The landing was going to be tricky and dangerous, thought Punky Pugilist struggling to keep the lighter than air ship under control as rain pelting the windscreen made visibility uncertain. The wind howled and bright flashes of lightening, the nemesis of all blimp captains, rattled the cabin. “I should have packed sandwiches and tea,” mumbled Punky under her breath, “perhaps turkey and cheese, or ham and cucumber,…” A flash of brilliant light illuminated the cabin, the instruments sharply outlined in harsh luminance and sharp edges of black shadow. Punky flinched, that was close she thought, thank the gods I have a hydrogen filled blimp which provides extra lift, rather than the more expensive and weaker helium. A small yellow light suddenly glowed red and began flashing drawing her attention from food and tea back toward the stark reality of the responsibility of her mission. The red light went out, followed by a distinct click and thud, as a slice of rye toast flew from the toaster into the air next to the captain’s chair. With the fast trained reflexes of an experienced pilot Punky grabbed the toast in mid air and bringing it to her mouth, she took a tiny bite. “There, that will settle my tummy a bit,” she uttered to herself. Why did I ever agree with this really stupid and futile gesture she wondered, but in her heart she knew that she was committed regardless of glorious fame of success or the iniquity of failure followed by a trial, conviction, and sentencing to the ultimate penalty, or perhaps only death? Checking the instruments, noting the falling air speed as the howling gale increased in furry, Punky thought back to last Tuesday and that fateful meeting with The Chair.
The me-Phone had begun ringing before dawn and Punky ignored its bleating and whining as long as she could, but it was becoming angrier and angrier as me-Phones will do when ignored. She had been dreaming of chasing bunnies and peeps in the cloudy paradise known as Daggy’s Heaven. The squirrel in the energy cage of the me-Phone must be getting tired and will need feeding if I don’t answer she thought. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she fumbled for the me-Phone which lay it its tiny white cradle next to her bed. “Hello,” said Punky.
An authorative voice on the other end of the line said, “Is this Punky, Punky Pugilist, the blimp captain?”
“Yup,” she responded, “you found me.”
“Please hold on, The Chair wishes to speak to you.” There followed a long pause in which Punky’s mind raced like the tiny squirrel in the energy cage. The Chair, why would he call me? What have I done? Perhaps its that little mishap last week, or no, it must the lost luggage of Governor Linden…
A new voice was heard on the line and it was a voice familiar to Punky from radio and youtube videos. The Chair spoke, “Hello Captain Punky, I’d like you to come to my office. I have a dangerous and important mission I would like you to volunteer for.” Punky drew a deep breath. A dangerous mission she thought, that could only mean one thing and that one thing was double trouble. “I want you here by eight,” said The Chair who hung up not waiting for any reply or objection.
“I’m in deep do do now,” mumbled Punky as she brushed Fluffy the kitty litter encrusted cat avatar from the foot of her bed and headed for the shower.
Punky was going to be late. The morning commute traffic had backed up at the Tiki House turn off and an overturned wagon full of over ripe melons had made a mess of the byway. A shiny new orange crate buggy in flat black with three wheels had been tail gaiting her for the last kilometer and she was getting very irritated. You’d think the Department of Paths and Easements would have solved this traffic problem last year when they dug up the road for the installation of faster ether, she thought. Her red Schwann bicycle skidded dangerously in the melon sludge and she fought to keep control and not land in the void filled ditches which lined the edge of the path. Regaining control of the Schwann she paused to take a deep breath. That was close she thought. Glancing into her mirror she noted that the orange crate buggy was still too close for comfort. Two dark suited and very buff avatars with impenetrable dark granny glasses stared at her from the buggy. Someone’s security she thought. Someone important given the cost of three wheeled orange crates. Finally the traffic began to move and she peddled furiously in a vain attempt to make up for lost time. The orange crate followed. “This is going to be a bad day,” she muttered, as she glanced down toward her melon spattered Manolos.
