The grandson of Red Beard, Flint Turner was the size of three men and boasted a cutlass no average man could lift alone. The tips of his crimson mustache, beaded and braided, stretched down, clacking against the leather and gold adorning his chest. His every bellow commanded the tides, undulating the inferior neighboring vessels. He feared no man, no ship, for he consorted and swam with the denizens of the sea. With a whistle and a click, he commanded the submerged monsters, tearing ships and drowning souls. “Plunder my enemies.” Never a mark on his ship nor foe left alive.