Recap: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen
Buck and Pissgums finally looked up at Skoob and said "Now dats a long story..."
"This is all a long story," Skoob replied. "Sometimes I don't know where we are or what we're supposed to be doing. But somehow we seem to muddle through. So what is it with the scantily clad Dora Piebottom thing?"
"Dats a long story..." Pissgums said wistfully.
"You said that already," the tired and overworked piss-poor ship's cook moaned. "Get to the point."
"We was lovers we was," said Buckwheat. "We had somethin' special betwixt us."
"What, all three of you?" the crap cook gasped.
"Oh arrrgh," confirmed Pissgums. "We had a thing goin' on, sorta like we and Mrs Jones. We gets sort of sentimental about stuff like that. We remembers the long hot summer nights we spent together playing old Motown records and glugging beer. Ah, the summer of 69..."
"Ah, the memories," Buckwheat eulogised. "Like the corners of my mind. Misty water coloured memories, of the way we were..."
"Scattered pictures..." Pissgums continued.
"All right, all right. Enough already," said the irascible cook. "She's in the sick bay you know, come down with a severe case of Roofarians Disease. It turns your feet black. That's one of the consequences of nicking lead off church roofs."
"Loving her was easy, because she's beautiful..." Buckwheat sighed.
"I predict a riot," mumbled the cook as he headed for the Captain's cabin. Whereon he did knock on the door.
"Come!" came a voice from within.
"I haven't have I?" thought the crap cook to himself, checking his breeches for unauthorised deposits.
"What is it?" enquired Captain Morse.
"It's about Monkey Woods Cap'n," the crap cook said.
"What about him?" Captain Morse asked distractedly, as he played with his balls, the executive desktop toy where ball bearings rap together in tedious monotony.
"Cap'n," the crap cook said sombrely. "I'd find this task much easier if you weren't playing with your balls..."
Captain Morse stopped the ball game at once, sensing something serious may be afoot.
"It's Monkey Woods Cap'n," said the crap cook. "He is suffering a terrible bout of seasickness, and needs to be put ashore at the first available opportunity."
"Gadzooks!" exclaimed Captain Morse. "The crew seem to be dropping like flies. We have Dora Piebottom in the sick bay, the conjoined twins are suffering from melancholia, Hal A. Peno is in a proper strop because his numbers won't crunch, Jesus Budda is wanking himself senseless, you have actually cooked something which is for once edible and is not emblazoned with Leeds United tattoos; from whence shall salvation be delivered?"
"I can't cook liver," said the crap cook.
"Out man and be damned!" snapped the cranky Captain.
The crap cook shuffled off. Sneakily. Humming 'Why?' by Annie Lennox under his breath.
Captain Morse slumped wearily at his desk. Forsooth, what was the man to do? He had all but lost the Buggerall at one point and was having serious bouts of self doubt as to his ability to steer this ship through some extremely choppy waters.
"Oh no not I," he muttered grimly. "I will survive. As long as I know know how to live I'll certainly stay alive."
The Captain emerged onto the deck.
"Bosun McCarthy!" he snapped. "What news of landfall?"
"I've no idea Captain ya bollix," replied an obviously drunk Fergus. "Today is Saint Patrick's day, God bless him. Let me know when we get to Tokyo. So me and Tokyo Joe can go out on the lash. There's saki to be supped and geisha girls to impregnate. And Man United fans to mercilessly rip the piss out of...hic."
My God, thought Captain Morse. Things are worse than I thought. Continuity is becoming a real problem here. I need to act and act fast.
"Earl Grey!" he shouted.
"Aye aye Cap'n!" quipped the Earl, springing to attention like a cock in a brothel.
"How many crew members are willing and able? As we speak?"
"I'm good to go Cap'n," Earl Grey announced, with a puffed up chest. "And there's Birbee, and the Turse coalition. Not sure about Doctor Victor though. He's been in and out of Piebottom's quarters on and off all day. He looks proper knackered Cap'n. Says his back's givin' him awful terrible gyp."
"Jammy bastard," JB muttered as he passed.
"You there! That man!" said the Captain with an air of authority. "Cease your wanking immediately! Put it back in your pants and resume your duties or by God I swear I will have you flogged."
"Aye aye Cap'n," groaned JB. "And just as I was coming to the vinegar stroke...bastard..."
"What?" challenged Captain Morse.
"Nothin' Cap'n, just moaning about the weather..." mumbled JB.
At which juncture, Captain Morse had an idea. This was an occurrence which didn't occur too often. In his own head he decided that the crew were in desperate need of respite from the heat of battle, cross dressing, encoutering goat missiles, and skinny French asses before resuming the cruise in order to sort out the bastard son of a thousand maniacs, Hornblower.
He turned and addressed Bosun McCarthy:
"How drunk are you Bosun?"
"Very drunk sir," slurred the Bosun. "Y'see, it's Saint Patrick's Day and I'm busy conforming to the stereotypical view of your average Oirish fella, which is to say, very drunk and keen to charm the knickers off the ladies with my ready wit and self deprecating manner."
"So you think shore leave might be in order?" the Captain enquired.
"Too roight," the Bosun managed. "I quite fancy Tokyo meself. Saki and geisha girls and stuff. If you catch me drift..."
"Not Tokyo, not yet," Captain Morse said grimly.
"I was thinkin' of founding a Japanese-Irish subculture Cap'n," said the Bosun. "Just imagine, years from now they could be celebrating Saint Patrick's Day in Tokyo, the descendants of me very own loins, donning the green, drinking the green beer and buying up all the toy leprechauns. it's always been an ambition of mine. Plus I'd like to find out for meself if the sideways thing is actually true."
"Good point well put Bosun," said the Captain. "Out of the question of course at the moment. Turse! Here! Be here now!"
"Aye aye Cap'n!" Turse aye-ayed.
"Set a course for Skull Island. Shore leave is in order. And maybe we can press gang some new recruits."
"But Cap'n..." Turse spluttered. "Skull Island? That means scantily clad female islanders who are gagging for decadent sex. Not to mention a fucking huge gorilla, who we wouldn't want to mess with. Not if we've got any sense."
"Skull Island Turse. Now. If you please."
"It'll all end in tears," Turse said. "You mark my words..."