Choose rum. Choose piracy. Choose a sword. Choose a crew. Choose
a big, swashbuckling ship, choose a compass, black sails, flags, and
cannons. Choose good health, high blood alcohol, and burial at sea.
Choose buried treasure. Choose a cabin. Choose your enemies. Choose a
bandana and matching beard. Choose battling the East India Company and
wondering how they found you on a Sunday morning. Choose standing on
that fo'c's'le watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing dice games,
stuffing sea turtles into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of
it all, pishing your last on a desert island, nothing more than an
embarrassment to the first mate who mutinied to replace you. Choose
your future. Choose piracy.