I don't own Crimson Skies. Those rights belong to Microsoft.

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Nathan Zachary and the Panicky Pencil-Neck

Phredrik Shnook staired blankly at his editor, Mr, George Van Buren. Phred was in a state of shock. His mind raced to try and comprehend what the chubby man had just said.

Phred shook his head to try and clear it.

"Uh, I'm sorry Mr. Van Buren, I'm not sure if I heard you right."

The chubby editor raised a playful bushy eybrow.

"What did you think I said?"

"I…uh…I thought you said that you wanted me to fly to Free Colorado, more specifically Sky Haven, to find Nathan Zachary."

"Was that all Mr. Shnook?"

Phred got very quiet. "N-no sir. You wanted me to find Mr. Zachary and…follow him around…and write a story about the Fortune Hunters."

A smile pushed through the rolls on Van Buren's face. "That," chuckled the editor, "sounds about right."

Phred's voice went up about eight octives. "Sk-sky Haven Mr. Van Buren?" squeaked Phred, "B-but Sky Haven's crawling with air pirates!"

George Van Buren became serious for a moment. Without raising his voice the editor replied, "and Nathan Zachary is an air pirate. So all the more reason to search a pirate enclave." Van Buren smiled, "You wouldn't look for a whore among nuns would you?" Van Buren broke into a fit of uproarious laughter. His whole body jiggled as he heartily guffawed.

Phred looked down on the floor trying not to show his fear.

"Oh come on Phred," laughed George, "don't be such wet blanket. Nathan Zachary is one of the most reasonable pirates around. It's not like I'm asking you to talk to "Marshal" Bill Redman, or Johnathan "Gengis" Kahn, who is actually a bit more civil since his trip to Manchuria." Van Buren laughed again, "I figure you have a ninety percent chance of survival."

"NINETY PERCENT!" Phred squealed, "What about the other ten?"

"Come now Phredy boy, you know what they say, 'Nothings certain but death, taxes, and something going wrong." The editor's laugh bellowed through out the office. Outside the door, Van Buren's secretary got startled by the laugh and dropped her newly filed papers all over the floor.

George was so thrilled by his own sense of humor, so over taken by his own joke, he slapped his hand on his desk to prevent his heavy frame from falling out of his chair. He was just about to tear up when a distressed Phred asked, "So how am I supposed to get to Colorado? Are you going to lend me a plane?"

Van Buren cocked his head at Phred in questioning, and then broke out into another fit of laughter.

"Oh-ho-ho…no way. Not for a new writer. Too much of a risk, you see," he chuckled, "but that was a good one."

"So how do I get from Manhattan to Sky Haven?"

"Didn't your dad leave you his crop duster in his will?"

Phred's voice got so high dogs barked in New Jersey. "You want me to fly to the biggest pirate nest on the North American continent in an outdated, unarmed, cloth skinned, crop duster?" In his mind, Phred saw images of his plane being shot at. He could hear the bullets rip through his tail rudder. He saw his father's crop duster sprout smoke and flames as it spiraled into the canyon walls of the Rockies.

"Phred, didn't your mother ever tell you that you shouldn't play with helium like that. It can ruin your voice," more laughter from the editor, not as richter evoking as the last, but hearty all the same.

"Listen I'll pay to streamline and armor plate your bird, OK? I'll even throw in a belt fed, water-cooled, twenty cal for each wing with a couple of belts of explosive rounds."

George Van Buren smiled. It was a smile that made Phred think, in the back of his mind, how well his foot would fit there. It made Phred think how good it would be to put it there.

"Don't be so glum Phred. You'll be back before you know it. And just think of the adventures you're going to have! You're going to love it!"