So this is a little something I've been kicking around for, oh, a long time now. It's not even close to finished, but the story-as-is makes for a nice little look into the pre-war life of the Soviet Air Force. I'm kicking it out just to see what people think. Enjoy! --Mal
September 1, 2010
Bob Hope Airport
Burbank, CA, USA, Earth
Forget everything they say about Los Angeles; this is the true center of Hollywood assholism. Nothing but studios and overdevelopment as far as the eye can see. Hot and sunny overdevelopment, too. Southern California is the home of the dreaded reptoids, and their lizardy mark can be found all over the damn place.
So there we were, chilling (ha) on the tarmac at Hope Field, deep in the heart of Burbank. It's the closest airport to Tinseltown, even if it is technically only a regional, so when the client requested we pick him up near the office, it only made sense to land there. Hell, it beat trying to land at LAX. Hope might not be properly equipped for fencraft, but good Lord Xenu the traffic is easier to handle.
Truthfully, I wouldn't have landed in the US at all had I a say in the matter; the last time we were in American airspace our departure was accompanied by angry men, a hail of gunfire and the rockets' red glare. It wasn't my idea of a good time. Even with the shiny new Kandor Treaty forgiving us our sins, there was bound to be some rent-a-cop somewhere who hadn't gotten the “please don't shoot these guys” memo. So that added a nice little edge of mortal peril to the whole shebang.
The client was insistent that the mountain come to Mohammed, not the other way round, and he was willing to pay triple for the privilege. And hell, even evil commie fen bastards have to eat, right? Not to mention that triple pay would eliminate all the bills we still owed for Korolev. Financial solvency ahoy!
We landed a little before noon, expecting the client to be waiting with all his gear and entourage at the general aviation apron, as requested. Because the universe is a perverse beast, neither hair nor hide of the client was to be found.
“So, where's the guy?” KJ asked... somebody. Me, maybe, or the airport, or Burbank in general.
Grumbling, I pulled out my devil cellphone and called the client's office. At once I was greeted by a cheery receptionist. “Yes,” I said, “this is Captain Fnord. I'd like to speak with Mr. Cameron, please.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Cameron is in a meeting right now, can I take a message?”
I very carefully didn't start swearing into the phone. Receptionists are people too, and venting my wrath on the help is just poor form. Instead, I said “Of course. Please tell Mr. Cameron that his contracted transport is at Hope Airport on schedule, and that the fee goes up 50% for ever hour past noon he keeps us waiting? And,” I added in the sweetest voice I could muster, “could you be a dear and see that he gets that message around, oh, one o'clock?”
“I, um, I'll be sure to let him know, sir. Thank you.”
“You're very welcome. Ta.” If the man was going to demand our presence in the Americas and not have the goddamned common courtesy to have his shit ready to go when we got here, I was more than willing to make him pay.
“More money?” Elena couldn't keep the grin off her face.
I raised a fist. “If the bourgeois capitalist pigs are going to make us wait like their servants, then it's our moral imperative to take the fuckers to the cleaners!”
Mr. Fnord interdimensional man of mystery
FenWiki - Your One-Stop Shop for Fenspace Information
"I. Drink. Your. NERDRAGE!"
September 1, 2010
Bob Hope Airport
Burbank, CA, USA, Earth
Forget everything they say about Los Angeles; this is the true center of Hollywood assholism. Nothing but studios and overdevelopment as far as the eye can see. Hot and sunny overdevelopment, too. Southern California is the home of the dreaded reptoids, and their lizardy mark can be found all over the damn place.
So there we were, chilling (ha) on the tarmac at Hope Field, deep in the heart of Burbank. It's the closest airport to Tinseltown, even if it is technically only a regional, so when the client requested we pick him up near the office, it only made sense to land there. Hell, it beat trying to land at LAX. Hope might not be properly equipped for fencraft, but good Lord Xenu the traffic is easier to handle.
Truthfully, I wouldn't have landed in the US at all had I a say in the matter; the last time we were in American airspace our departure was accompanied by angry men, a hail of gunfire and the rockets' red glare. It wasn't my idea of a good time. Even with the shiny new Kandor Treaty forgiving us our sins, there was bound to be some rent-a-cop somewhere who hadn't gotten the “please don't shoot these guys” memo. So that added a nice little edge of mortal peril to the whole shebang.
The client was insistent that the mountain come to Mohammed, not the other way round, and he was willing to pay triple for the privilege. And hell, even evil commie fen bastards have to eat, right? Not to mention that triple pay would eliminate all the bills we still owed for Korolev. Financial solvency ahoy!
We landed a little before noon, expecting the client to be waiting with all his gear and entourage at the general aviation apron, as requested. Because the universe is a perverse beast, neither hair nor hide of the client was to be found.
“So, where's the guy?” KJ asked... somebody. Me, maybe, or the airport, or Burbank in general.
Grumbling, I pulled out my devil cellphone and called the client's office. At once I was greeted by a cheery receptionist. “Yes,” I said, “this is Captain Fnord. I'd like to speak with Mr. Cameron, please.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Cameron is in a meeting right now, can I take a message?”
I very carefully didn't start swearing into the phone. Receptionists are people too, and venting my wrath on the help is just poor form. Instead, I said “Of course. Please tell Mr. Cameron that his contracted transport is at Hope Airport on schedule, and that the fee goes up 50% for ever hour past noon he keeps us waiting? And,” I added in the sweetest voice I could muster, “could you be a dear and see that he gets that message around, oh, one o'clock?”
“I, um, I'll be sure to let him know, sir. Thank you.”
“You're very welcome. Ta.” If the man was going to demand our presence in the Americas and not have the goddamned common courtesy to have his shit ready to go when we got here, I was more than willing to make him pay.
“More money?” Elena couldn't keep the grin off her face.
I raised a fist. “If the bourgeois capitalist pigs are going to make us wait like their servants, then it's our moral imperative to take the fuckers to the cleaners!”
Mr. Fnord interdimensional man of mystery
FenWiki - Your One-Stop Shop for Fenspace Information
"I. Drink. Your. NERDRAGE!"