Racing up the stairs Punky glanced at the Blimp Cartel Tower clock. The ancient clock hand read 8:09. She was late. Very late. And The Chair was infamous for insisting on punctuality. Take the stairs or the elevator she wondered? The penthouse is a difficult climb, but the line at the elevator looked even more difficult. Pausing briefly, she flashed her purple security pass to the security attendant, and was buzzed through into the lobby. “The stairs,” Punky sighed and dashed for the little door beside the elevator and the line of bleary eyed office workers clutching their cappuccinos and oat bran muffins with peach or mango cream filling. Punky was a counter. It was annoying she thought. Some called it obsessive compulsive, but what ever you called it she always counted stairs. It could not be helped. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, then a landing followed by a fast 180 degree turn and another 10 steps. 21 steps in all, 14 floors, 294 steps in all, her obsessive mind calculated. She reached 294 gasping for breath but the number on the exit door read 13, one more floor to go! Wow I’m really out of breath Punky thought, I really need to stop smoking those Testosa Grandes in the blimp. Finally a door marked 14 and the words Penthouse came into view. She paused to catch her breath when the door swung open and two purple uniformed guards motioned her into the penthouse lobby. The lobby was made from a long extinct oak forest, deep and narrow with an old stained glass window portraying A.D. Conningham the honored founder of the blimp service at one end and a small ancient desk aligned before a large smoked glass door bearing gold leaf lettering saying Chairman.
Punky reached for her security pass, but the shorter of the two security guards said, “That’s not needed Captain Pugilist, we are very familiar with your exploits.” What the heck did that mean she wondered? Had loosing the Governor’s luggage become so famous that everyone in the Blimp Cartel knew her name? From behind the desk a small figure of a whezened old man, bald with little brown speckles covering his face, glanced up at Punky from a small pile of official looking documents littering the desk and a bright little polished bronze sign that read Dr. Funstas Tallow, Assistant to The Chair.
“Your late Ms Pugilist,” intoned Tallow.
‘Ms. Pugilist’ thought Punky, not ‘Captain Pugilist’, or the more familiar “hey you”. Not a good start to what was to become the second most important meeting in Punky’s as yet short life. The first having been talking Professor Llanfair into giving her a passing grade in erudition at the University of Songono.
“The Chair will see you now Ms. Pugilist” said Tallow motioning toward the door. Punky recognized the voice, the same basso fundis voice that had awakened her from dreams of cavorting with bunnies in Daggy’s Heaven.
Wiping her sweaty palms on the dress white trousers of her Pilots Uniform she regretted not taking the time to stop at the little girl’s room to wash the melon slush from her faced hems and Manolos. Too late, her hand found its way to an oversized pewter knob decorated with the distinct image of the Worm Oborous. The door was heavy and she pushed hard. The room was dark and cavernous and at first she struggled to see as her blue green irises struggled to gather whatever lumens could be found in the stygian space. The door closed with an ominous thud of finality. From the gloom a small flickering candle appeared in the far distance. A deep red carpet with ancient runes and symbols became apparent at the edge of visibility. In places the carpet was threadbare as if someone had spent three lifetimes pacing back and forth in worry and fret.
“Ahhum,” said a voice clearing its throat. The voice came from the direction of the candle and Punky quickly closed the distance to the dim pool of sickly yellow candle illumination. The candle, made of the most expensive grade of ear wax was guttering and sputtering. Someone had failed to trim the wick for a long time, perhaps hours or possibly days. “Please be seated Captain” said the voice from the darkness. Punky searched the gloom for a place to sit and eventually spotted a small wood and leather stool next to a very large yew eye wooden partner’s desk.
The disembodied voice cleared its throat again and said, “May I offer you tea or perhaps a glass of Porto, the 08 Quinto do Offal?”
“No thank you sir,” replied Punky assuming that The Chair was speaking.
