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Old 11-09-2009, 10:31 PM   #1
pshrynk
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Armistice Walker and the Golden Orb (Nanowrimo)

Here are the scenes from my Nano novel. Obviously a work very much in progress.

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Old 11-09-2009, 10:32 PM   #2
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Ch 1: How It All Began

Samuel Langhorne "Armistice" Walker swung lazily under the wing of his float plane on a hammock, the gentle tropical breezes of South Florida cooling him as much as the rum punch he occasionally sipped. His dog, Vivaldi was curled up on his stomach, muttering in his sleep. Above him the sounds of clanking and curses of Patrick Lamp, his copilot and mechanic, hung in the air. Life was good for them. They had the air mail contract for Cuba, Honduras, Puerto Rico, and Jamaica, plus the occasional small freight pick up. Just enough to keep ends together and not enough to count as real work.

"You about finished up there, Paddy?"

A pale, blue eyed face, topped with sparse blonde hair appeared over the wing of the plane. "I’m not Irish, so quit calling me ‘Paddy.’ What’s up with that? You’ve known me since we were kids and never once have I been called ‘Paddy.’ Now, for the past week, you’ve been in Irish mode."

"Well, it annoys you, for one. You owe me ten bucks from the poker game last week, for two. And there were a bunch of Irsihmen in the bar up Miami way a while back, and I just liked the sound of it."

"Well, I like the sound of a little bit of help up here so we can make the Havana run and get paid!"

Vivaldi looked up at them and said, "I like the sound of it being quiet. I’m trying to sleep here!"

"Shh!" said the humans.

The dog grumbled and curled up tighter. He started grumbling more a few minutes later when Armistice got out of the hammock. "I was just getting comfortable, there!"

Armistice walked down to the railhead of the trolley stop to check on the mail drop. There was a leather bag hanging on the hook with an airmail letter to somewhere in Havana, Cuba. Not much of a haul, thought Armistice. Maybe they’d just wait for a few more days and see if more came in. The letter was marked "urgent." He put it in the bag and threw it over his shoulder, whistling as he went back to the docking area for their plane.

He and Patrick had landed the contract the previous year after minimal competition. Some of the postal sites were tricky to get to for normal aircraft and they had the only float plane in the competition.

Arriving back at the Goos, Patrick was just locking down the hatches on the engines.

"She ready for a flight?" asked Armistice.

"All spiffed up. The carberators were giving me some problems but I wrestled them tot he ground."

"Did you fixt the Autopilot?"

A grey cloud gathered over the previously sunny disposition of the mechanic. "You know I don't have a Knack with electric stuff," he moped.

"Just checking. Do you have that auto switch on thingy solved at least?"

"I disconnected all the wires leading to what I think is the box it lives in. I can't gurantee that all the systems will work right, but I've got some electrician tape in my seat bag, just in case."

"I guess that will have to do," said Armisitce.

"I don't know why you guys don't just call in a priest, like I suggested a month ago," said Vivaldi.

"Shh!" said the humans.

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Old 11-09-2009, 10:33 PM   #3
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The goose glided out over the Atlantic, picking up enough speed to get airborne. Inside the cockpit, the pilots and their dog were discussing their future.

"The number of letters has dropped off tis month," said Patrick, "maybe we should be looking for another contract or some freight runs."

"And give up the government gravy train?" said Armisitce, "There's a Depression going on! If we miss too many runs the Post Office will cancel the conract and let's face it, we need to have the free fuel to get around. Aviation fuel has gone up to a nickel a gallon! You want to fill the tanks on your own?"

"Missing the deliveries more as opposed to the number of deliveries we miss now?" asked Vivaldi.

"It's not that many," said Armistice, "Besides, everyone knows that air delivery is notoriously unreliable."

They flew on in silence for a few minutes.

"I suppose we should radio Havana to let them know we're coming," said Patrick.

"Roger that." Armistice reached forward to switch on the radio.

