Slippery Situation

Posted on Sat Feb 8th, 2025 @ 7:35pm by Gunnery Sergeant Randall Whistler & Lieutenant Colonel Savannah Sorrel

1,549 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: New Crew, New Mission
Location: Marine Deck

Whistler rounded a corner in the barracks, already halfway through lighting up the cigar he’d been saving for a quiet moment, when he nearly walked straight into Private First Class O’Doyle—who was completely naked, covered in what appeared to be butter, and duct-taped to a support beam.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. O’Doyle looked like he wasn’t sure whether to be mortified or proud. Whistler, on the other hand, just sighed through his nose and took a slow drag from his cigar.

“Private,” Whistler said evenly, “do I even want to know?”

O’Doyle shifted uncomfortably against the beam, the tape creaking. “Uh… team-building exercise, Gunny?”

Whistler exhaled a long stream of smoke, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “See, O’Doyle, this is why we have actual team-building exercises, like firing drills and beating the piss out of each other in the ring. This?” He waved vaguely at the greased-up, semi-immobilized disgrace before him. “This ain’t it.”

At that moment, Lance Corporal Ruiz—who Whistler now noticed had butter-slicked hands and a roll of duct tape sticking out of his cargo pocket—walked back in, froze, and immediately turned on his heel to leave.

Whistler pointed a finger without even looking. “You stay right there, dumbass.”

Ruiz groaned and slouched back in.

Whistler took another drag from his cigar and exhaled sharply. “Alright, you two listen real careful. We got three problems here. One—this ain’t regulation. Two—you’re both dumber than a warp coil wrapped in bubblegum. And three—” he jabbed a finger at O’Doyle’s shamefully glistening body, “—I’m real concerned that at some point, someone said, ‘Hey, let’s butter up O’Doyle and strap him to a bulkhead,’ and the rest of you went along with it.”

Ruiz coughed. “It was for science, Gunny.”

Whistler blinked. “For science?”

“Yeah, Gunny. See, O’Doyle here thought he could escape any restraint, so we made a bet. If he could get free from the duct tape, we’d buy him drinks on the next starbase.”

Whistler stared, absolutely unimpressed. “And the butter?”

Ruiz shrugged. “He said it’d help.”

Whistler inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nose, barely resisting the urge to headbutt something. This was not a quick-fix situation.

“Alright,” he said slowly, rubbing his temple. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You two are gonna get this cleaned up before the Colonel gets wind of it. You’re gonna scrub every inch of this bulkhead until it’s drier than a Vulcan vagina. And if I so much as hear about another ‘team-building exercise’ involving household condiments, I will personally sign you up for an extra month of PT with a sandbag tied to your balls. Am I crystal?”

“Yes, Gunny!” Ruiz barked, while O’Doyle, still taped to the post, gave a reluctant, “Yes, Gunny…”

“Good. Now someone get this poor bastard a towel.”

Whistler sighed, turned, and took a long, much-needed drag from his cigar. If the Colonel found out about this, he was going to need a goddamn promotion just to survive the fallout.

In her office Savannah was winding down from her day. She went through the daily reports and then the private little messages from those who she had 'persuaded' to keep her up to date on anything that was going on in marine country. She had some other ways as well that nobody knew about, tricks of the trade that she guarded very well. Those marines had to think she had eyes in the back of her head.

Today's reports did not make her happy, not at all. So she hit her com badge. "Whistler, my office, now!"

"Fuck my life," Whistler groaned with his eyes closed. He savored the last bit of his cigar as it fumed out his nose before he put it out in his calloused hand. He walked into the MCO's office with his best shit-eating grin plastered on his face. "Gunnery Sergeant Randall Whistler reporting as ordered, ma'am."

"I am about to knock off for the day, anything you need to tell me about today, gunny?" She asked sweetly.

"Uhhh..." Whistler let the filler word hang for several seconds before he committed to his answer. "Yeah, no, ma'am, nothing that can't wait till tomorrow at least."

