King Of Pirates

Screenplay draft

Title: King Of Pirates
Credit: Written by
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FADE IN.

EXT. SCURVY PEARL - NIGHT

Neon waves slam the rusted hull of the frigate. Sodium-yellow lanterns swing above oil-slick decks littered with banana peels. Purple fog rolls across the water, catching cyan trim on the patched sails.

TIKO hangs upside-down from the rigging by his tail, cream face lit by a swinging lantern. His black cap is jammed low, faded red bandana knotted tight. A rope belt holds three bananas like pistols. He buffs a brass skull with a rag, tail twitching in steady rhythm.

The skull catches the light, brass gleaming against the dark sea below. Tiko twists the rag, polishing the eye sockets, then the teeth. A wave crashes; spray mists his vest. He pauses, studies his warped reflection in the metal, then keeps buffing.

He flips upright in one smooth motion, lands on the railing, tail still gripping the line for balance. The skull rests in his hands. He turns it slowly, checking every angle under the neon glow.

TIKO
Not about whether I can. Gonna do it because I want to.

He whispers it again, faster, testing the cadence against the wind. His voice carries a rising inflection even in the quiet.

TIKO
Not about whether I can. Gonna do it because I want to.

Tiko tucks the skull under one arm and swings back into the rigging. His tail lashes a pulley, hoisting the Jolly Roger alone. The flag snaps open, neon reflections rippling across the fabric. He watches it catch the wind, bandana fluttering, then drops back to the deck in a crouch.

Footsteps echo from the companionway. Tiko straightens, rag in hand, skull held at his side like a promise. He stares at the horizon where the glowing archipelago waits, tail flicking once, twice, then still.

EXT. SCURVY PEARL - NIGHT

Neon waves slam the hull of the rusted frigate. Sodium-yellow lanterns swing from patched sails, casting oxblood reflections across oil-slicked planks. TIKO, wiry capuchin in faded red bandana and patched vest, hangs upside down from the rigging by his tail. He buffs a brass skull with a rag, cream face lit by electric cyan trim on the rail.

GROK (O.S.)
Swab faster, tail-rat!

Tiko flips upright in one fluid motion. He salutes with the rag, tail twitching.

TIKO
Aye, Captain. Polishing the future crown.

GROK lumbers into frame, massive walrus bulk filling the lantern glow. Cracked tusks glint with a gold hoop. Oil-stained captain’s coat drags across barnacle-encrusted peg leg. He pauses to snort water from his trunk.

GROK
Crown’s for those who take it. You’ll be swabbing till the Leviathan eats you.

Tiko watches Grok pass, then stares down at the skull in his hands. Neon waves crash louder below. Tiko’s tail coils tighter around the line.

TIKO
It’s not about whether I can or not. I’m gonna do it because I want to.

Grok stops at the hatch. He turns his bulk halfway, one eye narrowing.

GROK
Wanting won’t stop teeth. Wanting won’t stop cannon. Wanting gets monkeys drowned.

Tiko slides down the rigging, landing light on the deck. Banana peels skid under his rope belt. Three bananas hang like pistols at his hip. He steps closer, rag still in hand.

TIKO
Then I’ll polish the skull after the Leviathan spits me out.

Grok snorts again, wet and dismissive. His peg leg thuds once on the planks.

GROK
Keep dreaming, deck rat. Dreams sink faster than this rust bucket.

Tiko holds the brass skull up so lantern light catches the eye sockets. His voice stays nasal, rising at the end.

TIKO
Dreams don’t swab decks. I do.

Grok stares a beat longer, then lumbers away into purple night fog. The hatch slams behind him. Tiko lowers the skull, tail still in motion. Neon trim flickers across his black cap. He whispers once more to the empty air.

TIKO
Because I want to.

EXT. SCURVY PEARL - NIGHT

Neon waves slam the rusted hull. Sodium-yellow lanterns swing on creaking chains, casting oxblood reflections across oil-slicked planks. Banana peels stick to the deck like yellow warnings.

