6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION
A SATIRICAL MURDER MYSTERY THRILLER COMEDY ADVENTURE THING... SORTA...
CHAPTER 3- UP, UP, & AWAY!
Funny things happen when you think you're going to bite the big one, get snuffed, go for a dirt nap, and ring down the curtain and join the choir invisible.
Your life flashes before your eyes like a movie with not enough sex scenes and a really crappy ending. Plus, you also get a damp sensation in your pants. Or is that just me?
I had just escaped a hotel crawling with cops out to bust me for a murder I didn't commit and a sniper out to plug me and a dame named Playful1. I was just thinking I was in the clear when I saw what looked like an 18 wheeler barreling down the road hell bent on turning my pate into pudding.
But just before I was about to become roadkill I heard the squeal of breaks catching, I sniffed the smell of tires burning as they scraped asphalt, and I caught the sensation of a gold plated bumper striking me in the chest.
I felt my arse go over my kettle, spilling my tea, but luckily my head didn't spill my brains. I hit the ground with a thud, or to be more precise, Playful1 hit the ground with a thud, because I landed on her.
I heard a muffled grunt and then freakishly strong hands tossed me aside."Dammit!" gasped Playful1, "have you considered 'slim-fast' or perhaps bulimia?"
I didn't have time to discuss such weighty topics with her, because I saw that what had hit me wasn't an 18 wheeler after all. It was an SUV, and a familiar one at that.
"Britney?" I asked.
Britney Spears stepped out of the SUV, the streetlight glistening off her freshly shaved head.
"Furious D?" said Britney surprised, of course sunrises surprised her, "whatcha doing here?"
"We need a lift," I said, "can we ride with you."
"Sure," said Britney, "y'all can come on."
"You know Britney Spears?" asked Playful1.
"I was the one hired to tell her Kevin Federline was a douchebag," I said.
"Anyone could have told her that," said Playful1.
"Yeah," I said, "but I'm the only one who thought of charging $150 an hour for it."
"How long did it take?" asked Playful1.
"About 10 hours," I answered, "I had to resort to puppets to explain it."
"I hope you don't mind being in a parade," said Britney.
"Parade?" I asked, as I climbed into the Hummer's capacious backseat.
"It is a parade," said Playful1 pointing out the back window.She was right. Behind Britney's Hummer was literally a long line of SUVs of every conceivable make and model priced above $100,000.
"What kind of a parade is this?" I asked.
"We're parading our SUVs to protest Global Warming," said Britney as she revved the engine, sending a thick plume of black exhaust into sky, momentarily blotting out the moon.
"Makes sense," I said. "Let's go."
The parade took us through downtown Toronto and ended at the city's hippest and most happening nightclub, Canadian Legion Branch #1313. What can I say, Toronto ain't as hip as it likes to think it is.
The second Britney parked her Hummer she leaped out, a baby under each arm, and charged into the bar.
"Now what do we do?" asked Playful1.
"This whole Albanian Budgie business has got me thinking," I said.
"I thought I smelled wood burning," said Playful1.
"We need to find out more about it," I said, "and the world's only expert on the Albanian Budgie is in Hollywood."
"How are we gonna get to Hollywood?" asked Playful1. "We're in Canada."
I turned and smiled. The solution was right in front of us.
John Travolta's personal Boeing 767 was in the parking lot, it's front landing gears crushing a Volkswagen beetle containing several members of a Ukranian immigrant family. As luck would have it, John Travolta was standing right there, fishing for his keys in his pockets. At least I hope he was fishing for his keys.
"John," I said in my friendliest, and completely insincere tone.
"Furious?" said Travolta, "I didn't know you cared about the planet?"
"Sure," I said, "this planet's my favorite. I need a favor."
"What kind of a favor?" asked John.
"The kind of favor that could get certain pictures of a certain person doing certain things burned," I said.
"Really?" asked Travolta, a gleam of hope in his eyes.
"All we need is a lift to Hollywood," I said.
"Okay," said Travolta, "but I gotta make a stop in Oregon, I have to stop a store for some toilet paper."
"Why do you have to go to Oregon for toilet paper?" asked Playful1.
"It's my contribution to saving the planet," answered Travolta. "The paper's hand made by organic farmers out of recycled Mexican currency."
"That makes sense," said Playful1.
"Then let's go."
The 767 carrying me, Playful1 and piloted by John Travolta took off down Yonge Street, the roar of its engines shattered the windows of a public housing project, and the exhaust scorched a city park to ashes, but it was all in a good cause.
While Travolta was in the cockpit piloting the plane, I was busy jimmying the lock on the mini-bar in the back of the plane.
"What's that thing about you having pictures of John Travolta?" asked Playful1.
"This is between you, me and the stubborn lock," I said, "but I happen to have pictures of John Travolta committing a horrible crime."
"Really," asked Playful1, her interest piqued. "What is it, murder, drugs... bestiality?"
"I have evidence that he's the man who secretly created According to Jim."
"Eeeewww," said Playful1, a disgusted look on her face.
"Pretty shocking stuff," I said as I finally beat the lock on the mini-bar.
Then the mini-bar beat me.
A boxing glove, mounted on a spring, shot out and hit my glass jaw. I was sorry to lose that, it was left to me by my grandpa, Enraged D. As I dodged the shards of glass flying from the shattered heirloom, I tripped on a wrinkle in the carpet and fell over.
I must have hit my head, because I was suddenly seeing stars, then I saw blackness.
It was cold when I woke up.
Somebody had left the door open, letting an icy wind in.
Then I remembered that I was in an airplane, and that doors shouldn't be open on airplanes.
I got on my feet and staggered to cockpit. The door was open, the cabin was de-pressurized, Playful1 was nowhere to be found, and I had the feeling that I was in deep doo-doo, again.
I opened the cockpit door and saw that John Travolta was still in the pilot's seat, his hands on the controls.
Too bad his head was in the co-pilot's seat.
"Oh crap," I said.
Then I looked out the cockpit window and saw that the plane was heading straight for a mountain.
TO BE CONTINUED