most hilarious drug comedy

High In The Sky Over Florida

 

(Very High)

 

 

A Madcap Adventure Comedy Classic, Set Back in The Day

by Jim Esposito

 

 

Episode #1

 

The Bloody Rain of The Winged Crusader



“Toot! Toot!” chirped The Kid.

“Toot? Toot?” The Ace replied.

“Toot! Toot!” The Kid retorted. “Toot! Toot!”

“All right,” The Ace conceded. “Toot. Toot.”

“Toot! Toot!” The Kid chirped merrily, bouncing up and down in his seat. “Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!”

The Ace reached into the breast pocket of his old Nam flight jacket, withdrew a tiny cylindrical glass vial of crystalline white powder, about three-fourths empty.

“We’ve already tooted over a gram and a half,” The Ace declared.

“Toot! Toot!” The Kid insisted. “Toot! Toot!”

“You realize, of course,” said The Ace, unscrewing the tiny glass vial’s black plastic cap, “the only reason I’m giving you this is because it means I get some, too.”

“Toot! Toot!” chirped The Kid. “Toot! Toot!”

The Ace dug some white powder out of the vial with the cokespoon attachment on his Swiss Army knife, leaned over and held it directly below The Kid’s left nostril.

“Bombs away,” The Ace declared.

The Kid inhaled sharply through his nose. The white powder disappeared.

“Toot! Toot!” chirped The Kid.

“Toot-toot to you, too,” The Ace toasted, doing up a spoonful himself.

“Toot! Toot!” The Kid exclaimed. “Toot! Toot!”

“All right. All right already,” said The Ace, holding another heaping cokespoon beneath The Kid's right nostril. “Fire two!”

The Kid inhaled sharply through his nose. The white powder disappeared.

“Toot! Toot!” The Kid chirped merrily. “Toot! Toot!”

“You sound like some kinda bird,” said The Ace, doing up another spoonful, recapping the vial.

“A Coke-A-Toot,” said The Kid.

“Ah, yesss...” went The Ace like W.C. Fields, pretending he was tapping an ash off one end of the glass vial. “It was whilst exploring through the Estonian Mountains... My companions and I discovered a rookery of the rare, tropical Colombian Coke-A-Toot.”

“Toot! Toot!” chirped The Kid. “Toot! Toot!”

“We recognized it immediately by the size of its beak, its deviated septum, and its unmistakable mating call...”

“Toot! Toot!” chirped The Kid. “Toot! Toot!”

“It was delicious... Under glass....”

The Ace pressed the tip of his nose with his forefinger, took a sharp, deep breath through his nostrils, exhaled slowly, smiling as pleasant sensations rippled outward across his face.

The Kid glanced instinctively across his instrument panel, then back out through the windshield. The sky was starting to lighten up, up ahead, as dawn approached. He smiled at the thought. Last night they'd been going west, into the setting sun. Now they were returning, heading east, into the rising sun.

That sounded like a good excuse to get high.

“More drugs,” announced The Kid.

“More drugs?” said The Ace.

“More drugs,” The Kid declared.

The Ace reached into the flight bag between their seats and pulled out a little plastic baggie of marijuana which contained enough fine, dusty powder to roll maybe one skinny little joint that wouldn't burn right.

“All gone,” he said, holding the baggie up for The Kid to see.

“Well!” huffed The Kid, frowning, “This is another fine mess you got us into!”

The Ace drew his face out like Stan Laurel, fingered the top of his head.

“Why don't I get some more?” The Ace suggested.

“Yes,” The Kid agreed. “Why don't you do that?”

“All right, I will,” said The Ace, fingering an imaginary tie.

Unbuckling his seatbelt The Ace slid out of the co-pilot's seat, lurched through the passageway from the cockpit into the cargo compartment of the old Flying Joint, which was loaded with bulky burlap sacks.

The Ace tore open the handiest sack he could find, reached inside, broke a great big chunk off a fifty pound bale of marijuana. He held the handful of short, stubby yellowish looking buds up to his nose and inhaled gently, like a wine connoisseur savoring the aroma. It was real “the-stuff-dreams-are-made-of” Colombian Gold.

The Ace lurched back down the passageway into the cockpit, strapped himself into the co-pilot's seat, took Flying Joint's log book, opened it up in his lap.

