Trelawney communes with the EI's alcoholic theologian, Brofather Flynn "Potatoes" O-Brien. The Kalamazoo Jew has some time to kill, waiting on Charles Stolichnaya (AKA BEAT SAYONARA) to emerge from his cluttered quarters, wardrobe freshly primped. (The man invariably Dresses For Adventure, and it takes him like forever to get his pants-cargo transferred and distributed, should he change his trousers.) Trelawney and Potatoes have been contentedly occupied in speculations as to the meaning of the word "caul", Trelawney puffing on a foul stogie, Potatoes equally smoke-cowled, in his modestly-appointed Santa Destroy cottage. Around O-Brien's left wrist is a bracelet of indifferently braided rats' tails; around his right ankle is a length of bike chain. His familiars lurk about the room--his hawk Pretension, the dove Sulky, a couple snakes, his large, fragrant coop for his cockfighting...cocks.
Trelawney hasn't told anybody about the aftereffects of the Sun War. His bones now frankly resonate with energy. They thrum. He now exists as a sort of...living capacitor for Emotional Inertia, and the man once known as the irasciblest Enthusiast of them all is, now, tragically, a cynic and overuser of commas. Incapable of committment, investment-averse, he nevertheless has fixed the airship.
"Flynn, would you drop in on my wife? You know how she worries."
Stolichnaya emerges from his stateroom to a pint-sized fanfare issuing forth from his phonograph. Resplendent in brown, his creaky leathers smell of coffee roasting and three-in-one oil. Banners flutter gaily in the breeze. Potatoes utters a benediction, idly stroking one of his razored cocks.
Trelawney primes the electro-chemical diesels; there is a failsafe such that they mayan't be started unless the tribal flag of the Enthusiasts' been hoisted. Thus, Stolichnaya has clipped a rope to his belt, and is prancing about the deck, shadow-boxing whilst humming along to a popular record of the day. The rope yanks the flag up up up, by means of a pulley.
The diesels, like Trelawney's skeleton, thrum with the power of history and science. From his many-pocketed belt, Stolichnaya (deftly) produces (with a practiced flourish) a scrap of tablecloth. "Jew, I hope yer a-feelin' curious, 'boy!"
Trelawney displays an ironic grin. A jarring look on a simian mug.
Stolichnaya's disconcerted, but loves Trelawney 'way too much to press the issue. Therefore it's no way a selfish nor ignorant act that Stolichnaya forges ahead. A self-made showboat, it's no feat at all to go through the motions of total absorbtion in his plan while the main of his mind worries at the new character traits of his friend. "We've simply got to get out frumunda those six probing eyes of the Thorn Triad! Never can we pursue this plane's effable mysteries whilst we scuttle about, progress visible to prying unfond eyes!" Is it simply the depression of victory, the martial equivalent of orgasm's sadness? Bad news from home? Poor diet and little sleep? (Swap meets, sticky green, and bad traffic.) "However! From their base on the dark side of the moon, they can use the lunar body as!--a!--lens! Therefore! They and any companions they may have attained(1) can monitor anything/everything they wish on this green-girdled, storm-adorned globe. Whom I adore(2)." Will he forgive me? Too often in our dealings with the Triad, I've either ignored him or used him simply to further my own goals. Friend...I will make this up to you. "And that! Is why! We depart...for MARS!"
Trelawney grins again, less unsettlingly this time, slaps the vertical throttle to MAX. The ungainly craft lifts implausibly quickly. The Enthusiasts produce iron flasks from beneath their bulky leathern garments and toast one another silently(3) before Trelawney applies Zippo flame again to cheroot.
Once in the vaccuum of SPACE, the propeller-noise will cease, and Sayonara plans to force some old-fashion bro-time with Trelawney: phonograph and plenty of libations.
The Enthusiast of the Inscrutable formerly known as "Chris Collision" is actually named Charles Stolichnaya. His nickname is Beat Sayonara. He's still black, and Latvian, though. Apologies for the sort of authorial laziness that left him named after the author and one of his pseudonyms. I hope no confusion resulted.
He's probably not aware of that noted blogger. He feels a little rejected by the TT, after their battle, and like most spurned men, he's of the opinion that the scorning parties are prolly sluts, a little. And he wonders why he doesn't do better with the ladies.
He thinks essentially in parallels, both structural and sonic. Makes him prolix, but at least you can't hardly miss what he's on about.
The noise on the craft is epic and wholly unconducive for conversation. Trelawney's flask contains cheap brandy; Stolichnaya's, gin. An only child, he hates to share. The flasks are Enthusiast standard issue, personalized via inscription.