10

Unhappy Landings.

After two hours’ relative peace, during which Greta fell asleep, Dredly fell into conversation with the Wicked Witch of the East, and Sage fell off his chair, the calm of the Trans-Atlantic flight was suddenly shattered.
“Nobody move and no-one will get hurt!” Shouted a burly man as he leapt out in front of one of the stewardesses. He levelled a gun at her head.
“Okay, sweet lips, tell the captain this is a hijack!” He ordered quickly, in a heavy fake American accent.
“Welcome to Skyways, sir - it’s a shop in the sky!” She replied.
He clubbed her down with the butt of his revolver, an action which was met with wild applause from the passengers. He then sent someone off down the plane to tell the captain what was going on. While he was thus engaged, Sage leant across to Greta.
“Why don’t you do something?” He asked.
“I want to find out if this is politically motivated or if he’s just crazy...”
“Take this plane to Nebraska!” The hijacker announced.
“I guess he must have escaped from somewhere.” Greta whispered.
“So do something!” Sage hissed.
“But he’s got a gun. I might get killed. I’m too furry to die!” Greta protested.
Dredly leant forward and tapped the Wicked Witch of the East on the shoulder.
“Couldn’t you put a spell on him or something? I mean, a gun shouldn’t worry you, should it?”
“True.” She said, then unbuckled her safety belt - because even fairy tale characters follow sensible safety precautions and buckle up.
“Ahahahahahahahahahahahaha haaaargh!” She cackled, stepping into the aisle in front of the hijacker.
“Hold it! I’m not afraid to use this!” The hijacker shouted.
“Do you think your puny gun is any use against my magic powers my pretty? Ahahahahaha!”
“I mean it!” He cried, aiming the gun at her.
“I shall turn you into a...” She began, raising her hands aloft to cast her evil spell, when the hijacker pulled the trigger of his gun. A spurt of water shot from the barrel all over the Wicked Witch’s face.
“Aaah! A water pistol! I’m melting! I’m melting!” She screamed and duly melted into the carpet, leaving nothing but a green stain behind.
Silence fell upon the stunned onlookers. The hijacker looked at his water pistol in shock.
“I... I didn’t mean to kill her... I was a fan... I didn’t realise... All I wanted to do was go home - home to Nebraska!” He stammered. But before anyone could do anything - like grapple him to the ground or rehearse a Chekhov play - a strange white ball of light floated through the side of the plane and settled in the aisle. Everyone watched in awe as the light turned into the Good Witch of the North, bedecked in the usual rhinestone tiara and flimsy tutu of all good fairies.
“But Wendell...” She said softly to the hijacker. “You could have gone home anytime.”
“Really?”
“Yes, all you had to do was tap the heels on your beige naugahyde slippers three times and they’d have taken you straight back to Nebraska.” The good witch cooed.
“It’s as simple as that?”
“Of course. Just tap them together and say ‘There’s no place like Nebraska’ and you’ll be back kicking shit in the Midwest before you know it.”
He took a deep breath, tapped the slippers together and repeated ‘There’s no place like Nebraska’ over and over again until he finally disappeared.
“Poor, mad, misguided fool!” The good witch sighed, shaking her head. “Oh well, must be off - I’ve got a pot roast to cook and five Munchkins to embalm before the ‘Friends’ night starts on TV. Goodbye everybody! Goodbye!”

And then she floated away as a ball of white light. People sat with their mouths agape in awestruck silence. Sage saw a chance for a quick buck, stepped out into the aisle and picked up the Wicked Witch’s hat.
“Thank you, ladies and gentleman. That is the end of our street theatre performance. If you would like to dig deep for your change, all contributions will be gratefully accepted.”
Five minutes later, he returned to his seat to count his ill-gotten gains.
“So, how much did you get?” Dredly asked.
"Two dollars fifty eight cents, one pound and sixpence, twenty escudos and a drachma - so much for public appreciation of street theatre!" Sage looked sadly at the donations he'd collected, then settled down for a nap.
They touched down on a rainy afternoon at New York’s JFK airport, ready to take America by storm! They got as far as the passport control.
“Business or pleasure?” Asked an inordinately fat man behind a bullet proof plexi-glass screen.
It was that tricky question again. Greta moved closer to the microphone.
“Pleasure.” She gladly announced.
"Okay, come on in." The fat man didn't even mention her hair problem. He then turned his jowly attention to Sage and Dredly. His eyes glistened like the sweat on his doughy cheeks.
"Is that a Grateful Dead T-shirt?"
Dredly's heart dropped as he heard the sudden slap of rubber on flesh. Sage and Dredly turned to find they were being faced by five moustachioed men, five pairs of surgical gloves hugging the contours of five pairs of strong, willing hands. And, of course, there were five jars of Vaseline.

“Assume the position.” The inordinately fat man rasped and then licked some of the beaded perspiration from his top lip.
“Arse!” Dredly said simply.

The only difference between that interrogation and the one they'd had in London was that the men before them had really big guns. The frisson of danger clearly excited Sage. In fact after the examination, he went back to them claiming they’d missed a bit. Fifty minutes later and he and Dredly were finally allowed to hobble out of passport control.
“Hey guys, you look like you’ve been riding a horse.” Said Greta as they came into view.
“I feel like a horse has been riding me.” Dredly replied.
“Bummer!”
“Can we just not talk about bums, thank you!” Dredly snapped. “It's a bit of a sore point...”
“So I can see...”
“Thank you! That is quite enough!”
“They said I was a pervert.” Said Sage in a somewhat aggrieved tone.
“Well, they’re the experts on the subject, so I guess you must be.” Greta replied as they went to collect their luggage.

Within minutes (albeit about two hundred minutes) their bags appeared and they loaded them up into one of the minicabs outside the front of the terminal. Soon they were being whisked through the unfamiliar streets by their driver. Unfortunately, he wasn’t terribly familiar with the streets, either.
“Just got in from Kansas myself.” He announced happily, “Only been doing the job a week. Do any of you fellers know the best way of getting to East sixty-sixth street?”
“We were rather hoping you’d know... Actually.” Dredly replied. The man seemed confused by this, as if expecting a cab driver to know their way around a city was the most ridiculous idea in the world. The fact that New York, designed as a grid of numbered streets, is one of the simplest cities to get around, did not stop their driver getting hopelessly lost. All this in spite of the fact that they lent him their tourist map and even though Greta tried to give him directions. He just didn’t seem to know his left from right and, Dredly thought, he was struggling with the concept of up and down, too. Finally, they reached a destination, it wasn’t their intended destination, but it was somewhere the driver quite liked.
“Okay, boys, here ya’ go.” He said chirpily.
“But this is East Seventy Fourth Street. We’ve got another eight blocks to go.”
“Yeah, but I never said this was no door to door service. I just offered you a ride. Now, that’ll be fifty bucks.”
“Fifty!” Sage exclaimed.
“In New York less than an hour and we’ve already been taken for a ride!” Greta shook her head.
“Hey, now you did get a free tour of the Bronx...”
And what an amusing tour it had been! It consisted of the driver crying and praying that they'd get out alive, while he belted around the streets at seventy miles an hour.
“All right. Here’s the cash.” Dredly sighed, handing it to him.

“Thanks - Oh, er... Could I keep the map?”

What will happen to our heroes in the Big Apple? Will it be a bowl of cherries or will it drive them bananas? And will they carry on kumquat may?

Find out in the next fruity chapter...