Hamish X and the Cheese Pirates by Sean Cullen

come in handy. Fakirs 34 do it in Nepalese markets. I remember I saw it once.”
    â€œYou can puke on command?” Mimi asked.
    Hamish nodded. “It’s not that difficult. I can teach you how if you like.”
    â€œBut …” Mimi grabbed Hamish X’s arm. “Why?”
    â€œI needed a distraction,” he said, “so I could grab this.”
    As if by magic, a plastic security keycard appeared in his hand. Mimi stared in disbelief. “That card opens all the doors. We can escape!” She clapped her hands in delight. “We’re as good as out of here.” Her delight turned to dismay. “They’ll miss the card though. Pianoface will report it lost and they’ll change the locks.”
    Hamish X shook his head. “You underestimate the stupidity of the guards and their fear of Viggo. Would you like to report to your boss that you’ve lost the keyto the prison? These men are big, strong, and ugly too, but they’re cowards. I think we can assume they won’t report the missing card.” He tucked it into the top of his right boot.
    â€œThis way.” Mimi jerked her head towards the far end of the cafeteria. In one wall a swinging metal door led to the factory floor where the sounds of the night shift drifted through. Mimi led Hamish X to another door on the opposite wall that led to the dormitory.
    They walked through the quiet common room, a tiny, cramped space with some rickety chairs and a wobbly table, and into the sleeping quarters. Rows of dark shadows marked the cots holding the sleeping day-shift children. They passed Parveen snoring softly in his narrow bed, his glasses still on, a pencil behind his ear. A little mound of news magazines rose and fell on his chest in time with his breathing. Hamish X watched as Mimi stopped and gently lifted the glasses off, folding them and tucking them under Parveen’s pillow. The little boy stirred and mumbled then went back to sleep.
    â€œG’night, Hamish X.” Mimi lay down on the next cot. Hamish X dropped down onto his stiff mattress, boots and all. He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Piratical Interlude
    The Roquefort Castle stood in a picturesque valley in the heart of the French Alps. For centuries, the castle was the centre of production for one of the world’s most treasured cheeses: Roquefort. The pale white cheese, marbled with veins of mould found only in the caves that dotted the mountainsides, had long been a source of wealth for the Countess de Roquefort and her family. The castle represented the living history of the family and its fortunes. And now the castle was in flames.
    The Comptesse 35 de Roquefort, her expensive nightgown from a fashion atelier in Milan spattered with mud and soot, knelt in the rain watching her home burn brightly despite the cold drizzle falling from the night sky. All the work she and her family had accomplished gone in one night. She covered her face with her hands and wept.

    All around, pirates roared with laughter at her misery.
    â€œQuiet!” The command brought instant silence.
    â€œAre you animals?” growled a menacing voice. “That’s no way to treat a lady.”
    â€œSorry,” some in the group muttered sheepishly. “Got carried away.”
    The Comptesse raised her face from her hands and saw the owner of the commanding voice.
    He was tall and broad in the shoulders, outlined against the firelight in silhouette. She couldn’t make out his facial features, but a broad-brimmed hat framed his head with a bedraggled ostrich feather sticking out of it. He exuded menace and the rank stench of rancid dairy products. The source of the stench was the thick, matted beard that hung stiffly from his chin, covering his chest completely. The beard was solid with melted cheese, glistening and greasy.
    The Comptesse screamed, “Who are you? Why are you here? What do you want of me?” She began