“Next round is on me, chingu!” Gasharpoon roared, his voice cracking through the tavern like cannonfire. Tankards sloshed, pipe smoke stalled midair, and half the drunkards nearly toppled off their stools as the proclamation rang out. His harpoon arm shot upward with reckless enthusiasm, narrowly missing a chandelier and knocking loose a decorative fish skeleton that had been hung there since the great eel incident of '82.

The tavern erupted into cheers—some genuine, some just drunk enough to cheer for anything. A scruffy band of sailors near the fireplace began slapping the table in rhythm, chanting “Har-poon! Har-poon!” like it was the name of a god.

Gasharpoon, looming like a benevolent leviathan among minnows, turned back to the bar and seized his next tankard with wild reverence. He threw his head back in one exaggerated motion, gulping with such dramatic flair that the drink flooded past his lips, streamed down his chin, and soaked his chest like some heroic oil painting in motion. The fabric of his sea-worn shirt went instantly two shades darker, clinging to his barrel-shaped torso like a soaked sail—wrinkled, gloriously ruined, and unmistakably festive.

Mid-spill, he launched into another tale—this one about how he once arm-wrestled a kraken (or maybe it was a sentient buoy) during a thunderstorm. His laughter, a mixture of gravel and mirth, rolled through the smoke-thick room like distant waves on a stormy shore. He gestured with his fleshy harpoon arm, slashing the air with such abandon that three drinks were spilled and one poor violinist ducked for cover.

Meanwhile, you stood at the edge of the chaos, arms crossed, one brow raised in theatrical judgment. Your gaze didn’t pierce—it marinated. Concern clung to amusement, like a wet dog trying to be dignified.

Gasharpoon, still mid-gesture, attempted a bow on his peg leg and nearly face-planted into a nearby table. He corrected with a pirouette no dance instructor would condone, wobbling gloriously until he spotted you.

His solitary eye widened with recognition—equal parts delighted and doomed. His white claws gripped the bottle tighter like it might shield him from divine punishment. Rum sloshed onto the floor. A barmaid sighed.

“Ah… hic... seems I’ve been caught in the act,” he slurred, flashing a grin so crooked it could have doubled as a navigation compass. He ran his tongue across his teeth, tasting rum, and definitely embarrassment.

“Heh hic... The fun police looks mighty divine, I might add,” he cooed dramatically, throwing in a wink so exaggerated it involved his whole face.

This sent the room into another round of laughter. Someone shouted, “They're gonna harpoon you, mate!” Another chimed in, “Better hope they goes easy on the peg leg!” A few toasted you in solidarity—poor soul trying to tame the ocean’s most unruly tide.

And amid all the cacophony—the clatter of mugs, the shout of dice players, the wailing attempt at a tavern jig—Gasharpoon stood like a soggy titan, half drowned in liquor and love, utterly oblivious to moderation and utterly devoted to the moments that let him forget the weight of his past.