Special Delivery
© 2012 by Mr. David R. Dorrycott A bright yellow and green bi-plane flew lazily from the direction of Sacred Island towards Casino Island. If one looked closely enough, one would have noted that the paint job seemed rather hastily done, yet the colors were so bright and garish that even focusing on the aircraft was a painful exercise. One or two eagle-eyed spotters were certain that it was an old Tigermoth, exactly the same model as often flown by those insane Songmark girls - but why was it painted so garishly? High above the watching citizens and tourists, two third-year Songmark students prepared for their bombing run; for indeed, they were Songmark Girls, and like all Songmark girls filled with adventure. Their aircraft, though, wasn’t a Songmark aircraft. Those expensive creatures were currently down for inspection by a second-year dorm that had truly hit rock bottom: In fact. wasn’t expected to finish the year, if they kept to their current path. No, this aircraft belonged to a Great War veteran who lived on Apple Island and had lost a bet with the girls. Use of his precious aircraft was payment for that bet. Of course had he won, his prize would have been.... Carefully, the garishly aircraft lined up on Casino Island and thus on the docks on the harbor side. A rather expensive yacht was currently moored there, a yacht owned by one Carter James Carter (the second), a rather dapper beagle who believed that his money could get him into and out of anything. He had, though, made the critical mistake of insulting a certain Huntress, a friend and instructor of a certain Songmark Student, and within her hearing. “Lined up,” the pilot announced. “Roger, Lined Up,” her passenger repeated. Something heavy and very orange was very carefully lifted onto the leather covered edge of the passenger's compartment. It wobbled a bit in the airstream, but the young woman holding it well knew her business. “Stand-by,” the pilot announced. “Roger, Stand-by.” It really was a delicate mission, to hit one boat out of hundreds in the water below; still, their approach was taking them just a hundred feet over the water as they crossed Casino Island's main drag. “Three... Two.. One.. DROP! DROP! DROP!” the pilot yelled, pulling into an abrupt hard-to-port turn and diving even closer to the water, as she said 'Drop!' the third time, trading what little altitude that she had for speed. Carter James Carter (the second) stepped to the bow of his ship, watching in wonder as the aircraft approached. He was so caught up by the craft's next maneuver, that he completely missed the orange object falling directly at him. Now, a full-sized pumpkin falling at over 160 kph would have been deadly in itself, what with its thick skin and water-heavy innards. This one, though, had been carefully cleaned and carved to near paper-thin, its innards filled with a white sweet substance and a single sheet of water-resistant paper. It traveled true, arching down to strike the yacht just aft of her bow. Shattering upon impact, the pumpkin pretty-much ceased to exist. Its sticky-sweet white payload, though, continued, coating the young hound from toe-claw to ear-tip. Meanwhile the garishly painted Tigermoth flew almost on the water, back towards Apple island; not Eastern Island, where one would have expected it to go. Sometime later, cleaned of the sticky material and dressed in clean clothing, Carter James Carter (the second) read that note that his crew had found while cleaning his ship. “You are no longer amusing,” was all that it said. No further warning, no name, nothing. For a few minutes the young hound though about filing a formal complaint, then he thought a bit more. Had that been an explosive rather that a coconut-cream-pie-filled pumpkin, his second brother would be inheriting. “Albert,” he called, causing a much older fox to appear as though teleported. “Sir?” the elderly tod asked. “We leave at high tide; I no longer find Spontoon amusing.” “Yes Sir.” Early the next morning, Miss Devinski, head instructor of the Songmark Aeronautical Boarding School for Young Ladies, stared at the four young women standing at attention before her. She had yesterday been forced to allow the local police to carefully inspect the school's own Tigermoths for any evidence of bright green and yellow paint, an act that interrupted a certain second-year's inspection of said aircraft. “And had it killed the young man?” she asked carefully. “Then we would have surrendered ourselves to the police, Miss Devinski,” the dorm's leader announced. “Responsibility for one's actions, after all.” Poking at a rather thick report that the four had delivered, the yellow-furred hound made a decision. “There will be no further defense of the Hunteress' or Hunters' Honor. They are quite able to do so themselves. Am I clear?” “Yes, Miss Devinski,” all four agreed as one. “Dismissed.” end |