuckled before facing the audience once more. “Hey all you chicks and dudes, you ready for the best. . .” he called out only to be interrupted.
   “Kill the banger, already!” The release mechanism was kicked by the deliverer of justice with an offended-sounding ‘dude’ thrown in to vent his frustration. The prisoner fell with a snap and a sploosh. Unfortunately for the criminal (and, indirectly, the pickle-thrower), neither sound was as it was first perceived. The snap was not the man’s neck, but the rope around it; and the sploosh was very holy, but not quite water.
   “Dude!” screamed the righteous guy who kills bad dudes. Someone had seriously offended his sensibilities.
   “Apparently, I was too late,” sighed the most definitely not-dead bad guy in the tank of ‘holy’ lime gelatin. The wrinkled hand resting on his shoulder only confirmed his worst fears.
   “Aye, much too late,” the owner of the hand said. “Cap’n Charlie aint gonna let little Dulcy go so easily: you be the best cabin boy extortion can buy.” The creepy old man grinned inches from ‘little Dulcy’s’ face.
   “Of course, Richie,” Dulcy replied before wincing. The gelatin had burned away most of his lower body and half his face. ‘Holy’ lime gelatin might not be the same as the water, but they possess enough similarities to hurt one such as Dulcimer, cabin boy of Siren. Richie cackled, then quickly and efficiently collapsed the convict’s windpipe with a sharp punch to the throat.
   “Dude!” a very distraught voice complained. “I was sposed to kill him. Now I won’t get paid, cuz you stole my job.”
   “He aint being dead,” Richie explained, tossing the struggling Dulcy out of the tank. “Just needed him calm, and they don’t get calmer than that.” Richie pointed to the now unconscious body. He used a long knife to prod the throat into usable shape and sever the vocal cord.
   “Fer yer troubles.” Richie tossed the executioner a large sack. “Twenty silver and a separately packaged bar of prickly pear board wax. Surf’s up.” With a wave of his wiggling pinky and thumb, Richie left with the severely burned cabin boy heaped over his shoulder.
   “Surf’s up,” the executioner breathed, stunned. He turns to the crowd. “Looks like plans have changed, people.” Predictably, a pickle sailed through the air to whap against the hangman’s face.
   “We were promised an execution!” the obnoxious pickle-thrower raged.
   “True dat, man,” the executioner-dude agreed. He snapped his fingers and indicated the man who will never throw another pickle. “Guards!” The haste in which they complied negated the opportunity for resistance. The guards attached the man to the guillotine.
   “The head-chopper, hmm? Nice choice guys,” The hangman turned headsman said to the guards.
   “Everyone,” he began. “Countdown! Ten, nine. . .” The crowd joined in enthusiastically. The executioner headed over to the pickleman.
   “Oh yeah, the last dude up here wanted me to tell you. . .”