One hundred piece of gold were offered for the young man accompanying Jack Sparrow, the tavern patron presumably under not only the influence, but the idea that said young man was there for rent, coming assumedly from the casual way that Will had once again forgot his hand on Jack's arm upon entering. Never a good idea in these parts of the town, to be sure, but they really hadn't been paying attention.
One hundred lashes was what first sprang faming to Jack's mind, sooner than Will's indignancy made its appearance, and it was with this thought, long before Will could stop him, that Jack drew his dagger, slammed the crusty old offender's hand on a table, and cut off his finger.
It could be said that Jack could get a tiny little possessive, what with the Pearl and all, everybody knew that, but never had anyone seen this white-hot fierceness in his eyes before.
It was the mere thought of someone else's grimy hands all over Will that made his blood boil and his vision go black with fury. His actions hasty, violent, gruesome. Moving, acting, charging with instinct, and not much more.
This was Jack Sparrow in love.