The voice continued, “Punky I am not here. You are not here. This meeting never happened. I will however, validate your parking.” Punky’s mind raced, where did I put the Governor’s Luggage, perhaps in that little compartment by the Carrier Pigeon Rescue Beacons, no not there… The voice interrupted her desperate attempts to resurrect the location of the luggage. “I have a dangerous mission for you that only a pilot of your skill and daring can complete.” Hmmm thought Punky. “It is unlikely that you will survive, but if you succeed your country will be grateful, and the Second Life will indeed be a better land in which to live” said The Chair.
“What are the odds,” asked Punky?
The chair sighed and then exhumed a light chuckle. “Why Punky there are no odds, the probability of your returning alive or with your stone cold body intact are nearly nill,” said The Chair. “Well Captain Punky Pugilist, will you volunteer,” asked The Chair? Punky thought, the odds are not as bad as I would have thought, because in her heart she knew that the luggage would never be recovered. She now remembered she had thrown the luggage into the left boiler of the blimp in a desperate but successful attempt to stay airborne with an over loaded airship. As the luggage had burned, the steam pressure rose significantly, airspeed improved, and the ship was made lighter as the precious suitcase, tote bags, and fleece covered valise were consumed and reduced to ashes. But that was then and this was now and the chair was awaiting a response.
“What if I decline,” replied Punky.
“Punky, I know you well, I have followed your career since you were a Cadet at the Academy of the Balloons. You will not decline this important work. Besides, if you refuse, you will never leave this building standing on your feet, and Fluffy will be without a master, ” intoned The Chair.
“Well that makes it easy, I’ll do it,” Punky said as she found her hind brain signaling yes, and her the fore brain screaming NO! “And what must I do?” After a long pause Punky heard the creaking of ancient wood twisting under stress and lack of furniture polish. A large stained blue envelope, sealed with Yellow Ceiling Wax bearing the imprint of Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian, and recently elected Head of Anti-Monarchist Party, came scuddering across the desk top and stopping at the edge of the desk in front of her.
“You are to proceed to Zipy’s Blimp Works at the Capital and take command of the newly built Airship Impenetrable. Then I want you to take this envelope to Clissa,” said The Chair.
Punky’s mind raced, “But were almost at war with Clissa, it’s only a matter of days or hours before hostilities begin” Punky cried.
“Oh, and on your way I want you to rescue Small Ben and take her to the Overseer of Clissa, Barron von Thundergast,” continued The Chair. “She has a critical mission to perform in Clissa and there is very little time left for its completion.” Great, thought Punky, first The Chair wants a miracle and then it insists on the impossible. “Your ship is ready, I suggest you leave now,” spoke The Chair. “If you fail to return we shall take care of Fluffy. She will live a life of luxury for the few of her nine lives she has remaining. You are dismissed.”
Punky turned to leave and walked a few paces toward the door, but remembering the offer to validate her parking she turned again. The candle was out. She was alone in the dark. She needed five lindens.
The me-Phone had begun ringing before dawn and Punky ignored its bleating and whining as long as she could, but it was becoming angrier and angrier as me-Phones will do when ignored. She had been dreaming of chasing bunnies and peeps in the cloudy paradise known as Daggy’s Heaven. The squirrel in the energy cage of the me-Phone must be getting tired and will need feeding if I don’t answer she thought. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she fumbled for the me-Phone which lay it its tiny white cradle next to her bed. “Hello,” said Punky.
An authorative voice on the other end of the line said, “Is this Punky, Punky Pugilist, the blimp captain?”
“Yup,” she responded, “you found me.”
“Please hold on, The Chair wishes to speak to you.” There followed a long pause in which Punky’s mind raced like the tiny squirrel in the energy cage. The Chair, why would he call me? What have I done? Perhaps its that little mishap last week, or no, it must the lost luggage of Governor Linden…
A new voice was heard on the line and it was a voice familiar to Punky from radio and youtube videos. The Chair spoke, “Hello Captain Punky, I’d like you to come to my office. I have a dangerous and important mission I would like you to volunteer for.” Punky drew a deep breath. A dangerous mission she thought, that could only mean one thing and that one thing was double trouble. “I want you here by eight,” said The Chair who hung up not waiting for any reply or objection.
