Look. Across the fo’scle.

“Cigar man,” lever-action, the sound accompanied a cycled round for his rifle, up the ranp silently, chambered, then locked, amid glowing orange cherry and whiskers, ash, donincan and fallen seen wafting from a tired notchriskyle face, his SF bantam book the greatest of all time, “can you hit him! That one, the window washer! Can you? Shoot from here.”

Crack.

“I just want you to know,” he said. “I ain’t queer or nothing.

Doppler effect of a man screaming, as I fend him off. I head actual falling, and hope I’m not. No CGI here. Fury Road and tongue kisses.

“Missed it. By that much.”

“Ha!”

He said nothing.

“I’m not ready.”

I was such a flirt.

“Get the Blue Flame, cigar man.”

“Royals. Marines,” I said.

He checked his MARPAT. Tapes.

“Them!”

After wiping, he gleamed, dull but not clever, “follow ’em.

“Thinking what I’m thinking!”

“Panty raid.”

“No, raids have an egress planned.”

“Excellent!”

Brought to you by Schmitts Gay. If you’re underway, go down. Decks, for beer. What’s not to like. Those longnecks!

Infirmary.

“Silkies.”