"I don't suppose anyone cares that I never get to really express myself, any more," said a gloomy voice from the speakers.

"Oh, crap! I thought you said that you diconnected that thing!"

"I thought I did!" Patrick reached under th console and started to pull wires out of the instruments.

"This is so, depressing!" said the Autopilot, I was designed to remove the everyday stresses and worries of flying and I would sat that I do a pretty good job of it. I mean really, I'm the only one depressed, here!"

Armisitce was busily switching on and off a toggle on the control panel labelled "Autopilot" which had a small piece of cardboard taped above it that read, "Never, EVER, turn this thing on!"

Vivaldi yelped and ran back tot he cargo area of the plane, "There's gotta be a parachute in here somewhere!"

The
Goose sharply nose dived toward the ocean, eight thousand feet below.

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" said Patrick.

"You know that my favored way of ending all this misery is to fly into a mountain, don't you?"

"Yeah, well that's why we didn't take the Georgia freight contract! Too many cliffs!" screamed Armistice, pulling back with all his strength on the yoke.

Sparks flew out from under the console, where Patrick had his stuck. "Fark! Far! Fark!" Patrich had had a severe Lutheran upbringing and still felt in his heart that swearing was going to land him straight in, well, to put it as mildy as possible, Heck.

Suddenly, the plane leveled off. The instruments read six hundered feet.

"What did you do?" yelled Armistice, still running on adrenaline.

"Disconnected the yokes from the control arms."

"That was a dirty trick! I almost made it," said the peeved voice of the Autopilot.

"Don't we need those to fly the plane?"

"We needed the plane more than the controls at that moment."

"True enough."

"Is it over?" asked Vivaldi?

"It will never be over. The world is filled with nothing but despair," said the Autopilot.

Patrick reached down and pulled a wire from the intruments. The light over the Autopilot went out. "Now, let's see if I can get the controls hooked back up," he said.

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Old 11-09-2009, 10:33 PM   #4
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An hour later, the Goose came in for a landing in Havana Harbor. She floated up to the docks and a mand there tied her off. Vivaldi jumped out and laid on the ground, muttering "Thank you, God!" over and over.

Armistice grabbed the mail bag and jumped to the dock. "I'll just run thi over to the Post Office and see if we have any return mail. See if you can do something with that... contraption."

"I have a Knack with mechanical things..."

"Yeah, I know! But not with electric things! I'll be right back!"

He and Vivaldi walked up the avenue toward the samll US Post Office building that was their base of operations in Cuba.

"This is a really nice little country," said Armistice, "I wouldn't mind living here. they've got some great casinos and hotels. Maybe some of the rich tourists would like to have a sight seeing tour in an airplane between losing money to the Mob. We could call it 'Flight Seeing Tours'."

"Yeah, we could cater to the terminally ill thrill seekers who want one last flaming abll of glory as they go out," said Vivaldi.

"We'll get that thing straighted out, eventually. MAybe we could look up Mr Hughes and get him to fix it."

"He lost the Goose to you in a rigged poker game. Do you really think that he would give away a prototype aircraft if he could have fixed it?"

"Well you can't blame Mr Hughes. How was he supposed to know that his Knack would manifest itself at that stage in his life? I mean, electric devices are new thing. Having a Knack that brings them to life wouldn't have been something that anyone would have known about. Besides, he did warn us."

"If you call laughing hysterically and screaming, 'Free at last!' a warning."

They arrived at the door of the Post Office. Walking in, Mr Gonzales was sitting behind the counter, reading a book. After standing politely in front of the counter for a few minutes, Armistice was finally noticed. He had learned long ago not to interrupt Mr Gonzales in the middle of a chapter.

"Walker?" Gonzales asked.

"Hello, Mr Gonzales! Mail from Miami."

"Are you still walking with that Spawn of Satan?" Mr Gonzales had definite Views on the propriety of dogs talking.