The Kid glanced over to see what The Ace was doing, squirming slightly, wetting his lips.

The Ace began methodically cleaning the marijuana, picking out stems, crushing buds one by one, stripping them against the grain between his fingers, fluffing all the compacted chunks, rolling out the little seeds.

He was really getting into it.

The Kid kept glancing over, checking his progress.

Pushing his sleeves back The Ace loosened his fingers, took out a pack of JOB Sup-Air cigarette papers, peeled off five papers. He picked up each paper, one by one, folded the bottom half into quarters along the crease in the center. Then The Ace took out his Swiss Army knife, unfolded the tiny scissors attachment, carefully started snipping off the ungummed corner of each paper.

“Would you just roll a joint!” The Kid erupted.

“What?” The Ace replied, startled.

“Why can't you just roll a joint? I wanna get stoned!”

“Mellow out,” said The Ace.

“Why can't you just roll joints like normal people?” The Kid demanded. “Oh, no! You gotta be Picasso! We're just gonna BURN the motherfucker!”

The Ace motioned for silence. “Look...” he explained, “as long as I'm part of the drug culture, I'm gonna have a little drug culture.”

“If you want cut corners, why don't you just buy the papers with the corners cut?”

“Because,” The Ace replied, “I don't like rolling with those papers. These have nicer texture.”

“Shit,” declared The Kid. “Texture!”

“At least my joints don't look like beached whales,” snapped The Ace. “And they burn even. And they don't explode. Or fall apart so you gotta hold them together with a roach clip. You're just jealous 'cause you're still rolling two paper joints.”

“I just wanna smoke a reefer,” said The Kid. “That's all. I just wanna get high. Is that too much to ask?”

“Well... Then cool it,” said The Ace. “Let me roll.”

Fuming, The Kid cooled it, stared at the instrument panel, drumming his fingers while The Ace proceeded to roll, carefully sprinkling just the proper amount of cleaned dope along the crease in the paper, folding it over, rolling it slowly, tightly, precisely, perfectly cylindrical, before crimping and twisting the ends so it would hold shape.

Beaming proudly The Ace held the joint out so The Kid could admire his artistry.

Snatching the reefer, crushing it, The Kid threw it to the floor.

The Ace did a startled double-take.

The Kid told him: “I don't like that one.”

Shaking his head, The Ace rolled another, taking even longer this time. When he was done he lit this one himself, took a couple hits before passing it to The Kid.

The Kid took a long, deep, soothing hit, held it, exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. The Ace waited. The Kid took another hit. Then another. The Ace waited for The Kid to pass the joint back. The Kid looked at him, made a face, like “Yeah! Right.” So The Ace rolled a third, which he lit, proceeded to smoke himself.

About then The Ace realized how long they'd been listening to Derek & The Dominos. He reached down under his seat, pulled out a case of stereo cassettes.

“Whatta ya wanna hear?” he asked The Kid.

The Kid knotted his brow, nibbled his lower lip.

“Led Zeppelin,” The Kid decided.

“Already heard it,” The Ace replied.

Machine Head,” The Kid declared.

“Too heavy,” countered The Ace.

“Who?” The Kid asked.

“Who?” inquired The Ace.

“Yeah,” said The Kid. “Who.”

The Ace popped Layla out of the cassette deck, stuck Who's Next in, cranked the volume, slid back in his seat, staring out his window at the billowing clouds now visible along the horizon, backlit by the approaching sun, listening to Roger Daltrey sing about the teenage wasteland in “Baba O'Reilly.”

The Kid glanced instinctively across his instrument panel, then back out through the windshield. The sky was even brighter now than it had been before.

“Toot! Toot!” chirped The Kid.

“Toot? Toot?” The Ace replied, brightening a bit.

“Toot! Toot!” The Kid retorted. “Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!

“Well,” declared The Ace with a devious smile, reaching for the vial of cocaine, “we certainly don't wanna crash now, do we?”



♦                ♦                ♦


It was a glorious morning in Central Florida. The kind that made you glad to be alive.

The Reverend Buck Powers, Jr. had been awakened by the angelic choir at precisely 5:45. He washed and dressed, then was served his usual breakfast before settling down to watch the sun come up over The Promised Land, world headquarters of The Buck Powers Crusade Foundation, Inc.

