Transcript (en)

Say it. Say it! I don't have to say nothing. Danny! Let Neptune strike ye dead, Winslow! Hark! Hark, Triton! Hark! Bellow, bid our father the Sea King rise from the depths full, foul in his fury, black waves teeming with salt foam, to smother this young mouth with pungent slime. To choke ye, engorging your organs, till ye turn blue and bloated with bilge and brine, and can scream no more. Only when he, crowned in cockle shells, with slithering tentacle tail and steaming beard, take up his felled befinted arm. His coral trident screeches banshee in the tempest and plunges right through your gullet Bursting ye a bulging bladder no more but a blasted bloody fume now a nothing for the arpies and the souls of dead sailors to pick and claw and feed upon, only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite waters of the dread Emperor himself. Forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god or devil, forgotten even to the sea, for any stuff or part of Winslow, even any scantling of your soul, is Winslow no more, but is now itself the sea. All right, have it your way. I like to cook it.