Boys and girls, stealing a plane is no small accomplishment. This is not something to be taken lightly. And certainly, never to be tried at home.
Secondary considerations include details like how much fuel does it have? How much will you need to reach your destination? Who’s going to fly the thing? And – of course – who will be designated to wear a tight skirt and serve your recently-acquired drinks during the flight?
No no no. Leave this to the professionals. They know what they’re doing.
“Put pressure on it!”
“I am!”
“Well press harder! I’m bleeding to death here, woman!”
Connor glanced over at Noecker. The old man was indeed looking pale under his centuries of weather-beaten tan.
“Nah, you’re alright. It’ll take more than a handful of high-velocity steel-jacketed armour-piercing shells to wipe that sunny smile off your face.”
Noecker found the energy to spit in Connor’s general direction. It came out more reddish than it should have.
“Don’t make me regret recruiting you straight out of the orphanage, boy. Maybe I should have left you on the streets a while, let those hard knocks straighten you out.”
Francina looked up from her doctoring. “Connor, do you know what you’re doing? Or where you’re flying this thing to? I can’t tell a thing from that control panel, but I’m sure we’re supposed to be a lot higher than this.”
Connor took his hands off the plane’s controls and made a show of peering out the cockpit’s side window. “Gee, honey, you think I should stop and ask for directions?”
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Cheers.
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