Wearing slippers and a silk smoking jacket, Buck Jr. lounged peacefully in his favorite easy chair in his private study, his feet propped up on his father's old Bible (the one that started the entire Crusade), a sizable tome on a stubby wooden reading stool, paging through a dog-eared hardbound volume of Art Linkletter's Kids Say The Darnedest Things.

He was waiting for The Word of God.

Buck Jr. followed this same ritual religiously every morning seven days a week because he never knew when The Word of God would come and he had to be ready if The Lord should beckon.

Some days He called. Some days He didn't. Buck Jr. never knew when The Word of God would come. But when The Lord did beckon Buck Jr. had to be ready. Instantly. So Buck Jr. kept himself in a state of perpetual readiness. When The Word of God came, he could don the mantle of The Lord and sally forth into the Valley of Death on a moment's notice.

When The Word of God came...

Buck Jr. looked up from his book, gazed out the window, past the huge steel transmission tower in the shape of a giant cross. The sky in the east was starting to lighten.

He wondered if The Lord would call him today.

Maybe he'd know, thought Buck Jr., by sunrise.



♦                ♦                ♦


The sun hadn't quite risen yet, but there was enough light in the sky for The Ace and The Kid to make out the west coast of Florida along the horizon up ahead.

The Gulf of Mexico slid by smoothly, quickly, only two hundred feet below, like one big asphalt freeway.

The Kid said: “Let's do a toot before we take off.”

“Why don't we wait, do it after we take off,” The Ace replied.

“I got a better idea,” countered The Kid. “Why don't we do one toot now, and another toot after? How's that?”

The Ace mulled it over momentarily. “Sounds all right to me,” he decided finally, reaching for their vial of cocaine. A thought occurred to him. He asked: “Shouldn't we be getting clearance pretty soon?”

“Good idea,” The Kid agreed, reaching for the mike of the Flying Joint's radio. “Marco Island, right?”

“Yeah. Marco Island,” The Ace nodded, unscrewing the vial's black plastic cap, digging out some cocaine with the cokespoon attachment on his Swiss Army knife. Reaching over, he held it below The Kid's nose.

“Bombs away,” declared The Ace.

The Kid inhaled sharply through his nostrils. The white powder vanished.

The Ace started digging out another spoonful.

The Kid pressed the transmitter button. “FJ-714 calling Air Traffic Control,” he called, as The Ace snorted a heaping spoon of cocaine. “FJ-714 calling Air Traffic Control. Come in Air Traffic Control. Come in.”

The Ace dug out another spoon of coke, reached over, held it under The Kid's nose.

“This is Air Traffic Control,” crackled the Flying Joint's radio. “Come in FJ-714.”

“Fire two,” The Ace declared.

The Kid inhaled sharply. The powder disappeared.

“Come in FJ-714,” said the Flying Joint's radio. “This is Air Traffic Control.”

The Kid knotted his brow, wrinkled his forehead, took a few short, careful, tentative breaths through his nose, like he was smelling something funny. He looked at The Ace, busily digging out another spoonful of cocaine for himself.

“That was the same nostril,” said The Kid.

“What?” said The Ace, carefully raising a heaping spoon of coke toward his nose.

“I said,” said The Kid, “that was the same nostril. You just gave me two toots up one nostril.”

The Ace laughed. To his consternation his breath scattered the spoonful of coke into the air before his eyes.

“FJ-714. FJ-714,” squawked the radio. “Come in.”

The Kid glared at The Ace. The Ace didn't notice, too busy digging out another spoonful of coke, chuckling to himself. The Kid waited until he was raising the heaping little spoonful ever so carefully toward his nose.

Then he told him: “It's not funny.”

The Ace laughed again. Once more the wind from his breath scattered the cocaine into the air before his eyes.

“You know what that feels like?” The Kid demanded.

Hands out, The Ace replied: “It can't be all that bad.”

The Kid opened his mouth. The radio cut him off.

“FJ-714. FJ-714. Come in, FJ-714. This is Air Traffic Control. Do you read me?”

“Look...” The Ace reasoned, “just get clearance. As soon as we take off, I'll give you two toots up the other nostril. Okay?”

The Kid knotted his brow and nibbled his lower lip.

“I promise,” swore The Ace, crossing his heart. “Honest.”

“FJ-714,” said the Flying Joint's radio. “We are not receiving you. Repeat. We are not receiving you.”

