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It’s a dingy little thing, cracked in several places and glass discolored by age, but no one in town would trade their little lifeline to the outside world for anything.
For the residents of Foosha, the radio was just another fixture in Party’s Bar, always sitting tucked away on a high shelf above the taps, waiting for the rare occasion a broadcast was strong enough to make it this far into East Blue. No one was particularly sure of where it had come from originally, though a few of the older residents remembered when it had resided at the mayor’s house, back when its purpose was theoretically to help provide news to the village.
But there had never been any real news on the air that couldn’t be more easily acquired from the newspaper, so it had been relegated to a form of entertainment, and promptly moved to its new, more central location, and no one was complaining about getting to sit in good company to listen in. It’d sat on its shelf ever since, since well before Makino had taken over management of the bar, and half the residents in the present every evening weren’t there to drink, instead hoping they’d get lucky and a radio program would bounce far enough across the East Blue’s rickety and underfunded relays to give them a glimpse of the world outside of Goa.
(The nobles in High Town never cared for the plebeian invention of radios, preferring to stick to what they considered more refined tastes, from approved artists and the “right” sorts of thinkers. Not whatever the common ruffians who spoke unscripted and unchecked on the airwaves were saying, of that they were certain).
This suited the residents of Foosha just fine, for the most part. Snail technology had come late to the East Blue, and later still to this particular out of the way corner of it. The newspaper was still the chief source of information about the outside world, and if the radio towers that dotted the islands were maintained almost solely by a few diehard hobby enthusiasts and low-ranking marines, well, that was fine. Most of the rest of the world had abandoned the technology, favoring the den-den mushi and their variety of applications and lack of reliance on most physical infrastructure, but the East had always been slow to bend to the winds of change. In those little pockets like Foosha that still maintained a radio, they were even subjects of interest and novelty for visitors from further shores.
Well, most of the time.
“That,” Shanks says, accusatory finger pointing at the radio as if the person speaking could hear him, “is a damned lie.”
The radio behind the bar was broadcasting some sort of marine propaganda reel, probably picked up third or fourth hand from a base with the equipment, and if Shanks had to sit here and listen to lies about his captain and his old crew being surprised by the single most unsubtle man in history, he was going to lose his shit.
“Are you familiar with Garp, captain?” Makino, the pretty barmaid behind the counter says, reasonably curious, all things considered. He probably shouldn’t go around blurting out things like that. “This is his hometown, so we’re all very well acquainted with his…eccentricities, but we don’t get many visitors who can say the same.” She smiles, and Shanks remembers why he keeps coming back to this bar, aside from the good booze and home cooked food. “Certainly not pirates, anyways.”
“We’ve met,” Shanks hedges. Best to not elaborate, both for safety’s sake as well as his dignity. “Though the last time he saw me I was still a bit of a shrimp. But,” he stresses, raising his finger with a dramatic flourish. “I do know that there’s no way on this or any other sea that he could have ambushed the bloody Roger Pirates like that. The man doesn’t have a quiet bone in his body. I’ve seen him bulldoze an entire forest with his fists and force of personality alone, like hell I’d ever believe he could sneak up on someone.” He makes a face. “Bet you that’s just a recording someone who never met the man made, because no Marine who’s spent more than five minutes around him would either. If anything, they’ve probably got even better stories than I do.”
“Stories?” the little kid on the barstool next to him says, big round eyes shining. “What sort of stories? Are there fights? I wanna hear about fights!”
Luffy had been the first person to meet the Red Hair Pirates when they’d disembarked in Foosha and had charmed his way into being their unofficial guide to the village within five minutes of meeting the crew. Shanks and Benn and a few of the others had allowed the hyperactive little kid to drag them all over, introducing them to all the villagers. (Shanks had had to make sure to go back and get their real names). Kid was fond of nicknames, it seemed, and this was looking to be one of the places where they’d want to leave a good impression, if they were going to be sticking around for a bit.
He didn’t seem to have any friends his own age, though the entire town clearly adored him, and Shanks would be lying if he said he hadn’t taken a shine to the irrepressible little gremlin almost immediately. He’d jumped straight off the dock to meet them while the anchor was still being set, earning him a quick rescue and a nickname of his own when the crew had seen just how bad of a swimmer he was. Plus, he listened to whatever stories Shanks wanted to tell, something his own crew groaned and griped about, because he was “repeating himself” and “everyone knows that, boss,” or whatever other excuses they felt like coming up with.
So if Shanks leans over and tells the kid all about the time Garp had been forced to chase him and his carefully-not-named former pirate captain through a marketplace, a chase which had ended with Garp crashing into a market stall full of livestock and swearing blue murder while getting harassed by the world’s most pissed-off poultry, it’s both because he lights up like Shanks has given him the best gift in the world, and because Shanks will never not take the opportunity to talk shit about the Hero of the Marines.
The story gets a good chuckle out of Makino as well. “That story lines up quite neatly with local impressions of Garp, I assure you,” she says, and Shanks wonders how many incidents involving farm animals this poor town has suffered. “Don’t mind the programming; we hear this one probably about once a month. It’s probably one of the nearby marine bases that’s responsible, and we can’t really pick and choose what we get all the way out here.”
