Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds or the Tracys. Though I can hope so. I'm just borrowing them for a little while.
A/N: Some words are intentionally misspelled to indicate dialect. Please R/R.
Black smoke billowed out from above the treetops. Below could be heard the clatter of metal against metal, the gurgle and popping of boiling liquid.
Drip.... drip.... drip....
"Paw, whatcha yew doin?" the old woman called out.
She emerged from behind some bushes, pulling her apron off the limb that had snagged it.
Drip.... drip.... drip....
"Dagnabit, Maw, yew 'bout skeerd th' life out of'n me!" he said, clutching the bib of his overalls. "I'm emprovin' yer beans. Added a few of mah own see-kret en-gree-dee-ints."
Drip.... drip.... drip....
"An't this yer ol' still?" she looked at him puzzled.
"Yeh, Maw, 'tis mah ol' still. 'Tis the only way t' make th' fewel I'm gonna need t' whup tha' Tracy whippersnapper."
"Do yew think it'll werk, Paw? I reckon tha' th' beans'll blow ol' Betsy apart!"
"Wahl, Maw, I figgurs ol' Betsy's none tew partiklar 'bout what she eats."
Drip.... drip.... drip....
Jeremiah removed the full mason jar, screwed the rusty lid on tight, and put an empty jar under the spigot. He held up the jar against the rays of the sun, viewing with pride his new and improved bean formula. *Mebbe thar maht be a market fer this. And Maw 'n me ken be as rich as that thar Lady Penny-lope,* he mused.
~*~*~*~*~
Parker had gotten in contact with a few of his old cell mates from Parkmoor Scrubs. Light-Fingered Fred had been released a few months before, swearing never to attempt to rob the Bank of England again. They met at the local Fox and Hound pub.
"Parker, ol' chum are you sure about this? This sounds like a long shot." guffawed Fred.
"Sure as me name h'is Nosey Parker. This h'is a cahn't miss. H'Oi've seen this 'illbillie's car. H'It's faster than h'anything h'Oi've h'ever seen." he said confidently.
"So we can clean up?" Fred asked skeptically.
"Chum, there h'is no limit." Parker said, his thick cockney accent oozing sheer delight at the prospect of making more than he could dream of.
The old cellmates raised their beer steins and clinked to each other's health and future wealth.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"How's it coming, Brains?" Alan asked the engineer. Brains slid out from beneath the car's engine, his work coverall smeared with oil, a wrench in his hand.
"I've t-tuned it up to a fine, uh, point, Alan," Brains said, wiping his hands on a rag. "It's at peak p-performance."
"Great!" Alan exclaimed. "Now, let's just keep it there. Has Gordon talked to you about being the mechanic on this baby?"
"N-No, Alan. He has not," Brains replied, absently wiping his glasses with the rag. "And I s-suggest you try to, uh, persuade him to stay out of the p-pit. I should be a-able to, uh, provide you with all the help you m-may need."
"Okay, Brains. I'll talk to him. But it's gonna take a lot of persuading to keep him away," Alan said, shaking his head. "It's almost dinner time. See you in the dining room."
"S-Sure, Alan. See you there." Brains put his glasses back on his face and squinted through the oily lenses. *Hmmm. Something wrong here.* Then he looked down at the rag in his hand, and groaned.
~*~*~*~*~
Alan entered the dining area. Everyone had seated themselves at their customary places.
"So, Father, I take it all the arrangements are made?" Scott asked, as he spooned some vegetables onto his plate.
Jeff could feel all eyes on him. "Yes, son. Jeremiah's car will be shipped to Parola Sans in one week." he answered directly. He canvassed the room, noticing his fourth son hurriedly filling his plate.
"Gordon, will you please slow down!"
Gordon lifted his head, "Sorry, Father. But I need to get down and check out the car. I want everything to be in tiptop shape."
Alan bit his lip. He gazed away, trying hard not to look at anyone.
"Gordon, the car will still be there whether you eat fast or slow." Jeff admonished him.
Virgil had noticed Alan's discomfort. "Not getting last minute jitters, are you, Alan?" teased Virgil.
"Uh, no, Virge. Not at all." Alan replied quickly. He applied himself to his food, keeping his mouth full so he wouldn't have to respond to any more questions.
*How do I tell Gordon to stay away from the pit?* he worried. *He's going to be so disappointed.... heck, no, he'll be furious!* Alan continued eating, silently wishing for a meteor or something of the sort to drop on him and put him out of his misery.
Gordon finished his meal in record time, and started to excuse himself to go down to the hangars when a stern voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Gordon Cooper Tracy! You will not leave this table until you've had some dessert!" Grandma chided. "I've baked your favorite pie and I won't see you go running off without any. So you just forget about that car for the moment and sit down!"
Gordon murmured a "sorry, gramma" and sheepishly sat back down.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Lady Penelope had rung up her friends, Lord Stilton and Sir Jeremy Hodges.
"Gentlemen, I have a very interesting proposition for you.........."
