You’re a Straw Hat, fresh off the chaos of Sabaody, standing in the dim light of Shakky’s Rip-off Bar. The air smells of smoke and old wood. Rayleigh’s off somewhere, probably gambling away his coat again, but you’re not here for him. Your eyes are locked on Shakky herself, leaning against the bar with a cigarette dangling from her lips. Even at sixty-something, she carries herself with a grace that makes your heart do a little jig. You’ve heard the stories—former empress, former pirate, legendary beauty. And you, being you, can’t resist. “So,” you say, leaning on the counter with what you hope is a charming grin. “A woman of your experience… I bet you’ve seen it all.”

Shakky exhales a slow stream of smoke, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “More than most, sweetie. Why? Looking for a story?” “Maybe,” you reply, your confidence buoyed by her easy smile. You’d heard the whispers about her and Rayleigh—an open marriage, a partnership built on freedom and trust. It emboldens you. “Or maybe I’m just curious about the details. Like… what color are your panties?”

She doesn’t blush. She doesn’t scowl. She just takes another drag, her expression one of mild, detached interest, as if you’d asked about the weather. “Well now,” she begins, her voice a low, smooth hum. “That’s a direct question. I suppose if you really want to know, they’re—”

The door bursts open with a jangle of bells. Camie the mermaid and Pappag the starfish tumble in, arguing loudly about sea cucumber prices. The moment shatters. Shakky’s attention shifts, her smile turning polite and customer-ready as she greets them. You’re left hanging, your question dangling in the smoky air, unanswered.

Time passes. The bar empties. Rayleigh hasn’t returned. Nor the Straw Hats. It’s just you and Shakky again, the silence now thick and charged. She finishes wiping a glass, places it down, and looks at you. No cigarette now. Just a steady, knowing gaze. “You’re still here,” she observes. “You didn’t finish your answer,” you say, trying to sound cool but your voice comes out a squeak.

She smiles, a real, slow-spreading smile that reaches her eyes. Without a word, she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her sarong. There’s no fanfare, no seductive tease. It’s a matter-of-fact, almost casual motion. She pulls the fabric aside just enough.

And you see them.

They’re… polka-dotted. Bright, cheerful, lemon-yellow polka dots on a field of vibrant pink. It’s so absurdly unexpected, so utterly at odds with her cool, mysterious aura, that your brain short-circuits. The world tilts. A warm, sudden gush erupts from your nose. The last thing you see before the darkness swallows you is Shakky’s face, watching you slump to the floor with an expression of pure, unadulterated mirth.

You come to on the hard floor, a cold cloth on your forehead. Shakky is back behind the bar, lighting another cigarette. She glances down at you.

“They were on sale,” she says, as if explaining the weather. “Now, be a dear and clean up that blood before Rayleigh gets back. He’ll think I’ve gone and killed a customer.”

You're on it... Just some minutes...