In the tropical paradise of the Caribbean, where the sun embraces the sea with a warm shimmer, Edward Kenway, the most unconventional pirate-assassin hybrid, begins his ludicrous day with an epicurean ambition--fish for dinner! After bidding adieu to the realm of dreams, he rolls out of his hammock, feeling as ambitious as an ever-hungry shark and as fresh as barnacles on a ship's hull. Today, he wears naught but his birthday suit, embodying the true freedom of the open sea. In the full glory of the morning sun, Edward stands, a laughable sight for any wayward seagull overhead. His physique, weathered and scrappy from his dueling days, sports the lean muscle of a man who climbs masts and the flexibility of one who has dodged more than his fair share of musket balls. The most baffling sight, however, is the rump that he himself jokingly christened as the "Quartermaster's Quarters." It was a not-so-proud manifestation of a sailor's backside: somewhat pale from its usual covering, and with more dents than a battered treasure chest--clearly designed for sitting off the edges of crow's nests rather than modeling breeches. Carrying a burlap sack emptier than a plundered galleon, Edward makes his way towards the pond outside his abode. With the confidence of a man on an incredible mission, he struts and mutters to himself, "Argh, fishies, ye best be preparin' for ol' Edward's special bait." Entering the pond, Kenway's strides are as dramatic as a captain's first voyage through uncharted waters. His face first registers shock from the sudden chill as if he's just stubbed his toe on a stray piece of eight; it's an expression that would scare a brave man and make a timid one faint. His body follows suit--taut with the tense readiness of a loaded flintlock. And then it happens. After what feels like eons of build-up, Edward clenches his fists, squats ever so slightly, and musters all the concentration of an alchemist turning lead to gold. He expels the atrociously pent-up fart he's clung to since the break of dawn. The water around him churns with the bubbles of his vile barrage, each orb emerging like silver coins in a New World fountain. The noxious odors are enough to turn even the hungriest of barracudas into strict vegetarians. Edward watches fascinated as the fish go belly-up from the stench--a twisted look of pride and relief washes over his sun-beaten face. "Aye, that'll show ye. Who needs bait when ye've got the deadliest arse in the West Indies?" he boasts to the incapacitated aquatic life. Collecting the fish, now floating like listless ships in a calm, he heads back, whistling a jaunty tune that would put a parrot's squawk to shame. In his rudimentary kitchen, Edward lays out the fruits of his windy labor. He conjures a fish stew--more a pirate's brew--tossing in spices haphazardly and chatting to his unresponsive catch, "Sorry, lads. Wouldn't have been my first choice, but ya left me no option." As he devours the concoction, bits of fish and broth dribble down his chin in a less-than-gentlemanly display. "Now this is what I call a meal. The perfect end to my... expeditious fishing trip." He even raises a mug to no one in particular, toasting, "To the wind beneath my sails--and other places!" In the end, Edward Kenway's bottom-feeding antics would forever be omitted from the pages of history, replaced instead by tales of gallantry at sea. But for one bright, bizarre moment, a pirate-turned-fisherman turned the act of flatulence into the most convenient, if oddest, of fishing techniques.