C.R. Terror and a birthday celebration

Mobility Forum,  Nov/Dec 2002  

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The gray light of dawn had just begun to creep across the horizon when a brand-new bright red H2 made its way unsteadily past the gates ofthe flight field. At the helm was the inflated but rakish figure of the Bulging Bon Vivant, one C.R. Terror himself. He waved to the crewmembers who had gathered around the C-141 and shouted, "Morning, amigos! T'is a wonderful morning for flying! What cretin would waste a minute of it earthbound. one moment of it sleeping?"

"Morning, Boss," mumbled Sammy as he watched the Portly Pillar of Pilotdorn attempt with some difficulty to climb out of the Hummer. Ten or so white foam coffee containers could be seen lining the dashboard ofthe Massive Machine.

C.R. finally planted his feet firmly on terra firms and shoulders back, stomach in (more or less) and eyes front, he threw the ends of his violet scarf back over his shoulder and greeted his crew. "Ready for a flyover, m'boys?" he muttered with one eye closed and the other slightly twitching.

"You OK, Major?" asked Sammy as they boarded the aircraft. The Rotund One maneuvered his fleshy frame into the cabin and into the pilot's seat with a loud Pllllummmmrnpohhhh!

"Of course, I am! Never better! Best shape I've been in years!" he blustered with a slight wheeze.

The Rhinestone Flyboy sat with his elbow against the side of the cabin as he began the flight check one finger propping his left eyelid open while the other eyelid drooped to his cheek. He started the run-through, then seemed to lose his place, restarted, lost his place one more time, then restarted yet again.

Sammy met the worried eyes of Lt. Blinky Donivan and shrugged. They had both been on enough flights with the Tanker Terror to remain stoic in the face of the unexplained, the unexpected, and the peculiar.

Finally, they were cleared for take-- off and the metal bird lifted offto dance once again through the footless halls of sunsplit clouds with all aboard breathing a sigh of relief. The Addled Aviator seemed momentarily invigorated by the flight. He turned a florid face to look at his crew and boasted, "It's my birthday tomorrow! Celebrated early! What a party! Lasted for two days straight! Haven't slept since Wednesday!"

"What do you mean, you haven't slept since Wednesday?" came the voice from the tower.

Sammy looked in horror at Blinky and made a motion with his finger across his throat. The navigator turned his face, now as white as chalk and watched as the Round One turned silent and began listing to one side. The plane followed.

A voice from the tower crackled over the headset. "Flight 72, what is your status?"

"Majooooooooorrrrr!" Blinky yelled to the Terror of the Airways. Terror jumped. "Huh! What? What's going on?" gasped the Portly Pilot as he brought the plane slowly back to a level flying position. "Just checking out the instruments! Seems navigation is working well! Good job! All is well, tower. This plane is safely in the bands of the World's Most Terrorific Pilot!"

"Major Terror, this is Col. Fang. You know the rules about pilot rest," came the voice. "Get that plane on the ground!"

"Not a problem, sir!" yawned the Perplexed Pilot. "Got it under control!"

Blinky relaxed back in his seat, wiping the film from his forehead. With a glance at Sammy, he turned back around to concentrate on his job. He was rechecking their position when he heard a low reedy whistle and felt the air vibrate from the sound. He looked quickly for an instrument indication of where the noise was coming from. All the read-outs were normal. He heard it again. It was coming from the cockpit! "Did you hear that, Sir?" He turned around to see the open mouth of the Gripper of the Throttles vibrate as another whistling snore bounced around the cabin.

"What is that noise?" came the voice from the tower. "Flight 72, what is your status?"

"Ma ooooomrr!" came the call from Sammy. The eyes of the Flying Derelict flew open once more. Owl-eyed, he tried to focus

on the stick. "Haaaaaaaa! Testing you again!" he muttered. Then once again the weight of his eyelids seemed to exceed his ability to keep them open.

"What's going on there, Terror?" yelled the voice from the tower. "Flight 72, 1 say again. What is your status?"

"Majoooorr! I am taking the stick," yelled Sammy as he watched the Sultan of the Skyway slump into his seat, a multitude of chins resting on his Obesity-Gene Receptacle.

At Sammy's movement, the Weakened Warrior looked up and around. "Tut, tut, m'boy," complained the Round One. "What do you keep shouting about? We are riding on the wings of angels-- breaking the surly bonds of earth. What more could a man ask for?" he contended, looking back at the faces of his crew.

"Gadzooks! You all look a rather unsightly shade of puce! Well, 1, for one, am disappointed. Can't hold the Spirit Fermentus, huh?" he scolded. "Well! You are lucky the World's Most Terrorific Pilot has come to your rescue. Just let me sit this craft down and we'll go find some hair of the dog that bit you!"

Sammy and Blinky stared, their mouths agape as the Terror of the Tarmac began preparations for landing.