“Well... Okay, I guess,” The Kid conceded finally with lingering skepticism, pressing the button on his mike. “Air Traffic Control, this is FJ-714. We read you.”

“Roger,” answered Air Traffic Control. “Proceed.”

The Ace suddenly realized he never got his second, started digging it out.

Into the mike, The Kid said: “Requesting clearance for takeoff from Marco Island.”

A slight pause. The Kid glanced at the coastline up ahead. It was approaching fast.

Lifting a spoonful carefully to his nostrils The Ace did it up.

“Roger, FJ-714,” said Air Traffic Control. “You are cleared for takeoff.”

“Thank you, Air Traffic Control,” said The Kid. “FJ- 714, over and out.”

The Ace knotted his brow and wrinkled his forehead, took a few short, careful breaths through his nose – like he was smelling something funny.

“Oh, shit,” said The Ace.

“What's the matter?” asked The Kid.

“I just gave myself two toots up one nostril.”



♦                ♦                ♦


At the Marco Island airport, Mickey Thompson, a contractor from Orlando, taxied his single engine Piper Cub toward the west end of the one concrete runway.

A small strip for private planes, beside its one short runway the Marco Island airport consisted of a cluster of corrugated aluminum hangers, a couple double-wide trailers, a vintage gas pump which dispensed aviation fuel. A beaten old wind sock hung limp and lifeless in the soggy morning stillness.

Because it was so small, the Marco Island airport did not have its own control tower. Like similar small airstrips along the Florida coast its minimal traffic was directed by the Air Traffic Control Center at Tampa International, about a hundred miles north.

As Mickey Thompson jockeyed his Piper Cub out to the end of Marco Island's runway, he called Air Traffic Control in Tampa, requested clearance for take-off.

“Roger, PC-227,” answered Air Traffic Control. “You will be cleared for take-off after FJ-714.”

Mickey Thompson peered through the early morning gray. There was no other sign of life. The Marco Island airport was so quiet you could've cut it with a knife.

“Air Traffic Control,” Mickey Thompson repeated. “This is PC-227, requesting clearance for takeoff from Marco Island.”

“Roger PC-227,” replied Air Traffic Control, slightly miffed. “You will be cleared for take-off behind FJ 714.”

Thompson peered around the sleepy airstrip, didn't see any other plane. He pressed the button on his mike to speak, then stopped. He thought he heard something. He listened. He did hear something. It was the drone of another plane, a louder, deeper, more resonant drone than his Piper Cub.

Thompson glanced around, trying to place which direction the noise was coming from. Suddenly, he saw it: a Lockheed Lodestar, a squat twin-engine prop-driven workhorse, bearing down on the runway from out of the west, flying in low over the Gulf.

At first Thompson thought the Lodestar was coming in to land. Then he noticed its landing gear weren't down. The Lodestar was also going much too fast. It wasn't losing any altitude either.

Mickey Thompson watched and wondered what was going on as the Lodestar swept in low over the airstrip, flying right over the runway at about 200 feet, then started climbing into the sky.

On radar screens monitored by the Controllers in the Air Traffic Center at Tampa International, a luminous green dot appeared at the location of the Marco Island airfield. The dot turned north and headed for the upper central portion of the Florida peninsula.

“PC-227,” crackled the voice of Air Traffic Control over the radio in Mickey Thompson's Piper Cub, idling at the west end of the one concrete runway at the Marco Island airport. “You are now cleared for take-off.”



♦                ♦                ♦


Meanwhile, back at The Promised Land, Buck Jr. was receiving The Word of God.

It started with this delicious little pulse of electrically exhilarating energy tingling down Buck Jr.'s spine. Buck Jr. sucked in a breath, involuntarily, shivered slightly from the subtle sensations tickling his central nervous system.

Buck Jr. placed his book aside, closed his eyes to concentrate on The Word of God swelling up within him.

It was a certain awareness, a metaphysical perception, which seemed to grow and intensify with every breath. Buck Jr. could sense it becoming stronger and stronger. Spreading. Growing. Intensifying.

Buck Jr.'s entire metabolism seemed to be racing. He could sense little pulses of energy shooting swiftly through his limb, leaving tiny trails of tingling nerve fibers. His whole being seemed to glow. To radiate

Buck Jr. became acutely aware of his own breathing. Such a fascinating process. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Buck Jr. detected the beat of his own heart. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins.