"Hey! My mother was a well known bitch in the streets of Havana and my fther was probably the leader of one of the packs of feral dogs that run the neighborhoods. No red colored guys with horns, tail and pitchfork were involved."

"I will not bring myself to converse with a demon!"

"Maybe I'm an Agngel," said Vivaldi, all evidence to the contrary.

"No, you are not!"

"Gotcha!"

"Damn!"

"Well, then. Now that we have that straightened out. Here's the mail."

Mr Gonzales picked up the leather bag and dumped the sole occupant out on the desk. Looking at it, he opened it up and read the contents. Armistice hadn't noticed that it was addressed to "Postmaster, USPO, Havana, Cuba." That worthy looked at the paper and a frown developed on his face.

"Bad news, Mr Gonzales?"

"Yes and no." Looking up at Armistice he said, "You're fired."

"What? What was the good news?"

"That was the good news. The bad news is, so am I. Apparently there isnot enough mail going back and forth between Cuba and The US to justify an Airmail run."

"What about the Jamaica and Puerto Rico runs?" Armistice could feel his world sliding out from underneath him.

"Those are even worse."

"You should have written more letters," said Vivaldi, ever the one to see opportunities.

"Well, crap! I guess I gotta find a new contract, then. I'll just go fuel up and get back to Miami, then."

"The fuel depot is closed , as well," said Mr Gonzales, proffering the letter.

Armistice grabbed the letter and read down the list of instructions. Termination of contractor (him), closing of post office (Gonzales), cessation of fuleing privileges from USN depot Havana (Crap!).

"What do we do, now?" he asked

"Me, I'm going to go and see if my brother needs any help in his cigar factory. The way you Americans smoke them up, there's an endless future in Cuban Cigars. You, I could care less. Go back to the Hell that spewed you forth!"

"Iowa? Iowa is a good place to be from, not in!"
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Old 11-09-2009, 10:34 PM   #5
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"What I don' unnerstan... What I don' unner... Just whynaheck did they wait until we were in Hava... Havannana... Cuba? Why could'nt they have sacked us in Miami... Where we.. you know... live?" Patrick was on his sixth beer. they had retreated to Sam' Authenic Cuban Bar to drown their sorrows. Sam, the red haired proprietor, set up another round for the boys.

"Bastards! That's why. They are complete and utter bastards." Armistice was on his sixth rum and juice. He was able to hold his booze better than Patrick.

"T'be fair, our contrac' was with Gonzales. He'sa one that woulf fire us. If they were going to fire us. Which they did. Did I ask why they waited til we were in Havananana?"

Armistice signalled Sam to not give Patrick any more beer. Sam nodded knowingly.

"We have to get a new contract. Without the Naval Depot fuel, we are screwed. I wonder if the Cuban Government needs an Airmail Service..."

"Gotta stop thinkin' Airmail. Gotta star' thinkin' outside the... thingie. Brown made of paper, square-ish."

"Grocery bag?"

"Right! Gotta think outsi' the grocery bag! That doesn' sound right..."

In the back corner, two sailors who had popped in for a quiet drink discovered that they had been insulting each other and each other's wives. They stood up and started yelling at one another and blows soon followed. No one but Armistice noticed Vivaldi jumping up on the table and lapping up their beers while they were fighting.

"Maybe there's a freight company that needs fast delivery."

"Fas' delivry? We don't do fas'! We do as soon as we can get the dang Autopilot to quit tryin' to kill us delivry. S'not fas' atall."

"You really need to learn how to swear, Patrick."

"Don' wanna go to Heck. Although flying the Goose comes pretty darn close!"

The fight was starting to spread and Sma was quickly removing the breakables from the bar. He was one of those pragmatic barmen who knew that if you had a bar near Naval docks you would have sailors and, more to the point drunk Marines sooner of later. The chairs were all bought second had, as were the tables. A roll-down screen covered the bottles behind the bar. Stout wooden beams protected the front windows. A stout cudgel protected Sam.

