Stu stirs the chowder in the golden caldron as cannons roar on deck. Thumps and muffled screams rattle through the ceiling. Musket tucked in belt, Stu pours rum in the pot to the clump, clump, clump of men running downstairs. Stu cocks his musket and, from a ladle, sips broth. The galley door bursts open; a leather-clad buccaneer, cutlass in hand, ducks inside.
“Aha, Davey Jone’s magic caldron,” the pirate says. “It’s mine.”
Stu raises his musket, fires a steel ball into the invader’s chest.
“Stew’s not ready yet,” he says, tossing a handful of peppers in the pot.