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Friday, 13 March 2009

image for Below Decks Chapter 11 : Craft & Guile and the Promise of Pussy : A Cunning Morse Turns Tragedy into Triumph! Morse Readies the Colorful Pennants Supplied by Dora Piebottom to be Run Up the Halyard and Fool the French!

Recap: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten

Several Months after the successful taking of the prize ship Madoff, surviving raging storms, an electrical outage, a becalming, the incessant pontifical sermons of the False Father, Birbee, the Buggerall suddenly finds itself in Dire Straits; unexpected economic catastrophe requiring an immediate stimulus by a beleaguered Captain Morse. They haven't seen another ship in months, and even the Friday Amateur Nights of "Dancing Under the Stars" have failed to keep up the good humour of The Crew. Morse calls a secret executive meeting with CPA/King's Accountant Hal A. Peno:


Aboard the softly swaying "Buggerall", a serious Captain Morse and ship's accountant Hal A. Peno discuss the state of the ship's economy and the crew's morale. It is a Serious meeting where even friendly journalists are barred in contravention of the Sunshine Law, a direct violation of Queen Mudder's Sea Mandates for Sea Farers, 12th Edition.(arse mess/flogging wankers/scum sucking Pigs)(emphasis on SCUM SUCKING)

"Peno, I didn't know things were this dire," whispers Morse, a look of shock on his chiseled countenance.

"Sorry, Captain...no one including me, realized it had gotten so bad. We're almost out of palatable food, the water has turned sour, and the grog is about gone. Skoob's cooking has gotten so bad, the men won't even say "grace" before the mess...can't blame the buggers!"

"Are we going to be able to make payroll this week, Pena? "Morse asked, already afraid he knew the answer.

"That's the other wee thing, Captain. The Homing Albatross that flew in this morning with dispatches had more bad news. The investments we made from taking that Indian Spice Trader have evaporated. Seems like our Financial Advisor in Portsmouth, that fop Sir Abacrombie Madork was running a Ponzi scheme. Not only is our money gone, the King is almost broke too, and the sorry ass Royal Sod is raising taxes!"

If things weren't bad enough a frantic knocking threatened to take the locked door off the Captains stateroom, and cries of "Captain, enemy warship sighted! And the fucker is HUGE!"

Morse called for his Bosun, McCarthy, able to stay calm in a crisis situation to give a detailed account, but kept the bilingual Pena close by to translate for the salty Irishman.

A thorough briefing revealed the worst! A 102 gun French Man of War was sighted from he Crows Nest, not more than 5 nautical miles away, and bearing down on the Buggerall.

Morse's analytical mind raced frantically, and then made the spilt second decision that had earned him his Captaincy, and awe amongst his Peers.

"Pipe the men to the Poop...and get ready for my plan of action," he said forcefully!

Moments later, with the rag tag crew assembled, Morse addressed his men, it was so quiet you could have heard a hairpin or a carved Walrus dildo drop, as Morse laid out the situation.

"Men, we're almost out of food, some buggers have been washing their privates in the water caskets, power has been lost to the meat lockers and the moose jerky is spoiled, we've got a leak in the grog caskets,the KY Jelly is missing, I can't make payroll this week, and now we're being chased by a man of war that out guns and out mans us 2-1.

The crew collectively groaned!

"Now for the Good News", Morse continued, "The Ship is French!"

Morse was drowned out by hysterical cheering, the mood of the crew changing from morose to euphoric.

"and,"Morse continued, "all her guns are set to point only to the bow!"

The crew collapsed in apoplectic laughter. "Them Frogs never learn," a crusty voice with a guttural German accent exclaimed in delight from the center of the mob.

"And now, I've got a plan to turn things around. By tonight we'll have doubloons, emeralds, and food aplenty. You'll be as rich as kings, and if we're real lucky, enough wenches to go around...and best all, a 5 Star French Chef for your culinary delight!"

By this time the crew were slappin' high fives, and grinnin' ear to ear, while Skoob sulked and skulked.

"Roy," Morse called Tersely to the able bodied seaman, do we have brazilian waxers on board?"

Roy jumped from the ranks smartly, "no captain, we only have two, and those came aboard with that Zany Grey guy who runs the entertainment and karaoke events on Wednesdays...I think they do makeup for the band!"

"Alright lads, here's the plan, light the fires and melt the taro..all you hairy apes get yourselves waxed from arsehole to ankles and get prepared to play the role of wanton wenches."

"Pissgums, Pissgums,...where the fuck are the Pissgums?" Morse shouted.