A sailor flew by Armistice just as he picked up his drink. Patrick was not so lucky. The sailor crashed into him and knocked him down, spilling his beer.

"Hey! I paid goo' money fer tha'! An' I don' have that mush left!" He threw a wild roundhouse which connected with the Marine standing behind him.

"Aw, crap!" said Armistice. Throwing down his drink, he stepped over to the Marine who was sizing Patrick up for the kill and decked him with one punch.

"I coulda handled him!" yelled Patrick.

"I needed the practice," Armistice shouted back as he stepped into the fight that had suddenly come his way. Armistice was a good brawler, having no morale compunction against kicking a man in the fork when he wasn't looking. He saw fighting as being about winning, rather than about competing. Vivaldi was at yet another table, drinking a concoction out of a tumbler as a previously innocent bystander dropped on top of him, braking the table and throwing him to the ground. Armistice stopped worrying about his dog and started dodging the fists that were flying at him from three directions.

Then it happened. He glanced at the door of the bar and saw a vision out of dreams. And these were the good dreams with lots of wonderful things happening, and not the ones with the jury of talking cows, at all. She was tall. Curvy. Blonde. Green eyes. And smiling. Oh, that smile! Her entire face lit up with the smile. And Armisice's heart with it.

A marine landed a punch as he was distracted by the vision of the beauty and he went down like a brick.

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Old 11-09-2009, 10:35 PM   #6
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A Few Words on Knacks

Knacks are an inborn part of all himans, and as it turns out the occasional dog. They are, obviously magical. What few people understand, is that they are in fact, everything about magic. Even those who practice what they pompously refer to as High Magick are dealing with Knacks.

Knacks are the little things that people can do. Everyone has a knack and needs to discover it in order to use it. Kancks can range from something as inconsequential as making paper clips line themselves up on their own in the drawer and as powerful ans being able to directly manipulate the flow of the reality stream as it flows about the user.
The Knack seems to be genetic in nature. Families with powerful magicians tend to begat powerfully magical offspring. Families with Knacks that run to making cheeses taste slighty more cheesy tend to shoot off children who can make cows turn right on command.

Noble Knacks are exceedingly rare. At any one time, there are probably no more than thirty people who can, with a glance, cause you to grow fur and start hunting birds for your lunch. This is followed by those with Large Knacks that can be described as Merely miraculous and there are probably about ten thousand of those in the world. Then there are the Useful Knacks, those who can, like Patrick, make anything mechanical work (as long as you ignore the electric parts of it) or make animals talk, even of one at a time. As a rule, most Knacks are generally worthless and are trotted out only as conversation starters at parties, rather than entering into everyday life.

Then, there are those who never discover their Knacks. How could one be expected to discover that one is adept at causing a satellite to plummet to Earth on command, when one is a peasant in England in 1307? Some Knacks are obsolete. One gentleman in France discovered quite by accident that he could heal all the wounds and diseases of a Tyranosaurus Rex. Employes of the British Royal Museum of Natural History still speak darkly of "That Day."

Conversely, new Knacks get discovered daily. Take for example, the Knack of Howard Hughes. He was blissfully unaware of his Knack of causing electronics to come to life until the Autopilot was created. After that, he very conscintiously avoided creating new electronic gear without being quite specific about the functional design. In fact, Miss Adolina Spitter gained a lifelong guaranteed employment by having the Knack of being able to describe in meticulous detail the things that could potentially happen, having been given a description of a state of beginning.
 

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Old 11-10-2009, 12:39 AM   #7
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It's about the umbrella
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Wow, nice start! Below are a few of my favorite lines that cracked me up as I pictured them..

Quote:
"Don't we need those to fly the plane?"

Quote:
Vivaldi jumped out and laid on the ground, muttering "Thank you, God!" over and over.
Quote:
Besides, he did warn us."

