The table was all set for breakfast, golden plates and silver forks strewn about in three far-apart piles. King, Queen, Princess.

I crawled inside, marveling. Some days, you are content to live in a floating coffin, surrounded by saltwater and rot, filling yourself with the sea spawn and rolling through the waves on the spray of sea foam.

But some days, you wonder about royalty. About gold trimmed doorframes and chandeliers on the ceilings. You long to taste their strange delicacies, their bitter wines. You wish for food without the tang of salt floating beneath your tongue.

Red Beard did not pause to gape. He sized up the guards in a single mean-eyed glance, surging forward. The men, hyped by the bloodbath we just left behind us, dance to the sounds of each other shouting.

Howie, Israel and Red Beard crawled onto the table, lording over the rest of the men who ganged up on pairs of guards. Two went after the three of them, a fatal mistake on their parts.

Red Beard let out a crazed guffaw, scooping up a gold plate in his paws. It made a crashing noise as it dented against the guard's helmet. Red Beard yanked the thing off, moving on to his next weapon -- a fork. I couldn't watch.

Israel jumped up on Howell's shoulders like a spider monkey, scrambling up the other man's back to launch himself upward. Reaching out, he managed to grab the jangling chandelier, calling out a gleeful swear of victory. Howie gave him a shove, sending him spiraling around the table with his lengthy legs.

He flew (Flight was the only way to describe it) from the chandelier, landing hard on the back of another guard who was engaged in battle with Dole, effectively smashing the man into the wall. Dole caught him before he fell with the fool.

Dole spun around just in time to find an especially tall guard behind him. Stepping back, he used his momentum to deliver a solid blow to the head, stomping on the man's face when he crumple to the ground.

Meanwhile, Red Beard threw plates like frisbees, denting his guard's helmet as he tried to draw his sword. One to the hand, one to the neck -- no more plates. I gave the single again. Jumping at the table, I yanked the table cloth down along with a loud clattering of silverware.

Red Beard hopped down, unfazed. He grabbed the nearest chair (gold, studded with jewels) and smashed it over the guard's head with all his might. Lifting it again, he gave a swift spin, letting the chair sail out of his hands, crashing against the opposite wall. Two men collapsed, unmoving.

I saw Edward grab another, twisting his neck with a sickening crunch. Dole stomped on a head. Only one more.

Everybody wanted a piece of him. Poor guy, he ended up with fourteen pirates piled on top of him.

I watched them strip him naked, the embodiment of royal power, I supposed. They tossed his armor and undergarments about, laughing as though there weren't more guards coming for us.

They hung him from the chandelier by the waistband of his underpants, leaving him to scream and spin in slow circles on the ceiling.

I smirked at him and yelled, "You could've been a pirate, Lad!"