The Miniscule Victory of Davy Jones

The latest level of treatment against Cutler Beckett by the crew had angered Jones, for he decided it had been long enough for the cursed man to receive such punishment. For once Jimmylegs had been the one to bear the sting of his whip for the level of sadism he had taken with the newest crewman, and thus the crew was warned clearly to mind their behavior of Beckett from now on, and that their playtime with him had ended.
The next day, Beckett was released from his shackles with the jibe that he must not run away lest he be denied table scraps. He half believed they were really telling the truth. His first night away from the brig was also the first night in almost a week that he was given a bunk, and he was grateful for it. As uncomfortable as it was, it was dry and relatively clean. He was even given clothes and a position on the ship, though he was often chastised for his poor skills at manual labor. He had never had to do this in his entire life, and the only physically strenuous work he had ever had to do in previous training was using a rapier, a pistol, and his dick.
Previous experience now all thrown out the window, he predicted internally that he would now become an errand boy and the ship’s wench, if the rest of the crew had any say the matter. Head always bowed and gaze always lowered, Beckett did whatever the crew and its captain told him too, and he always tried to immerse himself in the job, for hoping he would be rescued was never going to bear fruit and neither would any attempts at escape. He was sworn to the Dutchman and there he would stay for the next one hundred years. Even so, Beckett would feel the burning eyes of his compatriots against him at all times, their vicious desires clear on their faces and never ending. Despite the warning Jones had given, he often contemplated latching himself to the interior of the hull much like Wyvern had done long ago, just to sleep away the years and eventually forget he was ever the pathetic, tormented man that he was.
Though Hadrus knew a thing or two about medical training from his grandmother in his native China, he was not exactly gentle when examining the wounds given to Beckett by the reprimanded boatswain. He had managed to yank the hollow spine from the man’s urethra, though it was with great pain because sea life and morphing flesh had begun to fuse with the penetrating spike. The removal left a nasty hole in his wake, though no sign was given as to the need of cleaning the open wound.
Beckett found that his transformation had slightly increased with his loss of hope and again he found himself lingering alongside Wyvern, his arm unmoving and holding a lantern. Most of the time the old unfortunate man remained motionless, talking only for a minute at most and then resuming his wooden statue of a state, silent for hours following. The hibernating creature proved once again that hope was useless. In that realization, Beckett felt several spines pop out from his arms.
Within a passing of the moon’s phases, Beckett had become used to the demands of the Flying Dutchman. He continued his slow transformation with little to no surprise, though his changes had made him slightly unnerved every time he looked at his reflection. More recently, the left side of his face had become significantly different. He could see the faint beginnings of rough little thorns growing from the surface, and the skin itself had become scaly. Beneath his long, scraggly black hair, he could feel similar horns sprouting on the scalp. Spines were forming where the stitches on his lip once had been and the beginnings of fins were peeking out of the flesh on his right leg and arm. The pupil of his left eye resembled that of a seahorse. He only accepted it with misery, but he had to admit it was at least better than the rapes.
One morning, Jones did not see Beckett at his usual post. Glowering, he ordered Maccus down into the sleeping quarters, where the first mate found the newest recruit curled up in his bunk, moaning.
“C’mon, bum-boy,” the shark like man ordered unsympathetically. “Get up before I ram my axe up your arse.” Beckett only moaned again, as though in pain. Lifting a hairless eyebrow, Maccus grabbed the younger man by the shoulder and turned him on his back, expecting the wretch to be experiencing a harsher mutation than usual. Slowly, wincing as he did, Beckett uncurled himself.
The younger crewman’s left arm looked to be broken, and he held it tenderly, whimpering like a puppy. But as the first mate continued to watch, the arm began to voluntarily move in the places where it was cracked. Quite literally the skin itself, hard and calloused, looked cracked, and the edges where the breaks had formed were growing little thorny bones. The limb began to curl like a seahorse’s tail and Beckett cringed.
Heavy footsteps descended on the stairs and the captain appeared next to his first mate. Staring with the other two men, he slowly began to laugh at the sight.
“Pick him up,” Jones ordered Maccus, “and put him on the dock where he belongs.”
Giving a razor-sharp grin, the first mate lifted Beckett by the collar of his loose fitting shirt and dragged him up the steps.
“Please no… oh God, please…” Beckett sobbed, cradling his agonizingly bending arm.
But God had no place here and did not answer. As the crew began making lewd faces at the younger recruit, Maccus set Beckett down and ordered him to get back to work. Tears still flooding his now uneven eyes, the man who had once been the proud and mighty Cutler Beckett did as told, as another trace of his human identity had been stripped away from him like the bodice of a harlot.
Giving a long, silent sigh and feeling a salty tear fall down his face, he grasped a line of rope with both hands and he felt more horns sprout from his skull in time with his pain. How appropriate for one who had made this hellish deal with the devil.
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The End.