Emily's musing on her related failure with wind instruments was cut short by the explosion and sirens that accompanied a plane crash.
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Emily's musing on her related failure with wind instruments was cut short by the explosion and sirens that accompanied a plane crash.
Tired from flying all night, suffering from an upset stomach (most likely brought on by the kidney pie), and squinting into the early morning sun, Captain Rupert A. Buckingsworthtonthorpe, had brought the Boeing 777 in for landing low and fast; First Officer Quentin P. Chudderstonbrookfordham had said, "I hesitate to mention it, but you may be flying ever so slightly low and just a smidgen fast, Captain Buckingswor...Holy Craaap!"
Meanwhile Paris Peron continued updating her facebook status and tweeting - "OMG - I'm like, in a like plane crash, it's like really bad, OMG - look at my hair!", this was going to get her back on page 1 of the The Daily Spun.
Unharmed and still strapped into his seat, amidst the carnage and flotsam all around him - twisted metal, wrecked luggage, hair, teeth, and eyeballs rolling around on the runway, charred pages of his Nose Flute Aficionado magazine flapping in the breeze - the last thing Julian remembered was the tall pampas grass whizzing by his window.
:lol:Quote:
Originally Posted by Sancho
Even behind his mirrored sun glasses, one could tell that Chow Guevera was severely upset to learn of Julian's survival and in a state of Nixonian paranoia he sketched in his mind how the assasination would go down: Chow would contrive the potent and forceful toilet in room 714 (Chow had a penchant for Sewage assasinations- hermetically evacuated waste left little evidence) by lubricating the seat and adjusting the flush suction so that Julian would be sucked down through the seat opening and hurled to a septic exile which such velocity that Chow thought of "the process" as almost existentialist or holistic in description.
Sirens wailing and gravel flying, the Bomberos in their trucks approached the crash site from the north just as Julian on foot exited it to the south, making his way towards what appeared to be a paramilitary camp of some sort.
A little ragged of trouser and with an oily slick smeared across his face, Julian stumbled through the bushes away from the crash site towars the welcoming brands of a fire where, he could have sworn, a small group of people had previously been standing.
Over the airport fence and through the tall grass Julian, for reasons he couldn't adequately explain, followed the trail of trampled foliage eventually breaking out into a clearing where he found, of all people, his sister, Emily, in the company of several very colorful characters of peculiar disposition, and then marking himself as a man who'd mastered the British knack for understatement, he cleared his throat and said, "Why hello, Emily."
Emily, unexpectedly grabbed a brand from the fire and would have thrust it into her brother's face had Chow not knocked if from her grasp and restrained her as she unsheathed a small but lethal knife she kept about her undergarments.
An embarrassed Julian sheepishly hobbled sideways like a crab on the beach - he was a short and very stout man with a face red and blotchy from drink, a map of
blue veins on his cheeks, and his features were sunk into his moonish fatness which expanded to his body, described by his ex-girlfriends (all sisters, one set of twins) as "a body with no elasticity", a statement that always brought the Girls night out Table to excitably piercing shrieks of laughter that you only hear on a table of well wined females - "Emily, what the #$@! was that for?!"
Emily's eyes were wild when she looked at Julian, but she did not attack him further; instead, with a lightning-quick backhand, she planted her knife up to its hilt neatly between Chow's left and right frontal lobes, performing the type of operation that should only be attempted by a trained surgeon under controlled conditions on the most severely schizophrenic of patients, however it did seem to confirm the warning given to El Chow by the man on the street in Uruguay who resembled Pancho Villa.
A stunned silence ensued.
Chow Guevera lay on the cool grass and watched as the evening spread against the sky and listened to the soft wind breathing through the weeping trees down the tobacco stained river to a place beyond the windbreak and then the earth became motionless.
Emily bent over him and nudged him a couple of times in the ribs with the toe of her boot and said, "Yo, Chowsy-Wowsy, are you dead?"
Chow woke as soon as the plane door opened to the popcorn bag heat outside and even hogtied inside a medium sized doggy kennel (with half eaten treats and squeaky toy!?) he knew it was Juantacobell Bay where he was immediately conveyed to a section called "The Box" with a square headed Texan hovering over him spittle screaming in a Thick Southern Accent, "I WILL DETAIN YOU AS LONG AS YOU DO NOT RESPOND TO QUESTIONS, AND THEN, IF YOU RESPOND TO ANY QUESTION, ANY AT ALL, YOU WILL BE IMMEDIATELY SEDATED -DO YOU COMPRENDE?!"
Uhhh...Hmm
Chow Guevera slouched towards his cell, which had written on the side 27-60llb dogs size range and hoped Emily would get is message.
Something caught Chow’s eye as he peered through the grate of the kennel, something on the table behind the slow-talking, gun-toting, square-headed, Texan; something that made Chow think all white people must have obscurus instrumentum syndrome. He said, “Hey cowboy, forget the Glock – is that a Glockenspiel over there?”
The cowboy looked round, he seemed non-plussed, when suddenly he felt the earth taken from beneath his feet as he was smacked with an enormous right hook to the jaw.
The cowboy cartoonishly shook the stars out of head, spit out about forty of his teeth, turned to face his attacker, and then grinned a snaggletoothed grin.