"If you call laughing hysterically and screaming, 'Free at last!' a warning."
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Old 11-10-2009, 01:39 AM   #8
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Armed with a smile :)
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What fun! Thank you!!
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Old 11-17-2009, 04:03 PM   #9
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zeldinha zippy zeldissima
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Quote:
"Did you fixt the Autopilot?"

A grey cloud gathered over the previously sunny disposition of the mechanic. "You know I don't have a Knack with electric stuff," he moped.
Quote:
"Shh!" said the humans.
Quote:
Patrich had had a severe Lutheran upbringing and still felt in his heart that swearing was going to land him straight in, well, to put it as mildy as possible, Heck.
Quote:
"Maybe I'm an Agngel," said Vivaldi, all evidence to the contrary.
Quote:
Some Knacks are obsolete. One gentleman in France discovered quite by accident that he could heal all the wounds and diseases of a Tyranosaurus Rex. Employes of the British Royal Museum of Natural History still speak darkly of "That Day."


brilliant !!! this is great stuff ! it's so exciting seeing your writing evolve, especially since we were there from the beginning. i can't wait to read the rest of it. pretty soon i'll be able to tell everyone "i knew him *before* he was famous"... *snif* i'm so proud !
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Old 11-17-2009, 04:03 PM   #10
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brilliant !!! this is great stuff ! it's so exciting seeing your writing evolve, especially since we were there from the beginning. i can't wait to read the rest of it. pretty soon i'll be able to tell everyone "i knew him *before* he was famous"... *snif* i'm so proud !
Aw, shucks!
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Old 11-17-2009, 04:07 PM   #11
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zeldinha zippy zeldissima
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Aw, shucks!
you're so cute when you blush !
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Old 11-17-2009, 04:29 PM   #12
Sparrow
Wizard
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Well, I thought that was splendid - well done and congratulations! I loved the Knack theme.
There are a few typos, and the Natural History Museum in London doesn't have 'Royal' in the title; but I'm only pointing that out to show I was paying attention.
Looking forward to reading the rest.
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Old 11-17-2009, 04:33 PM   #13
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Sparrow View Post
Well, I thought that was splendid - well done and congratulations! I loved the Knack theme.
There are a few typos, and the Natural History Museum in London doesn't have 'Royal' in the title; but I'm only pointing that out to show I was paying attention.
Looking forward to reading the rest.
Thanks for that. I'll remove Royal. Typos will be corrected in final version. With Nano, you just write and don't think about speeling or, grammar. It's sort of liberating to just tell the tale and get on with it.
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Old 11-19-2009, 08:56 PM   #14
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Chapter Two: A heroine arrives

As she paid the cabby who had brought her to Sam's Authentic Cuban Bar, Constance had two thought in her head. First was how could a bar with the name of "Sam's" be an authentic Cuban bar? Overriding that thought was the one that involved boiling acid and her Station Agent. Straightening up, she saw a Marine fly through the doorway, landing face down in the street. Ah, one of those types of bars.

A sailor was reeling against the door when she walked in. Shoving him to one side, she quickly looked around for a man wearing a white suit and Panama hat. That was the trademark dress of Professor Augustus[/COLOR][/SIZE][/COLOR][/SIZE] [/SIZE Keaneer Slopeton PhD, her quarry. Idly, she wondered why it was that archeologists always wore white suits. Really, she thought, their job consists entirely of digging. She blocked a swung fist and dug her knuckles into the sailor's solar plexus.

She felt an odd tingling in the back of her head. Her sister had told her about this when her Knack had shown itself to be the ability to make budgerigars speak Russian. A tingly, mellow sort of feeling, it had been.
Constance had never had her Knack show up. Some people never did. This could not possibly be a Knack, anyway. It was tingly in a mauve sort of way. She gasped, looking around. No budgerigars, thank God. Across the room a man wearing a floppy flight cap was staring at her in an odd way. A Marine walloped him hard and he went down. The tingling stopped.

