Booty Becomes Him

There's a billowed black man crouched under some overhang, screaming things at Harry. Of all the things he yelled, only "Write 'bout pirates!" was comprehensible. Harry pretended not to hear and ducked behind some steep rocks near a beach cliff. But "Write 'bout pirates!" caught an ocean breeze and followed him.
"I can't! I can't!" complained Harry. "I—I'm too lazy. You're better off without me."
"But it was your idea!" reasoned the wind.
"Yeah? Well..." Harry shifted his gaze mysteriously and leapt into the surf.
The breeze laughed.
"You'll catch your death!" it called.
"That explains zombie fever," said Harry, emerging from the ocean like Rowan Atkinson in Dr. No.

I never saw him again. It seems he joined a Seona Dancing cover band and burnt out to death.
"You've poisoned this post, just like you did with that other one," I said to his grave.
It remained silent.
"Write 'bout pirates!"

The wind crackled like four unsolved mysteries.