“All for revenge, eh?” the captain’s eyes are empty, her smile terrible. “Well then. Suppose I show you Euphemia Dawson’s notion of revenge.”

She stuffs the papers into her belt and takes a cat o’ nine tails off the wall. From each of the tails dangles a shard of glass or a rough scrap of iron.

“Hold on, let’s talk about thi–”

With a crack the whip bites into your flesh. You’re not sure you ever knew what pain was, until now.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She’s still flogging you when marines board the ship. They have to pull her off you.

“Cor, is this a man?”

“How is he still alive?”

“Doctor! Get the doctor!”

You spend the next few weeks in a hospital bed in the Protectorate, listening to the songs of tropical birds and the soft voices of the nurses.

No help for it, you’re now hideously scarred. Where did you take the lash?