Fishing Tournament Turned Sea King Tango
The Red Force cut through the Grand Line's sapphire waters, its sails billowing under a sky so blue it hurt to look at. Shanks, perched on the mainmast crossbeam with a tankard of rum in hand, bellowed to his crew: "Fishing contest! Prize is this—" He held aloft a grotesque golden tuna statue cobbled from driftwood and slathered in gilt paint, its googly eyes spinning wildly. "—and eternal glory! Rules? There are none!"
The crew erupted. Yasopp polished his rifle with a manic grin, Lucky Roux brandished a ham leg like a scepter, and Bonk Punch tuned his ukulele to a shanty that didn't exist. Mihawk leaned against the railing, nursing a goblet of wine, his expression suggesting he'd rather duel a hurricane. Marya stood apart, mist curling idly around her fingers, while Jelly quivered with excitement, his gelatinous body refracting rainbows across the deck.
Chaos Ensues
Yasopp fired first—a single, triumphant shot that pierced the waves. "Got one!" he crowed, reeling in his catch… which turned out to be Bonk Punch's ukulele, now sporting a bullet hole through its soundboard.
"MY BABY!" Bonk Punch wailed, cradling the instrument. "That was a vintage 'Ode to Drunken Mermaids' model!"
"Whoops," Yasopp said, not sorry.
Lucky Roux, undeterred, dangled his ham leg over the side. "C'mere, fishy-fishy…" A shadow rose beneath the waves—a colossal Sea King with scales like molten brass and breath that reeked of week-old sushi. It lunged, not for the ham, but for Jelly, mistaking his shimmering form for a sentient dessert.
SLORP.
The beast's tongue sandpapered Jelly from head to toe, leaving him glitter-slobbered and giggling. "Bloop! T-Tickles!"
Marya's mist surged on instinct, tendrils coiling around the Sea King's snout. But the creature sneezed, blasting a bubble the size of a cannonball that engulfed Building Snake mid-swing of his hammer. The shipwright floated helplessly inside, hammering the bubble's walls with a coconut.
"This is beneath me," Mihawk muttered, slicing Lucky Roux's fishing line with a flick of Yoru. The ham leg plummeted into the sea, pursued by the Sea King's disappointed roar.
Benn Beckman materialized beside Shanks, cigarette smoke curling around his rifle. "Stand down," he ordered the crew, then lobbed a barrel of rum overboard. The Sea King snapped it up, gulped, and—
HIC!
A prismatic belch erupted from its maw, painting the sky in a hiccup-induced rainbow. The creature blinked, swayed, and dove beneath the waves, leaving the Red Force bobbing in a suddenly serene sea.
Shanks, half-soaked in rum and seawater, awarded the golden tuna to Jelly. "For 'Most Creative Bait'! Also, 'cause you taste like hope and poor decisions."
Jelly jiggled, his trophy clutched in a morphing hand. "I'll name him… Glub-Glub!"
Marya watched, arms crossed, a smirk threatening her stoicism. Mihawk raised his goblet to her in silent tribute.
"Admit it," Shanks whispered, sloshing into Mihawk's space. "This was fun."
"Define 'fun,'" Mihawk said, but the sea breeze carried the faintest hint of a smile as the crew's laughter echoed into the horizon, a symphony of chaos only the Red Hair Pirates could conduct.
*****
The Midnight Snack Heist
The Red Force's galley hummed with the savory aroma of Lucky Roux's magnum opus: the "Meat Mountain," a towering pie layered with smoked sea-king, caramelized onions, and enough gravy to drown a battleship. Lucky stood guard, cleaver in hand, his jowls quivering with devotion. "Touch it," he growled at a passing seagull, "and you're next week's rations."
Yasopp and Limejuice huddled in the shadows of the mast, their whispers drowned by the creak of rigging. "Distract him," Yasopp hissed, "and I'll nab a slice. Bet it's got truffles."
"Truffles?" Limejuice snorted. "It's got Lucky. That's a death wish."
Chaos Ensues
Monster, the crew's hulking giant, lumbered into the galley, clutching a turkey leg like a scepter. "Arm-wrestle," he grunted, slamming his fist onto the table. "Prize: this."