Ship's Doctor Nicholas yelled out, " in the infirmary being tented, Captain!"

"Tented, " choked Morse, " not serious I hope, we'll need them later!"

"No, Captain, " the amiable Doctor replied, "just a few termites in the extremities. Bagged them from the waist down in a canvas body bag and cook Skoob dosed them with a ration of beans, and some of the curry we took off the Indian merchantman. Little fucking bugs should be dead by now, and the ship's carpenter is working on some teak inlays for the boys' peg legs to make them even stronger."

"Simply Fucking Fantastic," exclaimed Morse in glee. "Here's the plot men,
get Dora Piebottom and the cooks working on a 12 tier cake and some donut holes, I want the maintenance crew to paint out the gun ports so they blend in with the rest of the hull....we're going to become the Danish Pleasure Ship "Cunning Lingus".

"Hoist up all those pleasure flags announcing us to those Frogs...make sure you have all of Piebottom's panties up the halyard as well as the Rainbow Coalition Flag, The Harlot Pennant, the one announcing the Bake Sale and throw in the Greek Flag as well so we cover our asses, so to speak!"

Impulsively the Buggerall Marching Band consisting of 8 steel drums, 3 combs covered with Charmin Toilet Tissue, a washboard, a lone piper, and a drum majorette from Cambridge struck up the Greek National Anthem..."I'm Walking Behind You!" The crew roared and smiled crookedly as the genius of the plan became clear....a floating whorehouse with Free Pussy....the French were dead men, already!

Morse shouted some more orders as the crew reacted running through the "Battle Station" drills they performed faultlessly. "Monkey," shouted Morse, " start hauling those coconuts from the powder room up to the crow's nest..I want the 7,10 and 12 lb. nuts loaded and ready to go for you when I give the signal!"

Monkey hopped up and down, clawing at his arse in excitement,then disdainfully hurling little balls of Monkey Shit toward the distant enemy ship, while the ships psychiatrist, Duncan Whitehead, kept notes. In his perch 120 feet above decks, Monkey was proven deadly as he rained coconuts down on the dumbfounded enemy, and had turned the tide in many a battle.

Weapons were being broken out everywhere, already sharpened, muskets well oiled, and now primed with powder. Fergus got his act ready, stuffing 12 Rum Scented Candles up his ass, ready to be lit with a slow burning match as he catapulted himself across in the boarding party, lighting off farts as he went. The effect of a flaming arsehole was mesmerizing to the spell bound victims of the offensive assault, and there was more than one occasion when a rich prize was taken without firing a shot. "Only 4 farts were fired with minimal casualties" as one classic journal entry described the taking of a rich prize in Morse's log.

Back on deck feminine costumes were being broken out, crotchless petticoats, elaborate ball gowns, and "fuck me" deck shoes and black net leg stockings were being sorted.

To aid in the illusion , all the men playing the willing wenches, slyly covered their heads with Burquas, and the erotic scenario was ready to be played out.

Morse finally called for quiet. "Father Birbee, you sacrilegious puffed up sack of similes, a word to The Father before we do battle!"

The monk like figure oozed out from beneath a rope locker, furtive movements from beneath his frock looked like a pair of crazed shit house rats were playing tag, before he removed his nicotine stained fingers (they were brown, anyway) from his cloak and began to pray for the crew.

"Father, Bless these Bastards as we go into battle with the Fornicating Frogs, and grant us victory, booty, fresh rations and a decent cook for our efforts.
In closing, Father, a fresh piece of ass for all would be greatly appreciated,
Amen!" "AMEN!" echoed the crew and readied themselves for ACTION.

As the two ships drew closer, Dora Piebottom, along with the Buggerall Band broke into a seductive ballad made famous by Eartha Kitt, "C'est Si Bon!", the haunting lyrics wafted over to the French Man of War with the expected results...The French Started to Cheer, abandoned their cannon, and began undoing their britches.... the double flapped contraptions with 84 of the time consuming buttons requiring two hands....and then, as the two ships met in mid ocean, grappling hooks making them fast, the French crew standing exposed, their masts at full staff, Morse sprang the trap, the Union Jack was hoisted , the Band Broke into "Henry the 8th I Am, I Am" and the maniacal,conjoined Pissgum Pirate Twins led the blood thirsty,starving, parched, horny boarding party of the Buggerall over the decks to confront a crew of now Moopy Dicks, with their pants around their ankles, and not a weapon amongst them.

Continue to chapter twelve...

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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