There is a little more to the dead stripper in the trash can story that ought to be told. It began out here at sea when a couple of us older guys were talking about things in general and the subject of trash collection came up a couple of years ago. Like I am facing now, one of the guys mentioned that he was having a hard time getting rid of things.
The chief engineer told my cohort to bring the whatever into work and toss it into the back of his pickup as his town had service that would haul anything away.
"Hell," he said. "I could stuff a dead stripper into the can with her feet sticking up and they would stuff her into the truck without batting an eyelash!"
For some reason that tickled my funnybone.
A couple of days later a green deckhand appeared and there was something a little too nosy about him so I decided to have a little fun.
When he asked me what got me into this line of work, I told him it my parole officer got me hired in this business after I got out of the joint.
"WHat did you do?" he asked.
"Four to seven for arson," I replied and watched my cohort smirk and sneak away to keep from busting up and ruining everything. I did notice that he stayed in earshot because he didn't want to miss this one.
The deckhand looked shocked and changed the subject a bit and sort of stepped back nervously.
About an hour later he came into the galley and heard my mate, a rather twisted gentleman and I chatting. The conversation was for his ears as we had noticed he was gullible.
"Ah, you know how it is," I shrugged. "Louie came by with a six pack and after he left my old cell mate dropped by with a jug and we hit that pretty hard and that's when Jimmy Three Fingers came by and broke out the coke and off we went to the bar. A couple of snorts later it was the strip club and the next thing I remembered is that I woke up puking, and sick as hell, sweaty and I was wondering why I smelled like cheap perfume."
"Hey, " I continued. "We've all been there. You know how it is. When I went into the living room there she was, stiff as a board. Then I remembered. She was pretty wild and said she liked it a bit rough so I put my forearm against her throat and then I heard something go pop and she went limp. I guess I thought she had passed out on me so I stumbled off to bed and passed out."
The kid was pretty scared overhearing this, but kept quiet. "What you hear on the boats stays on the boats. Got it, Kid?"
He gulped. "Yup," he said.
My mate looked at me. "Howdja get rid of the stiff?" he asked.
"I just stuffed her in the back of the pickup and dumped her in a dumpster," I replied. I turned to the kid, "You better get back on the tug."
He did and went straight to the chief engineer, a man I have known for years and commented to the chief, " I never knew Piccolo was a convict," he said.
"Where do you think I met him?" asked the Chief. "I was pulling two to five for assaulting a police officer when we met. I hurt him pretty bad. For a while we were cell mates."
The chief and I go back for years and he is pretty quick up on the uptake. In fact, he's the North Carolinian that offered to take the trash from the other deckhand that had just gotten his new trash program and had caused the him to make the comment that started this whole pile of shenanigans.
Two minutes later the Chief was over on board my vessel and asked me what I had fed into the kid. I told him. He grinned. "I'll add onto it," he said.
About ten minutes later the other deckhand and the Chief were talking trash in the galley.
"Yeah," said the chief. "He was toasted at the seminar and that night he went with a couple of the boys down to the club. Next morning he drug me into his room and we had to wrap this broad up in the bed spread and stuff her into the damned dumpster and cover her up. He was sick as hell, but managed to clean up in time for class. How Pic pulled that one off, I'll never know!"
The green deckhand listened quietly and was silent for about two days. When he finally approached me he asked me, "How did you get licensed with a criminal record?"
"You're learning, Kid." I answered. Then I walked off.
A couple of hours later the kid looked up at me. "You don't have a criminal record," he said in an accusing tone. "If you did, you wouldn't be here. They ran a check on me when I got my card and if I didn't pass I wouldn't be here!"
"There it is, Kid. You're learning." I calmly replied. "Let's see what you have learned."
"I've learned that you guys stick together," he said. He seemed a bit hurt.
"You've learned a lot more than that," I said. "You are learning to think and reason. You are learning to question something that just doesn't look right or sound right. Most of the things that don't look right generally aren't so you investigate a bit. Look out at the tank tops. What do you see?"
"That one is open," he said.
"Good eyes. Keep using them, along with your brain. Now go close it," I said.
The Chief is now on another boat but from time to time when our paths cross we chat. The subject of the kid comes up every time and I keep hearing he's making out OK.
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If I get time I'll write up another post about the time we had another new deckhand convinced we were running untaxed gasoline for the mob.
my other blog is: http://officerpiccolo.blogspot.com/ http://piccolosbutler.blogspot.com/
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