Damn ye! Let Neptune strike ye dead, Winslow! Hark! Hark, Triton. Hark! Bellow, bid our father, the sea king, rise from the depths, full foul in his fury, black waves teeming with salt-foam, to smother this young mouth with pungent slime, to choke ye, engorging your organs till ye turn blue and bloated with bilge, and brine, and can scream no more. Only when, he, crowned in cockle shells, with slithering tentacled tail, and steaming beard, takes up his fell, be-finnèd arm, his coral-tined trident screeches banshee-like in the tempest, and plunges right through your gullet, bursting ye, a bulging bladder no more, but a blasted bloody film now, a nothing for the Harpies, and the souls of dead sailors to peck and claw and feed upon, only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite waters of the dread emperor himself. Forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god, or devil, forgotten even to the sea, for any stuff, or part of Winslow, even any scantling of your soul, is Winslow no more, but is now itself the sea.

I seen it. You’re fond of me lobster! Say it! Say it. SAY IT!