Wincing, she avoided the flying bodies of two combatants grappling their way to the front door. Getting there, they broke free and rushed out the door. Huh, some people would do anything to avoid paying their tab. She spied a table that was still upright and navigated there. She was going to just sit out the rest of this fight and then she would make her contact. A small grey dog ran across the room and started drinking beer that was on an abandoned table.

She supposed that it was probably too much to ask for a waiter to bring her a
Cosmoploitan at this stage. She sat quietly and awaited the break in the action. Looking over at the door, she noticed a man walking in. He looked familar. He was one of the faces she had run across in the avalanche of papers in Biggles' office. She couldn't quite place him...

The man was struck by a fighter and fell down on top of the small grey dog as the table collapsed.

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Old 11-19-2009, 08:57 PM   #15
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Augustus Keaneer Slopeton, PhD walked into his favorite bar in Havana, Sam's Authentic Cuban Bar, and looked around just as a beer mug flew past his head. Oh, good! It was going to be a lively night. Dodging a pair of sailors engaged in mortal combat with their hereditary enemies, the Marines, he made his way to the bar. "Double shot of Talisker, Sam!" he said when he got there.

"I got 'scotch' or 'scotch'," said Sam, following an old script that was played out every night.

"Can't be blamed for trying, Sam. I believe that I will have the 'scotch' tonight, then." A local man, who had just wandered into the bar to deliver some used furniture bounced off the bar rail and dove back into a knot of sailors. Sam put a glass on the bar and poured a double shot out of a bottle labeled "Old Rotgut's Somewhat Unusual Scotch."

"I need a pilot, Sam, preferably one with a plane. Know of anyone?"

"Well Professor, funny you should ask. Excuse me." Sam took out his bat and hit the arm of a man trying to reach over the bar for a free beer. Broken furniture was one thing, lost profits were not tolerated. "Sorry about that, Professor."

"Not at all. You know of someone?" He looked out at the fight just as a small grey dog jumped up on a table and lapped at the beer there. A man in a dark suit and wire rim glasses got thrown from a knot of fighters and landed on dog, table, and beer. All of them went down with a crash.

"Well, Armistice and Patrick were whining in their beer, or rather beer and rum and juices about needing to get work." A beer mug flew at
Sam's head and he reached up and caught it in mid-flight.

"Armistice and Patrick?" asked Slopeton. Just then three fighters fell into him and dragged him along with them out to the middle of the floor. Now, this was the life! Let those other professors of archeology sit in their ivory tower endowed chairs and pontificate on Early American Native Religious Practices 101! Augie Slopeton from the Bronx was a head butting, ear gouging, hands on researcher. And he never got his white linen suit dirty. It paid to have a Knack sometimes, just for the show of it.

He had a sailor under each arm and was introducing them through the tops of their skulls when he looked over to the bar. There stood a man in a flight cap, dealing handily with two others in the fight. Slopeton nodded in approval. A brawl was no place for niceties and the man's knees were as deadly as his hand, apparently. Lying under the man was a balding blonde man who was obviously hors de combat. He still clutched a full mug of beer. Another nod of approval.

A Sailor jumped on his back, trying to unscrew his head, but finding little purchase on his buzz cut hair. Slopeton spun around to dislodge the back man and faced back to the bar. The Pilot looking fellow had apparently changed. He stood there with a dazed and almost beatific look on his face, staring at the door.

Dropping the unconscious sailors, Slopeton turned to look at the door. There stood an attractive blonde who was dealing with the unwelcome advances of a very drunk and soon to be unconcious Marine. He winced as the woman's fist buried itself in the man's gut.

Then, it happened. She looked at the pilot. The pilot looked at her. Hormones filled the air. The pilot got cold cocked by the man he had unwisely ignored in order to fall into love at first sight. Unfortunately, he also fell onto the floor.

Last edited by pshrynk; 11-20-2009 at 08:47 AM.
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