That
Larry, he’s the man. That’s
some pad he’s got. And we
talked… and drank… and smoked… and drank… and ate… Those mooncakes… out of this world. Some quality catip in the mix. Bet Barrymore made them. Not much she can’t get hold of.
Sky. I can see the sky. Sky’s all around? Wow!
[Ginsbergbear
wakes, or ‘comes down’ as some would say, on the upper observation deck of the
Airship of State, beneath a geodetic Plexiglas dome. We will discover why he is there before too long.]
Woah! Sky up ahead. Sky up above. And fluffy clouds… And birds. I like birds. But what’s that behind me? Behind me there’s… funnels. Big bronze smoking smokestack
funnels. And this is? A spiral staircase… that
goes… Wayhay! Down and… down and… down and...
Round
and… round and… round and… round and…
The
rest of the gang were gathered in The Airship of State’s sumptuous lounge. Boz, Slasher and Phoebles were
huddled in a circle of armchairs discussing McGoogs’ plan, Ferdinand was
studying the Scotland double page spread in The New Pictorial Atlas of the
World, Odhams Press Ltd., 1926 Edition, and Barrymore was doing something
mildly erotic with a cocktail shaker whilst chatting to
Comrade-Squadron-Commander Polly Karpova. Polly had been overseeing the tethering of her crimson
warbird below the dirigible’s canopy, towards the stern, before coming forward
and joining the others.
“Woah-haaay!” There was a protracted rumbling
bumping sound and a bear rolled out from the bottom of a spiral staircase to
halt with a thud against the leg of a coffee table.
“Mr
Bear, how good of you to join us.”
Barrymore and Ms Karpova advanced sinuously upon Ginsbergbear, the
contents of their uniforms animating the coarse fabric like eels in a
flour-sack. Barrymore
proffered a glass containing raw egg, Worcester sauce, Tabasco,
vinegar, and a generous measure of Balkan vodka. “This will pep you up.”
Ginsbergbear
took the glass and drank the contents without looking. His eyes opened wide, then opened
wider. “Ay carajo! That smarts – what is it,
distilled aviation fuel?”
Barrymore
smiled and patted his shaggy head.
Polly sashayed over to the others and collapsed into a vacant armchair
next to Phoebles. She swung
her army booted feet onto the intricately inlaid rosewood coffee table,
flashing bare legs and thighs, smooth as a barrister, taut as banjo strings. She removed her officer’s cap and dropped it on the
deck, copper- red hair cascading about her shoulders. As she lounged back her jacket fell open to reveal a body hugging, telnyashka-striped, thermal teddy.
Suddenly the temperature in the cabin felt uncomfortably warm and sweat
began to form on Bozzy’s brow.
“So
gentlemen,” she purred, “What have you in store for us?”
Ferdy
joined them, still holding on to his atlas; his dodo cool untouched by the
provocative antics of the young air ace, “We’re going north from Carlisle,
following the A7 deep into Reiver territory. Larry has lent us the Airship of State in the hope that
it will impress the natives.
We are wholly and deliberately unarmed so let’s hope he is right.”
The
SL102 Airship of State was Britain’s most impressive dirigible, 978 feet long,
with a polished aluminium skinned canopy embellished with bronze tracery and
powered by four 1200 horse power in-line Stanley Steamer aero-engines with a
funnel each.
“Our
destination is Gilnockie Tower, ancestral seat of the Gilnockie of
Gilnockie. He is nominally
the Reiver Head Honcho and has agreed to meet us to discuss an acceptable way
out of the current impasse.
That’s if The Kittens haven’t already set the Lowlands ablaze.”
Ferdy
paused as Polly took a catnip roll-up from the tin that Phoebles was offering
round. She struck a Swan
Vesta on the hobnailed sole of her boot and set light to the end of the spliff.
“And
I don’t get to shoot anyone?”
“Not
unless the whole exercise turns to cold custard,” interjected Slasher
McGoogs. “But if we find
ourselves up to our bum holes in angry crocodiles you’re the only hope we’ve
got.”
No comments:
Post a Comment