Shanks snorts into his beer. “Yeah, I suppose that’s fair. And if you know the man that well I’m sure you’ve got plenty of better stories to tell than whatever high muckety-muck in the marines decided made for some easy, indoctrinating entertainment.”
“You should speak to our mayor sometime,” Makino says with a grin. “He’s been around just as long and has just as many as you’d expect.”
She turns to Luffy. “As for you, it’s about time for you to head off to bed, Luffy,” she says, with the tone of voice of someone who performs this sort of song and dance with a small child nightly.
“No!” the brat says, hilariously petulant. “I want to hear more stupid stories about Gramps!” He grabs his ankles and spins around on his barstool like some sort of indignant, excited top. “The stories on the radio are always the same and I already know what everyone in Foosha knows.”
It is a minor miracle that Shanks doesn’t choke on his beer.
Wait. Wait wait wait wait wait.
Shanks turns back to this kid he’s known for all of a few days, who so far doesn’t seem capable of shutting up about anything he’s interested in—and at least where pirates are concerned, he’s interested in everything—and says his next words as slowly and calmly as he can.
“Luffy. Are you saying that your grandfather is Monkey D. Garp?”
The kid bobbles his head up and down in an enthusiastic nod. “Yeah! And I’m Monkey D. Luffy!”
“Ah-hah,” Shanks says, and the Monkey in question puffs his cheeks up like a chipmunk at the implication that he’s not being believed. Makino looks ready to burst out laughing. “Well, I have to say, I knew we were around his regular stomping grounds when we stopped here, and this evening has confirmed that for me, but I didn’t expect to meet a member of his family.” He shakes his head. “Garp with kids, now that’s a scary thought.” He looks back down at Luffy. “You got any parents around I should worry about, squirt?”
Luffy just blinks at him and cracks a wide, gap-toothed smile. “I don’t have parents! Just a Gramps. Oh, and a Makino!” This last pronouncement is accompanied by a helpful gesture at the Makino in question.
“I’m sorry, we’re where?”
Oh right. His entire crew is here with him, and they’ve helpfully chosen this exact moment to start paying attention to the conversation at the bar. They…were probably going to have several questions for him now. And even—ugh—concerns.
“Is that why we didn’t see a single other crew once we got within fifty leagues of this place?” Benn gripes irritably from somewhere behind Shanks’ back. “Shanks, did you sail us directly into the home territory of the Hero of the Marines knowingly?”
Shanks makes a wobbly hand gesture in the direction of his first mate, which he’s almost certainly going to pay for later, and elects to ignore the steadily growing noises of worry coming from the rest of the tavern. Instead, he bends over to address the little loudmouth sitting next to him, who is still hilariously oblivious to the trouble he’s just started.
“Kid. Anchor,” Shanks says, hand across his face and his shoulders shaking with either laughter or hysterics at the sheer improbability of stumbling across proof that Garp had actually managed to fucking reproduce, he’s not sure which. “Promise me. Promise me that you’ll always introduce yourself with your full name from here on out.” And then for good measure, Shanks slides the rest of his lunch across the bar top in front of the kid.
Is this bribery? Maybe. But Shanks is a pirate, and the kid’s a black hole.
Luffy’s eyes light up and he begins shoveling the food into his face with all the gusto a small excitable child can produce, nodding his assent and promptly choking on a too-big bite.
Ah yes. Shanks can see the resemblance now.
Makino chuckles, as if this is all normal, and slides the kid a glass of juice to clear his throat with. “We were all fairly surprised when you docked here, Captain, but your presence has been a welcome change in town, I think.” She gives him a knowing look. “Besides, Garp’s not anywhere near here.” She taps a knuckle gently on the face of the ancient radio, which is still belching out its inane tales of overblown marine heroics. “We always know when he’s coming, because he always makes enough of a ruckus on his trips back that we hear about it well ahead of time. Plenty of time to make your escape.”
“No!” Luffy shouts indignantly, slamming his empty juice glass back down on the bar. “Shanks can’t leave! Not until he tells me more stories!”
Makino just stares at the kid, expression set in that implacable manner that typifies all caretakers of rambunctious children, and glances pointedly at the clock on the wall.
Luffy doesn’t even have the grace to look like he cares about something so pedestrian as “bedtime.”
Shanks decides they’ve caused Makino enough trouble for one night.
“Tell you what, kid,” he says, leaning over to whisper conspiratorially in Luffy’s ear like he was offering him some kind of secret. “You go to bed now? Then I might be able to be convinced to tell you some of the real good stories tomorrow, if you come by the Red Force in the morning. Sound like a deal?”
Luffy’s eyes go wide as saucers and he giggles excitedly, then claps his hands over his mouth and gives Makino the single least sneaky look Shanks has ever seen. And he sailed with Roger.
“No, I won’t tell,” Shanks says, and that’s all it takes for Luffy to run off without another word, hands still clasped firmly over his mouth. It must be in the right direction though because Makino doesn’t scold him further, and just slides a new tankard of beer over to Shanks in thanks.
“Better start thinking of some good ones, captain,” she chuckles. “He’s not going to let you go with anything ordinary, now.”
“If I can’t beat what that lie-spitting box of yours is telling him,” Shanks promises, knocking back the entire beer in one go. Seas, but it had been an evening. “Then I will fucking retire.”