Powered almost entirely by whiskey and attitude, Captain Mojo’s ship "Chastity’s Bottom" sailed its way across the sky in search of trouble and rock 'n roll—but more importantly, in search of her.

The crew had sold all the cannon for hammocks and guitars. The First Lieutenant gave herself the nickname "Ten-Shot Hammond," the Second Lieutenant called himself "Six-string Butler," and everybody called the Third Lieutenant names that could not be printed in the presence of gentlemen—or ladies, for that matter.

They swept through the air, and the other travelers of the skies feared them, especially when they started to play.

"Tell us where she is," they would shout across the range of clouds, "or we will start a fifty-minute guitar solo!"

So folk in their air boats would lie rather than listen.

"She’s in the City of Rain!"

"She’s dead!"

"She’s joined a band and they’re on tour in the Twelve Currents!"

"She never wants to talk to you again, she hates you, and she wants all her sheet music back!"

"Who the heck are you looking for? Who is she?!"

Only fools asked this question: Captain Mojo would answer them in song, before he burst into tears and hurled empty whiskey bottles across the abyss between ships; he would tell them of her red, red hair, and her glow-in-the-dark tattoo, and her smile like a thunderhead looking for a fight.

The last whiskey bottle flung, he would always end by leaning his elbows on the gunwale and sobbing, "If you see her, tell her I meant it as a compliment!"