“I’m in deep do do now,” mumbled Punky as she brushed Fluffy the kitty litter encrusted cat avatar from the foot of her bed and headed for the shower.
Punky was going to be late. The morning commute traffic had backed up at the Tiki House turn off and an overturned wagon full of over ripe melons had made a mess of the byway. A shiny new orange crate buggy in flat black with three wheels had been tail gaiting her for the last kilometer and she was getting very irritated. You’d think the Department of Paths and Easements would have solved this traffic problem last year when they dug up the road for the installation of faster ether, she thought. Her red Schwann bicycle skidded dangerously in the melon sludge and she fought to keep control and not land in the void filled ditches which lined the edge of the path. Regaining control of the Schwann she paused to take a deep breath. That was close she thought. Glancing into her mirror she noted that the orange crate buggy was still too close for comfort. Two dark suited and very buff avatars with impenetrable dark granny glasses stared at her from the buggy. Someone’s security she thought. Someone important given the cost of three wheeled orange crates. Finally the traffic began to move and she peddled furiously in a vain attempt to make up for lost time. The orange crate followed. “This is going to be a bad day,” she muttered, as she glanced down toward her melon spattered Manolos.
Racing up the stairs Punky glanced at the Blimp Cartel Tower clock. The ancient clock hand read 8:09. She was late. Very late. And The Chair was infamous for insisting on punctuality. Take the stairs or the elevator she wondered? The penthouse is a difficult climb, but the line at the elevator looked even more difficult. Pausing briefly, she flashed her purple security pass to the security attendant, and was buzzed through into the lobby. “The stairs,” Punky sighed and dashed for the little door beside the elevator and the line of bleary eyed office workers clutching their cappuccinos and oat bran muffins with peach or mango cream filling. Punky was a counter. It was annoying she thought. Some called it obsessive compulsive, but what ever you called it she always counted stairs. It could not be helped. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, then a landing followed by a fast 180 degree turn and another 10 steps. 21 steps in all, 14 floors, 294 steps in all, her obsessive mind calculated. She reached 294 gasping for breath but the number on the exit door read 13, one more floor to go! Wow I’m really out of breath Punky thought, I really need to stop smoking those Testosa Grandes in the blimp. Finally a door marked 14 and the words Penthouse came into view. She paused to catch her breath when the door swung open and two purple uniformed guards motioned her into the penthouse lobby. The lobby was made from a long extinct oak forest, deep and narrow with an old stained glass window portraying A.D. Conningham the honored founder of the blimp service at one end and a small ancient desk aligned before a large smoked glass door bearing gold leaf lettering saying Chairman.
Punky reached for her security pass, but the shorter of the two security guards said, “That’s not needed Captain Pugilist, we are very familiar with your exploits.” What the heck did that mean she wondered? Had loosing the Governor’s luggage become so famous that everyone in the Blimp Cartel knew her name? From behind the desk a small figure of a whezened old man, bald with little brown speckles covering his face, glanced up at Punky from a small pile of official looking documents littering the desk and a bright little polished bronze sign that read Dr. Funstas Tallow, Assistant to The Chair.
“Your late Ms Pugilist,” intoned Tallow.
‘Ms. Pugilist’ thought Punky, not ‘Captain Pugilist’, or the more familiar “hey you”. Not a good start to what was to become the second most important meeting in Punky’s as yet short life. The first having been talking Professor Llanfair into giving her a passing grade in erudition at the University of Songono.
“The Chair will see you now Ms. Pugilist” said Tallow motioning toward the door. Punky recognized the voice, the same basso fundis voice that had awakened her from dreams of cavorting with bunnies in Daggy’s Heaven.
