Goodnight Jackie

“Dad?”
Captain Teague sighed, leaning back in his chair as his only son crept up to the side of it.
“What is it Jackie?” he asked, closing his eyes as Jack clambered up into his father's lap, his small frame light on Teague's knees. “Shouldn't you be going to bed?”
“Carl got me into an argument,” began the nine-year-old boy. Teague didn't bother correcting him, he had never found correct speech helpful at all in real life. “He was tellin' me a story, and told me his mom told him.”
“What's there to argue about?” Teague decided to humor him for once and listened. Jack swung his legs on either side of his. Unlike most boys who were somewhat abashed when speaking to their fathers, Jack looked at Teague straight in the eyes. Well, as straight in the eyes as he could for having his head just reaching Teague's chin.
“He said them were bedtime stories,” Jack whistled, as if it were a big deal. Teague felt like going back to his book, when Jack caught him off guard. “Will you tell me one?”
“Didn't you say it was 'is mother?” Teague put one of his hands against Jack's back to keep him from falling off, as Jack did not seem to notice the oncoming danger.
“I asked mom,” Jack shrugged, “But she threatened me with a pan. And the pan was quite threatenin', so I let her be.”
Teague was inclined to agree. Last time she threatened him with a pan it was more or less after she had hit him with it.
“So, tell me,” Jack demanded.
“Aye, if ye insist,” Teague shook his head, taking a short draft of his flask and settling Jack at a different angle on his lap, at the perfect angle to be pushed off. “Once upon a time, I woke up. Went in to port and got drunk. Shagged your mother; went to bed. The end.” He proceeded to shove Jack off of his lap, leaving the confused child with his feet on the ground, pointed at the door. “Goodnight Jackie.”
Jack had enough sense at this current point in his childhood to know a dismissal when he heard it.