And all the time, with every beat of his heart, with every breath of fresh air, Buck Jr. could actually feel The Word of God swelling up within him.

Buck Jr. swallowed, felt the lump slide down his throat, fall off into space – like Wile E. Coyote going over cliff in the Roadrunner. It fell and fell and fell. Buck Jr. felt that queasy sinking sensation swelling up in the pit of his stomach, like he was riding a roller coaster. Then it hit, way down in his abdomen. Subtle shock waves rippled out through Buck Jr.'s body, making him shudder, break out in goose pimples, tingling all over, then subsiding.

Buck Jr. opened his eyes. The room seemed the same, only different somehow, like Buck Jr. was looking out at the whole world from inside a goldfish bowl.

Then he heard it. The angelic choir. Pure, high pealing angel voices blending into sweet waves of heavenly harmony. Swelling. Becoming louder and louder. Enveloping Buck Jr. completely until he almost felt as if he were swimming in it.

Suddenly, the center section of the study's polished mahogany bookcase swung to one side, revealing a narrow passageway leading down a flight of stairs.

Buck Jr. rose, walked through the doorway. The bookshelf closed behind him. With the sound of the angelic choir preceding him, leading him, Buck Jr. followed the passageway. Another door slid open as he approached. Buck Jr. walked through into a secret subterranean chamber. The door slid shut behind him.

A section of the chamber wall slid open, revealing a spotless white flight suit hanging in a small, bare closet.

Buck Jr. removed his smoking jacket, hung it neatly, donned the white flight suit, zippered it up. Slippers came off and he slid his feet into white leather boots. Knotting a flowing white silk scarf around his neck he tossed the end gallantly over his shoulder. Then Buck Jr. pulled a white leather aviator's cap over his head, letting the strap hang loose beneath his chin, slipped a pair of mirrored goggles down over his eyes. Finally he stretched his fingers slowly, dramatically, into a pair of white leather gloves.

As Buck Jr. finished suiting up the closet slid shut.

He turned to a golden cross on the wall, bowed his head in silent prayer.

Another door opened, revealing a larger underground chamber.

In the center of this chamber was a pure white Fokker D Triplane. An insignia on its fuselage depicted a screaming bald eagle clenching a flaming gold sword in one claw. Under the rim of the cockpit, five marijuana leaves had been stenciled out in green paint.

Buck Jr. strode masterfully across the subterranean chamber, climbed into the Fokker's cockpit.

There was a loud click, the hum of machinery. A powerful hydraulic elevator began lifting the Fokker. The ceiling parted above, revealing blue sky overhead. The white Fokker D Triplane emerged into daylight, at one end of a secret airstrip hidden deep within the orange groves surrounding The Promised Land.

Without Buck Jr. hitting the ignition the Fokker's engine coughed and sputtered into life. Buck Jr. reached forward, over his windshield, pulled the bolt back on the twin 50 caliber machine guns mounted directly behind the propellers. Then he grabbed the stick, gunned the throttle. The white Fokker D started creeping down the runway, gathering momentum, speeding faster and faster. Buck Jr. waited until he felt the wings lift, then leaned back with the stick. The Fokker rose off the ground.

Buck Jr. climbed to several thousand feet, turned a knob on his instrument panel. A square section slid to one side, revealing a tiny radar screen. There was only one luminous green dot on the screen. Buck Jr. studied the dot and checked his compass, threw the Fokker into a roll, started climbing into the sun.



♦                ♦                ♦


“Toot! Toot!” chirped The Kid.

“Toot? Toot?” The Ace replied.”

“Toot! Toot!” The Kid retorted. “Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!

The Ace mulled it over for a moment, then held up a finger. “I got something better then Toot! Toot!”

“Better than Toot! Toot?” gasped The Kid in disbelief.

With a dramatic flourish, The Ace reached into the flight bag between their seats and pulled out a bottle of chilled champagne.

“Alcohol?” The Kid shuddered, aghast.

“Hey. Don't knock it,” said The Ace as he began undoing the wire holding the bottle's cork. “It's legal.”

“I wanted to do up a noseful before we land,” The Kid pouted.

“Really?” The Ace replied, indignantly.

