They were dressed entirely in black. In was code name: Plan Noire, thus the clothes.
"Flight 317 for Sicily is boarding," a woman's voice echoed throughout the terminal.
"We're up soon," Rosie peeked at her watch.
"I can't believe we're doing this," Jas grumped.
"You didn't have to come," Georgia reminded her.
Dave quirked an eyebrow devilishly at her. "As I recall, you threatened her life if she didn't."
"Details."
"Flight 413 for New Zealand, now boarding,"
"That's us,"
"Groan,"
"Shut up, Jas,"
They pulled out their passports and got in line. The line moved like molasses in winter. In other words, it hardly moved at all.
"What is going on?" Jas asked impatiently.
Georgia looked to the front of the line. "It looks like Grand Twit of the Universe is up there unprepared, sans passport."
"Well, why can't we go around?"
"Because, love muffin, that would make life far too easy, wouldn't it?"
Jas muttered something incomprehensible.
When they finally arrived to the front of the line, Sven made a scene by making a show of dancing for the ticket collector and dancing with the stunned elderly lady. It took much cajoling to get him onto the plane.
"Please excuse our friend," Georgia said. "He thinks he's a Viking and that by dancing with you, he will make his way into the glorious halls of Valhalla."
The woman pressed a hand to her heart and just stared blankly.
The six friends toppled into the plane and took their respective seats. Dave and Georgia took the middle and window seats of a three-seat-er. Rosie and Sven took two more behind them and Tom and Jas disappeared into the front rows somewhere.
"So, my red-bottomed pallie," Dave began. "We have a many-hour flight of just you and I—"
"Excuse me," and elderly man of no small girth arrived. His face was as wrinkled as a raisin and no less juicy. He had the loud voice of someone either on his cell phone in public or the elderly mad. "I think this is my seat." He pointed to where Dave sat.
"I don't," Dave disagreed in a voice of equal volume. "But this one may be yours,"
The old man blinked vapidly. "Oh,"
He took his heavy bag and lifted it slowly into the overhead compartment. While he reached up, his large, squashy, very hairy belly became exposed from underneath his moist shirt.
"He's a handsome fellow, don't you think?" Dave muttered to Georgia.
"I leave him to you, Mr. Horn,"
"Too kind,"
The man sat heavily in his seat, wheezing noisily. He reached down and groped for his belt buckle. Georgia and Dave had trouble looking away, transfixed by the man's slowness of motion. Then began the long hegira involving putting it around his waist.
"You don't think he might cause a plane crash, do you?" Dave whispered.
Georgia shook her head. "I don't fancy we'll get off the ground to begin with,"
"Do you think he ought to wear black? It's a very slimming color."
"Perhaps then he would be able to disappear into the night like a phantom in pants,"
Georgia and Dave laughed madly.
There was a dinging sound and the flight attendant began her safety speech.
"We could always use this guy for a float," Dave commented after she was done.
"Or a hot air balloon,"
"S'cuse me," the man called over to Georgia noisily. "D'you think you could pass me tha' catalog?"
"Yes!" Georgia shouted back. "Here you go!"
They were jerked back in their seats as the plane began to move. It wasn't long before they were airborne. Hardly ten minutes passed before old bloaty was asleep, snoring loudly.
"Wow," Dave scrutinized the man in slumber. "Take a look. He has an eternal fountain of earwax."
Georgia looked. "Cor! That is disgusting. I will never look at Elvis the same way again. This man takes the metaphorical pie for cootiest coot alive."
"I don't think I'll be able to sit next to this bloke the entire ride, Gee. He smells a lot like… fecal pudding."
"You're a loon, aren't you?"
Fortunately, the man didn't awaken the entire flight. It was the five minutes after landing in New Zealand that they tried to poke him into consciousness, not out of concern that he'd miss his transit but that they might not be able to escape around his beached whale body. He thanked them in a loud voice and spent another five minutes unbuckling and getting his bag. They waited until he had gotten entirely off of the plane before they rose and made a dash for freedom.
Sven, Rosie, Jas and Tom waited for them in the dark terminal. It was night in Kiwi-a-go-go land, but the weather was no cooler than one might expect.
"What took you?" Jas asked through a yawn.
"A bloke with too many backsides,"
Tom checked his watch. "Should we hail a cab then?"
"If funds permit," Dave tapped his pocket. "It's not too far away."
"Let's walk then! It will be a walk avec mystère." Rosie said eagerly.
"And avec lethargy," Jas groaned.
"Where's your spirit of adventure, Jas-y poo?" Rosie punched in the shoulder.
"Jah! Jazzy-poo!" Sven punched her too, which knocked her off balance.
"We're in a foreign country at an ungodly hour—"
"I don't believe in God," Georgia asserted. "But I like to keep my religious ideology private."
"—with no real sense of…."
"I know where we're going, Jas," Tom said kindly. "I've been here before, remember?"
"Oh," Jas flushed. "Of course you do, Tom,"
(AN: Um, I'm mostly free this summer, but I'm going to college in August. I'll try and plan out all of Plan Noire before next post, then I'll finish this sucker up. Thanks to everyone loony enough to still read this!)