Wiping her sweaty palms on the dress white trousers of her Pilots Uniform she regretted not taking the time to stop at the little girl’s room to wash the melon slush from her faced hems and Manolos. Too late, her hand found its way to an oversized pewter knob decorated with the distinct image of the Worm Oborous. The door was heavy and she pushed hard. The room was dark and cavernous and at first she struggled to see as her blue green irises struggled to gather whatever lumens could be found in the stygian space. The door closed with an ominous thud of finality. From the gloom a small flickering candle appeared in the far distance. A deep red carpet with ancient runes and symbols became apparent at the edge of visibility. In places the carpet was threadbare as if someone had spent three lifetimes pacing back and forth in worry and fret.
“Ahhum,” said a voice clearing its throat. The voice came from the direction of the candle and Punky quickly closed the distance to the dim pool of sickly yellow candle illumination. The candle, made of the most expensive grade of ear wax was guttering and sputtering. Someone had failed to trim the wick for a long time, perhaps hours or possibly days. “Please be seated Captain” said the voice from the darkness. Punky searched the gloom for a place to sit and eventually spotted a small wood and leather stool next to a very large yew eye wooden partner’s desk.
The disembodied voice cleared its throat again and said, “May I offer you tea or perhaps a glass of Porto, the 08 Quinto do Offal?”
“No thank you sir,” replied Punky assuming that The Chair was speaking.
The voice continued, “Punky I am not here. You are not here. This meeting never happened. I will however, validate your parking.” Punky’s mind raced, where did I put the Governor’s Luggage, perhaps in that little compartment by the Carrier Pigeon Rescue Beacons, no not there… The voice interrupted her desperate attempts to resurrect the location of the luggage. “I have a dangerous mission for you that only a pilot of your skill and daring can complete.” Hmmm thought Punky. “It is unlikely that you will survive, but if you succeed your country will be grateful, and the Second Life will indeed be a better land in which to live” said The Chair.
“What are the odds,” asked Punky?
The chair sighed and then exhumed a light chuckle. “Why Punky there are no odds, the probability of your returning alive or with your stone cold body intact are nearly nill,” said The Chair. “Well Captain Punky Pugilist, will you volunteer,” asked The Chair? Punky thought, the odds are not as bad as I would have thought, because in her heart she knew that the luggage would never be recovered. She now remembered she had thrown the luggage into the left boiler of the blimp in a desperate but successful attempt to stay airborne with an over loaded airship. As the luggage had burned, the steam pressure rose significantly, airspeed improved, and the ship was made lighter as the precious suitcase, tote bags, and fleece covered valise were consumed and reduced to ashes. But that was then and this was now and the chair was awaiting a response.
“What if I decline,” replied Punky.
“Punky, I know you well, I have followed your career since you were a Cadet at the Academy of the Balloons. You will not decline this important work. Besides, if you refuse, you will never leave this building standing on your feet, and Fluffy will be without a master, ” intoned The Chair.
“Well that makes it easy, I’ll do it,” Punky said as she found her hind brain signaling yes, and her the fore brain screaming NO! “And what must I do?” After a long pause Punky heard the creaking of ancient wood twisting under stress and lack of furniture polish. A large stained blue envelope, sealed with Yellow Ceiling Wax bearing the imprint of Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian, and recently elected Head of Anti-Monarchist Party, came scuddering across the desk top and stopping at the edge of the desk in front of her.
“You are to proceed to Zipy’s Blimp Works at the Capital and take command of the newly built Airship Impenetrable. Then I want you to take this envelope to Clissa,” said The Chair.
Punky’s mind raced, “But were almost at war with Clissa, it’s only a matter of days or hours before hostilities begin” Punky cried.
“Oh, and on your way I want you to rescue Small Ben and take her to the Overseer of Clissa, Barron von Thundergast,” continued The Chair. “She has a critical mission to perform in Clissa and there is very little time left for its completion.” Great, thought Punky, first The Chair wants a miracle and then it insists on the impossible. “Your ship is ready, I suggest you leave now,” spoke The Chair. “If you fail to return we shall take care of Fluffy. She will live a life of luxury for the few of her nine lives she has remaining. You are dismissed.”
Punky turned to leave and walked a few paces toward the door, but remembering the offer to validate her parking she turned again. The candle was out. She was alone in the dark. She needed five lindens.
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