Lucky's eyes narrowed. "That's my turkey leg."
"Prove it," Monster rumbled, flexing a bicep the size of a barrel.
As Lucky leaned in, sweat beading on his brow, Gab—the crew's resident artist—slipped past, wielding a palette of squid ink and fish guts. He sculpted a flawless fake pie atop a barrel, its "crust" a masterpiece of seaweed and barnacle shards.
Marya, drawn by the scent of spices (and a rare lapse in vigilance), approached. She prodded the fake pie with a fork.
"Wait—!" Gab yelped, too late.
The fork sank into gelatinous slime. Marya stared at the oozing fish-gut filling, her Void veins flickering to life. "...You."
Gab bolted, Marya's mist tendrils lashing at his heels. "IT'S ART!" he screamed, ducking as a spectral hand vaporized a crate of pickled eels.
Shanks, ever the opportunist, chose that moment to "stumble" into the galley. "Whoops—" He tripped over Bonk Punch's discarded accordion and face-planted into the real Meat Mountain, gravy splattering his hair like a culinary crown.
Silence fell.
Lucky released Monster's hand, his face a storm cloud. "...Captain."
Shanks grinned, a chunk of crust stuck to his cheek. "Tastes like victory!"
Benn Beckman materialized, his cigarette's ember cutting through the tension. "Enough." He unsheathed a dagger and sliced the pie into twelve precise wedges. "Eleven for the crew. One for the kraken."
"The kraken?!" Lucky wailed.
"Karma," Benn said, handing a slice to a passing News Coo instead.
Shanks slung an arm around Lucky's quivering shoulders. "Cheer up! Next port, I'll get you a Bigger Meat Mountain™! Double truffles. Triple gravy. A pie so grand, it'll make Whitebeard's mustache jealous."
Lucky sniffed. "...Quadruple bacon?"
"Deal."
The crew feasted under the stars, grease shining on their chins. Marya nibbled a slice (procured before the kraken's share), her stoicism softened by the absurdity. Mihawk lingered at the periphery, sipping wine.
"Admit it," Shanks mumbled through a mouthful, "you're having fun."
Mihawk's gaze drifted to Marya, now grudgingly accepting a bacon strip from Jelly. "...Tolerable."
As the crew's laughter melded with the creak of the ship, the Red Force sailed on—a floating circus of chaos, camaraderie, and questionable life choices. Somewhere, the kraken nibbled its pie slice, utterly perplexed.
And the Grand Line, as ever, whispered: Bon appétit.
*****
The Case of the Missing Compass
The Red Force's deck erupted into chaos when Benn Beckman's usual morning ritual—calibrating the Log Pose—revealed an empty stand. The crew froze mid-breakfast, their spoons hovering over bowls of Lucky Roux's infamous "Dawnbreaker Stew" as Shanks vaulted onto the mast, his voice booming like a cannon misfire.
"Alright, who swiped the Log Pose?!" He pointed dramatically at Mihawk, who lounged against the railing sipping wine. "Was it you? You hate fun! Admit it!"
Mihawk arched a brow. "If I wanted to sabotage this circus, I'd start with the accordion."
Bonk Punch gasped, clutching his beloved instrument.
Yasopp, ever the instigator, whipped out his rifle and peered through the scope like a detective in a noir flick. "I'll track it! The compass'll leave a… uh… metallic aura!" He spun dramatically, the scope landing squarely on Lucky Roux's meat locker.
Lucky's jowls quivered. "Ain't nothin' in there but cured ham and steaks!"
"Prove it!" Yasopp crowed, dodging a hurled ham hock.
Meanwhile, Jelly quivered near the helm, his translucent body flickering unnaturally. "B-Bloop?" A faint click-clack echoed inside him as the Log Pose spun wildly in his gelatinous core, trapped like a bee in honey.
Marya materialized beside him, mist coiling around her fists. "Spit. It. Out."
Jelly's eyes wobbled. "I-I didn't mean to!"
"Dissection," Marya said flatly, summoning a spectral blade.
Mihawk sighed, stepping between them. "Stand down. His goo would ruin your sword."