“What's wrong with that?” The Kid inquired.

“Wouldn't be proper,” countered The Ace.

“Huh?” said The Kid.

“Well...” began The Ace. “Look at it this way...”

The Kid listened carefully.

“We've been snorting coke all night, right?”

“Right,” said The Kid.

“Why?” asked The Ace.

The Kid thought it over for a few seconds, asked: “Is that a trick question?”

“No. Really,” said The Ace. “Why?”

“Because it feels so nice just going up my nose.”

“No, no, no...” said The Ace. “That's not it at all.”

“What are you talking about?” The Kid inquired.

“Allow me to explain...” The Ace elaborated with a flourish, working the cork out of the bottle with his thumbs. “We've been snorting coke all night because we were flying. Understand?”

The Kid knotted his brow, wrinkled his forehead.

“Well,” The Ace continued, “now we've gotta land. See? And it's simply not cricket, karmically speaking, to snort coke before you land. It just isn't civilized. Like red wine with fish.”

The Kid eyed The Ace evenly for a moment. “Oh,” he said, flatly. “That's hilarious. Now gimme some coke.”

The cork popped out of the champagne bottle with a loud report, ricocheted around the cockpit, bouncing off the windshield, the instrument panel. The Kid ducked.

“You're nuts!” exclaimed The Kid. “You know that? You're really nuts!”

The Ace reached into the flight bag and pulled out a chilled champagne flute, which he proceeded to fill.

“Really,” said The Ace. “Your lack of breeding has never been more pronounced. Stop acting like such an uncultured lout and toast to the success of our mission.”

The Ace handed the champagne to The Kid, reached into the flight bag, pulled out another chilled glass.

“The success of our mission?” The Kid repeated in disbelief. “Our mission isn't over yet. Perhaps you haven't heard, but the drop is the most hazardous part of any dope run.”

“I know,” countered The Ace, filling the second glass. “But if the mission isn't a success, we won't have a chance to toast afterwards.”

The Ace raised his glass. The Kid just stared at him.

The Ace told him: “We get busted, this is gonna be the last champagne you have in a long, long time.”

The Kid shook his head, rolled his eyes, muttered something and raised his glass.

The Ace toasted: “To the lunatic fringe...”

The Ace and The Kid clicked glasses together. The Ace downed his champagne in one gulp, nonchalantly tossed his empty glass over his shoulder. It shattered somewhere in the background.

The Kid brought his glass to his lips, downed his champagne, then froze, looking up, into the sun.

The hand holding the glass lowered, slowly. The Kid glanced away for a second, shook his head, then squinted back up, into the blinding glare of the morning sun.

The Ace noticed. He too looked up.

There was something – definitely something – between the sun and the Flying Joint, but they couldn't quite make out what it was. Instinctively, the adrenaline started pumping. They blinked their eyes, looked right up into the sun again.

This time, they were able to focus in for one brief instant before the blazing glare became too much and they had to close their eyes, look away. But the image of what they'd seen still hung there in the dark. It had been burned into their retinas like the imprint on a photographic plate.

It was a plane – a pure white Fokker D Triplane, diving out of the blinding glare of the morning sun. Practically invisible. Scrunched down low in the cockpit, behind the propeller, the round shape of the pilot's head. A white scarf trailing out behind, whipping wickedly in the wind.

There was no time to react. They heard the short, choppy staccato bursts of machine gun fire. Bullets disintegrated the Lodestar's windshield, dancing through the cockpit in a cascade of sparks, explosions and flying glass. The Flying Joint shuddered in midair.

The Ace screamed in pain, swearing. The Kid threw the controls to one side.

“We're hit! We're hit!” yelled The Kid. “He's shooting at us! We're hit!”

The Lodestar lurched, violently as The Kid struggled desperately with the controls. A fire erupted under the control panel. Smoke began to fill the cockpit.

“I can't see!” screamed The Kid. “Put that fire out!”

The Ace glanced around, bewildered, for something to douse the flames. Shaking up the bottle of champagne, he started spraying the fire with the bubbly.

Through the commotion, The Kid yelled: “We're going down, Ace. We're going down!”



♦                ♦                ♦


The Lodestar crashed in a grassy cow pasture surrounded by trees several hundred feet off a cracked two lane asphalt road with faded white stripes down the center.