"Are you sure?" Sav said once more. "I asked you to keep me updated on all that transpires with our unruly bunch." She tapped the desk with her fingernails, a clear sign she was not happy.

"Yes, of course," Whistler said, "and there is a situation of which I was just made aware, but it is being handled. I was going to have a report on your desk first thing."

She thought for a few seconds but Sav was tired. It was hard work trying to be everywhere on the marine deck on top of pulling the night watch as the ship lacked a second officer at the moment. "Tomorrow morning it is, but I want details then and pretty soon I want to start seeing results or I will take over talking to these gentlemen myself and nobody is going to like that."

Whistler's smirk faltered just a fraction as Savannah's fingernails tapped ominously against the desk. He had been in this game long enough to know when an officer was tired but still dangerous, and the last thing he needed was her marching onto the Marine deck before he’d had a chance to make things presentable.

He cleared his throat and gave a half-shrug, the kind of casual nonchalance that only a man caught between a rock and a hard place could pull off. “Well, now that you mention it, ma’am, there is an ongoing situation that I was hoping to... ah, sanitize before it landed on your desk.” Whistler scratched the back of his neck and gave her a sheepish grin. “You know, tidy it up a bit. Round off the sharp edges. Put some polish on it so it don’t stink so bad when you have to look at it. Just a courtesy, really.”

She had been in the business long enough that you kept your non coms on your side if you could help it so she finally nodded at him. "You have got 24 hours to do that, gunny. And to put the fear of god into them to not do it again."

Whistler let out a slow, measured exhale, the kind that carried the weight of a man who had just narrowly avoided stepping on a landmine. His smirk crept back onto his face, a lopsided, charmingly roguish thing that had gotten him out of trouble more times than he could count.

"You got it, ma’am," he said smoothly, giving her a lazy but still technically regulation salute. "By the time I’m done, this little... incident will be so neatly wrapped up, you’ll think it was just a bad dream. Hell, even the bulkhead’s gonna forget it ever happened."

He straightened up, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a long night of laying down the law. "And don’t you worry about the fear of god, Colonel. By the time I’m done, they’ll be too scared to even look at a roll of duct tape again."

She held up her hand. "Too much information, gunny." But Sav was smiling. "That's the way I like it. I know it is not easy right now with this bunch of idiots but between us we will whip them into shape and make them into real marines."

"... or die trying," Whistler muttered. Out loud, he said, "Yes, ma'am! Will that be all?"

"That's all gunny." Sav said feeling good that they were establishing a working relationship between them.

Whistler gave Savannah a sharp nod, his smirk lingering just enough to show he appreciated the latitude she was giving him.

“Much obliged, Colonel,” he said, his voice carrying just the right balance of respect and mischief.

With that, he turned on his heel and strode confidently out of her office.

The second his boots hit the common area, his Senior NCO instincts kicked back in, and his eyes immediately locked onto a buck naked private strolling across the barracks, towel slung lazily over his shoulder instead of covering what god, nature, and standard-issue compression shorts had intended to stay hidden.

Whistler’s face twisted into something between disgust, exhaustion, and profound disappointment.

“PRIVATE KOWALSKI!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the room like a disruptor blast. “YOU HAD BEST KEEP A GODDAMN TOWEL WRAPPED AROUND YOUR FUCKSTICK WHILE WALKING THROUGH THE COMMON AREA! THIS AIN’T A FUCKIN’ ROMULAN BATHHOUSE!”

Kowalski froze mid-stride, eyes wide with that special kind of panic at being singled out by the Gunny.

“Uh—yes, Gunny! Sorry, Gunny!” Kowalski frantically fumbled with the towel, wrapping it haphazardly around himself like a man trying to put out a fire with his bare hands.

Whistler sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was going to be a long deployment.

He took a long, slow drag from the cigar he had pulled from behind his ear and relit.

“Real Marines,” he muttered to himself. “Yeah... we’ll get there.”

 

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