About a week later, Plank Walkin’ Pete spotted land from the crow’s nest (Magentabeard had decided to postpone his plank walking until the return journey).
“Hey guys! I think I found land!” he cried, nobody responding. “Why isn’t anybody listening to me? Oh..that's right. I suck.”
A few hours later, Magentabeard spotted the same land, berated Pete for having missed it and began making preparations to dock. John’s anxiety grew even greater: they were finally in Denmark.
Standing on the dock, the pirates bid adieu to their three captives, whom they now looked upon as companions instead, grateful for having had their company. The crew of The Pirate Ship, Ron informed John, was about to go on a plunder spree, thanks to Bjorn’s constantly insisting that they pillage a village (his Viking roots were hard to ignore).
“I’m sure we’ll be seein’ yer again, mateys!” called Magentabeard as the two groups went their separate ways.
Bill waved to the pirates, but John forced his hand down and pulled him along. Having been born and raised in Denmark, John knew precisely where the royal palace was; and thither he headed, not to be deterred by any amount of stupidity.
“We should be at the palace in a few hours,” John told Mischa. “I’d stop for lunch, but, you know.”
“Right you are, Comrade! We cannot allow ourselves to be distracted,” agreed Mischa. “In fact, I think we should go at a faster pace, to exact vengeance upon the usurper of your father’s throne even sooner!”
“I like they way you think, Mischa,” complimented John.
“Do you like the way I think?” asked Bill hopefully.
“Absolutely not,” John responded.
Not pausing to see how Bill would react, John pressed onward, intent on reaching the castle as quickly as possible. Despite this, he refused to call a cab or take a bus.
“Public transportation is for losers,” he maintained.
Nevertheless, before long, they arrived at the palace. It was a magnificent structure, larger even than the Blizzard’s inexplicable Antarctic ice palace. It was also made of stone, as opposed to ice, so it was considerably more durable. Many archers patrolled the walls with bows and arrows (guns just weren’t as cool), and two swordsmen guarded the door (they had guns).
“Greetings,” said John, waving to the guards, “my name is John Morgan, Prince of Denmark and US Postal Worker. I have come reclaim the throne that is rightfully mine by murdering the man who stole it!”
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the guard.
“Yes,” lied John, thinking quickly. “Yes I do.”
“Oh, well then come on in! Our tour guide will show you around,” said the guard, cheerfully standing aside and making enthusiastic gestures for the three to enter the palace.
They walked inside and through an elaborately ornate corridor. Fine pieces of art adorned the walls – though none could be identified – and the carpet upon which they were walking was absurdly plush. Crystal chandeliers were placed along the ceiling every few feet, casting dazzling light upon the three travelers.
At length they reached the end, and John pushed open a door to reveal a very large room containing hundreds of those crappy metal folding chairs. On the other side of the room, a man sat at an even shoddier desk, reading a newspaper. Walking past all the chairs, they approached him.
He looked up abruptly, revealing the countenance of a bespectacled, bitter old man. Bill and John got quite a shock: it was Bob Clark, owner of the Clark Bar!