“Bloody guts and entrails!” Theron cursed loudly, not realizing he had slipped once more into the all too familiar pirate lingo. With a flick of the wrist he contemptuously killed another of the small buggers with a cantrip. Those scurvy dogs and lily-livered landlubbers had landed him once more smack in the middle of the crab basket. For days he had been slogging around this island not getting one step closer to the treasure. And here they were again in some bloody temple trying to rescue some bloody masked fool. In different circumstances he might have been content showering licentious comments on the scantily clad and well-proportioned female warriors that seemed to inhabit this place. But the last days had taxed his already limited patience. His good humour had been steadily declining and he had not failed to notice its effect on his companions. They seemed to resent his constant snide remarks as they daintily capered through this godforsaken jungle. He couldn’t care less. As far as he was concerned they could all go to Hell and be buttfucked until eternity by Baphomet himself. He could only hope that killing that fool Simonides would provide some of his companions with some sort of spiritual catharsis. They seemed to be the kind of mental weaklings who needed this sort of thing from time to time. He himself would not bemoan the leech’s passing. That was for sure. But his death would be nothing but yet another distraction. And as time ran out he could ill afford more of those.