The Old West fades behind him as sliding doors close and he steps onto the bridge of a merchant galleon.
“Orders, Captain?”
“Is it definitely the Black Dog?” he asks.
“Aye, sir!”
“Then bring her around and prepare the cannons.”
“But sir, she's gaining fast!”
“And we have no chance of outrunning her. I do not propose that battling werewolf pirates is the best use of a Tuesday afternoon, so I suggest blowing her out of the water before she gets any closer is our best course of action.”
“Aye, sir. Bring her around!”
The ship turns slowly, burdened as she is with heavy cargo.
“It's going to be close,” says the first mate, fear cracking his voice. They can hear the howls of the Black Dog's crew now, turning their blood to water.
“Hold steady, and prepare to fire on my command,” he says, and the mate barks the order.
Turning still, they can see sunlight glinting off sharp metal against the silhouettes of the ship's monstrous crew.
“Steady.”
The air brings them the stench of an unclean kennel, mixed with the brine of the sea and rotting meat.
“Fire!”