Tiko drops from the rigging. His tail coils once around a brass cleat, then releases. The capuchin lands in a crouch, red bandana askew, patched vest riding up over his narrow chest. He still clutches the brass skull in both hands. Brass gleams under cyan trim lights.

He sets the skull on a barrel. The hollow eye sockets stare back at him. Tiko circles the barrel once, tail flicking the air like a metronome. He pulls one banana from his rope belt, peels it with a quick twist, and takes a bite. The sound is loud in the empty night.

Tiko stops. He leans in close to the skull, nose almost touching the polished metal. His cream face catches the lantern glow. One eye narrows. The other stays wide, optimistic.

A gust rocks the ship. The Jolly Roger snaps overhead, its neon-threaded skull-and-crossbones flickering. Tiko’s tail lashes out and steadies the barrel without him looking. He keeps staring at the skull.

TIKO
It’s not about whether I can or not. I’m gonna do it because I want to.

The words hang in the wet air. Tiko straightens. He tucks the half-eaten banana back into his belt like a pistol. His tail reaches up, snatches the skull, and swings it in a slow arc above his head. The brass catches moonlight and neon at once.

He lowers the skull. Holds it against his chest. The ship creaks. Far below, the purple fog parts for a moment, revealing the black water and the faint glow of the archipelago on the horizon.

Tiko exhales through his nose. His shoulders square under the faded vest. He tucks the skull under one arm, turns, and walks toward the lifeboat davits at the stern. His tail drags a fresh banana peel behind him like a deliberate trail.

The lanterns sway. The fog closes again.

EXT. SCURVY PEARL - DAY

Neon waves slap the rusted hull in broad daylight. Sodium-yellow lanterns still flicker against the purple fog. TIKO, wiry capuchin in a faded red bandana, swabs the deck with a frayed mop, tail flicking banana peels into the scuppers. Patched sails snap overhead. Electric cyan trim glows along the railings as the frigate cuts through the floating market lanes.

GROK lumbers from the wheel, peg leg thunking on wet planks, oil-stained coat dripping. He snorts water from his trunk and stops above Tiko.

GROK
Swab deeper, tail-rat. Throne ain’t polishing itself.

Tiko flips the mop upright, cream face bright.

TIKO
Aye, Captain. Just clearing the path for my future fleet.

A passing neon barge drifts alongside, bioluminescent signs hawking grog and gunpowder. Tiko glances at it, mop paused.

GROK
Fleet? You swab decks till Leviathan swallows you whole. Skull throne picks real pirates, not banana dreamers.

Tiko resumes swabbing in quick bursts, tail lashing a loose rope.

TIKO
Not about whether I can. Gonna do it because I want to.

Grok snorts again, louder, and stomps toward the forecastle. Tiko watches him go, then buffs the brass skull mounted on the rail with his rag. The floating world slides past—rusted frigates, glowing atolls strung with pink lights, distant mast silhouettes against teal shadows. Tiko’s mop squeaks across an oil slick, sending another peel overboard.

EXT. SCURVY PEARL - DAY

Sodium-yellow lanterns still flicker against the purple morning fog as neon waves slap the rusted hull. Banana peels slide across oil-slick planks. TIKO, wiry capuchin in faded red bandana and patched vest, hangs from the rigging by his tail, scrubbing brass fittings with a rag that reeks of salt and engine grease.

GROK lumbers from the hatch, peg leg thunking, oil-stained coat flapping. His cracked tusks catch the light. He snorts water from his trunk and spits it overboard.

GROK
Contest horns blow at high sun. Whole fleet gathers. Skull throne opens again.

Tiko flips upright, lands light on his feet. His tail twitches toward the horizon where the glowing archipelago shimmers.

TIKO
This year I enter. Polish my own brass skull for once.

GROK
(snorts)
You swab. You dream. Crowns go to those who take. You s

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