Hongo, ever the pragmatist, lunged with a soup ladle. "I'll extract it! Hold still, Jelly!"
Squelch.
The ladle sank into Jelly's body… and stuck. Hongo yelped, flailing as his arm vanished up to the elbow. "It's alive! It's—augh—salty?!"
Shanks doubled over laughing. "This is the best day ever!"
Benn Beckman emerged from the shadows, a magnet the size of a cutlass in hand. "Move." With a weary flick, he yanked the Log Pose free, its needle still spinning dizzily. "Children. All of you."
Jelly deflated with a blorp. "S-Sorry…"
"No harm done!" Shanks slung an arm around Jelly, plopping the compass onto his head like a hat. "Look! Now you're our official Navigational Jellyfish!"
Jelly's tears turned to glitter. "I'm useful?!"
Marya rolled her eyes but hid a smirk as the crew cheered. Mihawk returned to his wine, muttering, "This ship is a nursery."
And so, the Red Force sailed on, Jelly's new "hat" pointing erratically north-by-nonsense, the crew's laughter echoing over waves that sparkled with the promise of madness yet to come. Somewhere, the Grand Line sighed. Typical.
*****
The Ghost Fleet's "Haunted" Ukulele
The Red Force's nights were usually a cacophony of snores, sea shanties, and the occasional belch from Lucky Roux's meat locker. But tonight, the deck was silent—save for the eerie, off-key strumming of Bonk Punch's ukulele, floating mid-air like a specter with a vendetta.
"It's haunted," Limejuice hissed, clutching a garlic necklace (stolen from the galley) as the instrument warbled a mangled rendition of Bink's Sake. "Mihawk's cursed us with his… his emo aura!"
Mihawk, sharpening Yoru under the moonlight, didn't glance up. "If I cursed this ship, the first casualty would be your fashion sense."
Bonk Punch wept into his accordion. "My poor ukulele! It's possessed by the ghost of bad acoustics!"
Marya, ever pragmatic, stalked toward the floating instrument, mist curling around her fingers. "Ghosts don't exist. Only idiots and theatrics."
As she reached for it, the ukulele lurched sideways, plinking a high C sharp that made Jelly vibrate like a struck gong. "B-Bloop! It's singing my soul song!" he sobbed, glittery tears pooling at his gelatinous feet.
Shanks materialized from the shadows, a bedsheet draped over his head with eyeholes cut haphazardly. "Fear not, mates! I'll commune with the spirit!" He snatched the ukulele and launched into a duet, howling lyrics about a drunken kraken in love.
The "ghost" retaliated with a discordant strum—then yelped as Marya's mist tendrils yanked the sheet away, revealing Gab crouched below, a pulley system of fishing line rigged to the mast.
"Surprise…?" Gab squeaked, holding up a sardine skeleton like a peace offering.
Shanks gasped, clutching his chest. "Betrayal! And here I thought we had a spiritual connection!"
Benn Beckman emerged, his cigarette's ember cutting through the chaos. He leveled his rifle at the ukulele. "Enough. Next note, and it becomes kindling."
Bonk Punch lunged to protect his instrument. "Not Binky!"
Gab, seizing the moment, struck a dramatic chord. "Wait! Let me play one more song… as your official ghost musician!"
The crew paused. Jelly's tears sparkled hopefully.
Shanks grinned. "Promote the poltergeist! All in favor?"
"Aye!" roared the crew—except Mihawk, who muttered, "I'll be in the wine cellar."
And so, Gab's nightly "hauntings" became legend, his pulley-strummed serenades echoing across the Grand Line. Jelly swayed to every tune, Shanks howled backup vocals, and Marya… tolerated it, mostly.
As Mihawk noted, sipping wine below deck: "The only true curse here is punctured eardrums."
But under the stars, with the sea humming along, even he couldn't suppress a smirk.
Gab, now draped in a moth-eaten sheet embroidered with musical notes, plays nightly to a crew that cheers louder for his "ghostly" solos than common sense. Jelly wears a tiny ukulele hat, and Bonk Punch has never been prouder. Somewhere, the real ghosts of the Grand Line facepalmed.