Ship Ahoy

450

Starsky and Hutch make headway.

Heave Ho.

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“Hand me the rigging again, Me Matey.”

“Starsk, it’s thread. I think you’ve been at this too long.” Hutch swashbuckled to the fridge for the last beer.

“Arrr…” The line needed to be passed through the cleat.

“You coming to bed, or what?”

“Nope, and neither are you.” Starsky winked and stole the bottle.

“What?”

Starsky peeked through the pilot house. “Because you have to christen it.”

“Hey, that better not mean what I think it does,” Hutch grabbed the beer back and took a quick swig.

“No, silly, with this…” Starsky produced a one ounce nip bottle of Captain Morgan.

“Cute, but that’ll wet the whole fore.”

“Then I’ll have to make you swab the deck.” Starsky ran his eyes across the gunwales inspecting their slant.

“Why me?” His eyebrow was up, he knew there was a ruse here somewhere.

” ‘Cause you’re the buccaneer.”

“A buccaneer. A pirate. They don’t wash decks.” Hutch shook his head, “And pray tell, whom might you be?”

“I’m the Grand Architect.” He reached for the feather duster, and poofed it at the mast.

“And what does he do? Wave in the parade float?”

“No, he sleeps with pirates. Gets christened by queer buccaneers…” Starsky wiggled his eyebrows and poofed feathers at Hutch’s head.

Hutch ducked starboard. “Have you been playing with your dinghy again?”

“Arrrg…” The duster kept coming, Hutch wrestled with the handle, and captured it, at the expense of many flamingo feathers. “You’re a moron.”

“Ready About!” Starsky bellowed, snapping open the nipper, pulling on Hutch’s waistband and depositing the rum. “Full Ass-tern!” He scuttled away.

Hutch jerked up and flew across the couch in hot pursuit, out to swamp the Architect.