Avast, ye scurvy dogs and salt-crusted deckhands! Gather 'round the mainmast and lower your tankards, for a black sail has been spotted on the horizon of the West Coast territories. The news travels faster than a frigate with a following wind, and it carries the scent of brine and heavy sorrow. The house of the Great D-O-Double-G, that legendary privateer of the lyrical trade, has been struck by a rogue wave of the cruelest sort. Word has reached my ink-stained ears that the fair maiden Cori Broadus has announced the departure of her tiny cabin mate, a ten-month-old soul who has slipped into the depths of the Great Beyond far too soon.

To lose a treasure is one thing—a chest of doubloons can be replaced by raiding a Spanish galleon—but to lose a sprout of the family tree is a tragedy that even the hardest buccaneer cannot ignore. This young lass, merely a babe in the eyes of the Admiral of the Pacific Ocean, has folded her sails before the voyage even truly began. The Broadus clan, usually known for their festivities and the cloud of green smoke that follows their vessel, now finds their rigging tangled in mourning. The winds of the G-Funk have gone still, and the rhythmic beating of the drums has been replaced by the slow, rhythmic tolling of the funeral bell across the docks.

My first mate, One-Eyed Barnaby, spat his tobacco into the bilge when he heard the news. 'Aye, Captain,' he croaked, wiping a salty tear with a rusted hook. 'There be no justice in the tides when the small ones are taken. Even the sharks keep their distance when a mother's heart is breached like a hull on a jagged reef.' Even the High Lords of the Music Industry have lowered their gold-trimmed banners to half-mast. Lord Gin-Bucket of Tortuga was heard shouting from his balcony to the common sailors below, 'Let no cannon be fired this night! Let the rum run dry in respect for the Princess of the Dogghouse!'

The consequences of this dark omen are already being felt across the trade routes. The supply of chronic-laced spirits has slowed to a trickle as the workforce in the Long Beach shipyards lays down their hammers in solidarity. Ships that were once destined for the charts of celebration are now veering toward the Port of Silence. The very currents of the sea seem to have chilled, as if the water itself recognizes the gravity of a life cut short. We pirates may be a lawless lot, but we know when the sea has taken something it shouldn't have claimed so early in the season, and the morale of the entire fleet has plummeted into the locker.

As we sail through this murky fog, we cast a bottle into the waves for Snoop Dogg and his grieving kin. May the stars guide that little soul to a lagoon where the waters are forever calm and the sun never sets. For the rest of ye, keep your voices low and your lanterns dimmed as we pass through these troubled waters. This be a day for the Broadus flag to fly in the shadows, and for every sailor to remember that no matter how big your ship or how loud your bark, the Great Deep is a mistress who answers to no man. We shall wait for the tide to turn, but tonight, the ocean weeps with the Broadus family.