I can let them all hear it as they leave. Yawning, I look out the right side of the plane and see the skeletons in firing position, waiting patiently.
"Time for snoot," I say.
I pull my briefcase up on my lap, get out my bag, cut a line of coke with my best credit card. As the Alaskans say, don't leave Nome without it. As the Pope says, don't leave Rome without it. As the faggots say, don't be homo without it.
Then out with Mr. Straw, up into Mr. Nose.
I jump a little, hearing gunshots, but my curse at spilling some of the coke is tempered by one of the neatest special effects I've ever seen.
Another jet has tried Cap'n Bob's same trick, but this cap'n of the skyways doesn't quite make it. My eyes track just as a ground-to-air missile scoots up to hit a jumbo jet as it's making its crooked approach. The damn thing is bent in half with the explosion like a broken aluminum-foil tube. It seems to hang there in the night with the explosion for a second, then spins lazily down, fire boiling up and down the fuselage until the whole thing hits the runway about a mile away and goes up into a big ball of orange. Our own little jet is shaken.
Now, the skeleton boys outside begin to fire.
I hear the pops, hear the screams. Languidly, I swivel out of Cap'n Bob's chair and over to Copilot Pete's. On the far side of the plane the cattle crowd is running for their lives. The race is over nearly before it begins. I see one village idiot with his carry-on bag clutched in his hand go down. Amazingly, when the shadrool gets up, having only been winged, he still has the carry-on clutched in his hand. The second shot gets him almost immediately, though, and he lets go of the bag now because he doesn't need it anymore.
He's not alone in meeting the tarmac. It's definitely Custer's Last Stand. There's Carol the cow, and she's made it almost fifty yards before one hit spins her around and the second hits her below the neck. She can't decide where to clutch, but the third shot puts her out of the vodka-and-lime-making business forever. She falls in a heap.
Plenty of heaps. I decide it's time for one of those vodkas and pull it out of my pocket. I'm twisting off the little cap when who but Cap'n Bob reappears.
"Out of the way!" he screams at me. I think maybe he's lost his professional cool.
"I'll have to tell your boss," I say, offering the little bottle out to him. "I thought it was bad policy to yell at passengers. Have a drink! You might as well fly loaded. Enough of your pilot brethren do."
He looks at me as if I've landed from Pluto, pushes my hand away. "I'm going to try to lift off," he says, throwing himself into his chair, starting to flip switches.
"Why?"
"It's a massacre out there! Did you see what they did to those passengers? I've kept some on board, I might be able to get away, fly to an island or something."
I shrug and move out of his way, taking my briefcase with me. As I saunter out of the flight cabin there's all kinds of craziness going on in the rest of the plane: people running up and down aisles, a lot of shouting and weeping. Someone's trying to come back up the emergency ramp, someone else doesn't think it's a good idea. "We're taking off!" the one on the inside says, as if that explains it. A rifle shot hits the one trying to get in, a suit type with crooked glasses, and that seems to decide things because he reaches for the back of his neck where a big gout of blood has popped out. He lets go of the top of the ramp and slides down out of sight.
I finish my vodka, put the empty on the nearest seat, and reach in for another one. A casual look back at Cap'n Bob tells me he's trying, but not getting too far.
I tilt the bottle up, emptying it in one long swallow, put the empty next to its brother on the seat, and dust my hands.
Looks like it's time to save ol' Roger's skin, I say to myself, because the ol' Roger danger radar, accurate without fail, has begun to go off in my head.
Saw this in a movie, once. I
"Time for snoot," I say.
I pull my briefcase up on my lap, get out my bag, cut a line of coke with my best credit card. As the Alaskans say, don't leave Nome without it. As the Pope says, don't leave Rome without it. As the faggots say, don't be homo without it.
Then out with Mr. Straw, up into Mr. Nose.
I jump a little, hearing gunshots, but my curse at spilling some of the coke is tempered by one of the neatest special effects I've ever seen.
Another jet has tried Cap'n Bob's same trick, but this cap'n of the skyways doesn't quite make it. My eyes track just as a ground-to-air missile scoots up to hit a jumbo jet as it's making its crooked approach. The damn thing is bent in half with the explosion like a broken aluminum-foil tube. It seems to hang there in the night with the explosion for a second, then spins lazily down, fire boiling up and down the fuselage until the whole thing hits the runway about a mile away and goes up into a big ball of orange. Our own little jet is shaken.
Now, the skeleton boys outside begin to fire.
I hear the pops, hear the screams. Languidly, I swivel out of Cap'n Bob's chair and over to Copilot Pete's. On the far side of the plane the cattle crowd is running for their lives. The race is over nearly before it begins. I see one village idiot with his carry-on bag clutched in his hand go down. Amazingly, when the shadrool gets up, having only been winged, he still has the carry-on clutched in his hand. The second shot gets him almost immediately, though, and he lets go of the bag now because he doesn't need it anymore.
He's not alone in meeting the tarmac. It's definitely Custer's Last Stand. There's Carol the cow, and she's made it almost fifty yards before one hit spins her around and the second hits her below the neck. She can't decide where to clutch, but the third shot puts her out of the vodka-and-lime-making business forever. She falls in a heap.
Plenty of heaps. I decide it's time for one of those vodkas and pull it out of my pocket. I'm twisting off the little cap when who but Cap'n Bob reappears.
"Out of the way!" he screams at me. I think maybe he's lost his professional cool.
"I'll have to tell your boss," I say, offering the little bottle out to him. "I thought it was bad policy to yell at passengers. Have a drink! You might as well fly loaded. Enough of your pilot brethren do."
He looks at me as if I've landed from Pluto, pushes my hand away. "I'm going to try to lift off," he says, throwing himself into his chair, starting to flip switches.
"Why?"
"It's a massacre out there! Did you see what they did to those passengers? I've kept some on board, I might be able to get away, fly to an island or something."
I shrug and move out of his way, taking my briefcase with me. As I saunter out of the flight cabin there's all kinds of craziness going on in the rest of the plane: people running up and down aisles, a lot of shouting and weeping. Someone's trying to come back up the emergency ramp, someone else doesn't think it's a good idea. "We're taking off!" the one on the inside says, as if that explains it. A rifle shot hits the one trying to get in, a suit type with crooked glasses, and that seems to decide things because he reaches for the back of his neck where a big gout of blood has popped out. He lets go of the top of the ramp and slides down out of sight.
I finish my vodka, put the empty on the nearest seat, and reach in for another one. A casual look back at Cap'n Bob tells me he's trying, but not getting too far.
I tilt the bottle up, emptying it in one long swallow, put the empty next to its brother on the seat, and dust my hands.
Looks like it's time to save ol' Roger's skin, I say to myself, because the ol' Roger danger radar, accurate without fail, has begun to go off in my head.
Saw this in a movie, once. I
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