By the time General Skywalker does see the ship graced with his pin-up, the pool on when he would see it has become enormous. Whether the art was good luck or the crew as skilled as they bragged they were, the ship survived battle after battle in the outer territories with only slight damage. The crew were the only ones not in the pool since everyone else said that would be unfair: they could ask the General for an inspection at any time and rig the whole thing.
When Skywalker finally does see it, in the course of a long over-due inspection of the 142nd in company with General Kenobi, the entire hangar holds its breath.
It’s quite a moment, really, that many beings suspending a primary physical function for an ever-increasing number of seconds as Skywalker studies the nose of the ship -- and himself, bare-chested, hips barely covered by the flaring skirts of his black robe, lightsabre in one hand, glaring out into thin air.
He finally clears his throat and inclines slightly towards Kenobi who is standing beside him, also studying the artwork. If Skywalker means to muffle his voice, he fails. Badly. ‘Do you think they have the upper thigh quite right?’
Kenobi cocks his head slightly, then shakes it. ‘Not in my opinion, no.’ And he rakes Skywalker with a glance salacious enough to melt the pin-up right off the hull and the hangar gasps as one being.
Skywalker flushes slightly. ‘I’ll have to have another look at that one of you sometime,’ he says, as he links his hands behind his back and continues his walk down the line of ships. ‘Make sure they’ve got the line of your -- your beard.’ He glances back at Kenobi, one eyebrow lifted, and Kenobi chuckles and everyone in the hangar simultaneously realises they had been betting on the wrong thing.