Within minutes, four plain looking Plymouth sedans came speeding down the quiet country lane, screeched to a halt along the shoulder of the road.

Eight Agents of the Federal Drug Enforcement Administration jumped out, wearing jackets, white shirts and ties. One Agent snipped a section of barbed wire fence with a pair of cutters. The Agents sprinted out toward the plane's wreckage, hooting like schoolboys on holiday.

One, however, didn't seem to be in any hurry. Puffing contentedly on a cigarette, Michael d'Angelo, chief of operations for the DEA in the district, strolled into the pasture like he had all the time in the world.

Agents scurried about the wreckage hooting with glee. The wings had been sheared off. The fuselage lay broken and shattered, like a dead whale on the beach.

Agent Rickenbacker came running up with a piece of debris, part of the cowling from one engine. The edges were jagged and torn, but in the center, surrounded by smooth metal, were two perfect bullet holes.

“The Winged Crusader, Chief.”

The other DEA Agents clustered around, holding huge armloads of leafy organic matter.

“Loaded with dope,” declared one of the Agents.

“Smells like Colombian,” said another.

“Definitely,” said a third. “You can smell it.”

“Flower tops, too,” added another. “Dynamite shit.”

“We better get plenty of evidence.”

“Look,” said Rickenbacker, holding up the piece of engine cowling.

“Looks like the work of The Winged Crusader,” declared another agent.

“The Winged Crusader. The Winged Crusader,” The other agents nodded and mumbled amongst themselves.”

“Yes, men...” announced Michael d'Angelo. “It looks like The Winged Crusader has struck again.”

The Agents mumbled amongst themselves.

“What are we waiting for?” said d'Angelo suddenly. “You know what we have to do. Let's put the wrap on this before any witnesses arrive.”

The well-oiled machinery sprang into action. The Agents stashed their armloads of evidence in the trunks of their cars, dug out five gallon cans of gasoline. The gasoline was poured over the Lodestar's wreckage.

d'Angelo approached Rickenbacker, inquired: “Do you remember our official statement to the press?”

Rickenbacker quickly recited: “Pot plane crashes and burns Pilot error. One ton of marijuana. Street value, two point five million dollars... That one?”

“Yeah,” said d'Angelo. “That'll do. You can be public information officer today.”

“Gee,” said Rickenbacker. “Thanks, Chief.”

“One thing, though,” said d'Angelo. “Better make it three point something million street value. We're still only number three in the country in confiscations, and I know those bastards in Arizona have been padding their figures.”

A match was struck. Gasoline ignited. The shattered wreckage of the Lockheed Lodestar erupted into flames.

The federal drug enforcement agents all clustered around Michael d'Angelo, clutching more armloads of evidence, watching the plane burn.

Rickenbacker told them: “The Chief says I can be public Information officer.”

The other agents weren't too thrilled to hear this, started grumbling. “You again? I thought it was my turn! Hey, Chief! You promised. How come Rickenbacker always gets to be public information officer?”

d'Angelo cast a baleful glance around the cluster of agents. The muttering died out.

Rickenbacker beamed, quite pleased with himself.

Behind his back one of his fellow Agents made a smooching noise. Rickenbacker stuck his tongue out.

“All right. All right,” d'Angelo admonished. “That's enough.”

Falling silent the Federal Drug Enforcement Agents watched the airplane burn.

The Chief inquired: “How many bodies were there?”

The Agents glanced around at one another, shrugging shoulders, shifting armloads of marijuana.

“Well?” demanded d'Angelo. “How many bodies were there?”

His Agents only shrugged and mumbled more, started shuffling their feet, looking down at the ground.

“Nobody checked the cockpit?” screamed The Chief.

The Agents didn't answer, just looked down at the ground, clutching their armloads of marijuana.

“You assholes!” yelled d'Angelo, slamming his cigarette to the ground. “Now we can't check until the fire goes out!”

Everyone turned, looked at the burning plane. Flames leaping high into the air, a thick column of blue smoke spiraling skyward.




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Pompano Beach, Florida
U.S.A.
Planet Earth
Solar System
The Universe

the funniest drug comedy ever

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High Fliers

 

Episode #2

 

Another Fine Mess

 

Published by

lol adventure comedy

Pompano Beach, Florida
U.S.A.
Planet Earth
Solar System
The Universe

 

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