It was a Sunday morning like every other when James Norrington woke up to the first rays of the sun shining through his open window. Outside, in the garden, birds were chirping, the waves of the sea were crashing against the shore rocks of Port Royal, and it was such a peaceful atmosphere, like in a picture book or a fairy tale.

After having stretched his limbs, suppressed a drowsy yawn, cast the blankets aside and got out of his bed, James left his bedroom for the kitchen to make some tea. He had barely entered the room when he noticed some rather strange things.

The salad bowl was not where he had left it the night before. His cupboard was open, revealing a dreadful mess of tins, pots and bowls, and there were little drops of a strange purple liquid leading from a shelf to the table.

And on the table, next to the aforementioned salad bowl, there was a note. Nothing big, a rather crumpled piece of paper, containing a hastily scrawled message. Dearest Commodore, I made you breakfast. Love always, CJS.

James' forehead slowly transformed into a very big frown. Sparrow. What on earth had this irritating pirate done this time?

James didn't have to wonder about that for long. Suddenly, something caught his eye; something that had to do with the whole disorderly state of his kitchen, a pirate, and his own person. Or rather, something belonging to his person.

Rage was rising in James' blood. From one second to the next, he was hyperventilating, his face red with irritation, his mouth a thin, hateful line. The look in his eyes was one of fury, merciless; a look that cried "death" on the top of its non-existing voice.

Jack Sparrow would pay for this. He would suffer, beg and weep for the capital crime he had committed. He would want to live no more, for life would be endless torture from now on.

With abhorrence and disgust but mostly with blind fury, James fished his wig out of the bowl of juicy, sliced beetroot.