Elise Runs and Dorothy Falls

Chapter 19

Tyrio had devoted a corner of the captain's quarters to motivational slogans. Tacked up helter skelter all over the wall, he thought they looked damn good.

ALL IMPULSE AND NO DRAG

DON'T LET THE GOBLIN NEAR THE POWER TOOLS

BOOM

Obviously he had doodled them up himself. There in his room he had been sulking for a while now (he wouldn't have called it 'sulking'), but it was about time to pick his butt up and get going. Tyrio assembled the crew. He told them each to grab a chair.

"Grab a chair! Park it outside! That's the spirit!"

Before long, Tyrio, Albbenaro, and John sat outside the Whim in the vast hangar bay and shared a cold one. Tyrio didn't like the cold that much, though, so he also lit up a gas grill and started to barbecue some pork patties. They saw the crews of other frigate-class zeppelins staring at them.

"What's their problem?" scoffed Tyrio as a crewman looked aghast at his grill. "I think they smell pretty good."

"Yeah," Albb said, neither here nor there, his goggles in his lap and a half-chewed fag hanging in his teeth.

"And what's your take, Dent?"

John Denton, who had been Tyrio's pal since their respective youths, was the weaponsmaster aboard the Whim and, different from Tyrio, a human. To explain 'respective youths', a goblin is never exactly a child, but his childlike years are between the ages of one and thirty-five. John Denton was twenty-six and had met his best friend Tyrio when he was five, while Tyrio was forty-four and had met his best friend John when he was twenty-three. The point is, they had been friends a long time.

"They're probably upset because they're not getting any." John, like Tyrio, had been born to a wealthy family. In his case, John also had the upper crust accent to match. He had long boyish hair like a 60s mod, stood six feet tall, and wore diminutive, circular glasses the color of a tangerine not quite ripe. His blue Air Army uniform had been steam-pressed neat. "Alternatively," he concluded, "they might simply disapprove our behavior."

"Why should they? Because they didn't think of it first?"

"Could be, captain. Those patties smell delightful. Detect a pinch of dill, don't I?"

"Got it in one!"

"Excellent."

To be honest, Albbenaro, who'd had his choice in the fleet, hadn't expected this when he signed on with the son of George Longbranch. Although himself just a young gobbler at the time, Albbenaro had fought alongside the legend in several battles during the "barbarian" campaigns and come to know him as a hero. After six months he couldn't say the same about Max Longbranch.

"Well, I think I'm going to go work on the guidance system," said Albb, slowly standing up. "Buzz if you need me."

"Yeah, yeah! Will do, Albb."...

"Obviously I'm doing something wrong." John raised his eyebrows as Tyrio said it. After that, there was an even longer pause. It looked more like ... ...

"You know what, Dent? I think these need sugar. Goblin Barbeque needs sugar."

"Could."

"Definitely could. Here—be back in a jiff!"

"Not a problem." As Tyrio hustled off, John reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of miniature white pills. He popped them.

Tyrio marched unhappily through the hangar. He didn't like to contemplate or reflect, but he couldn't help it. He also couldn't help remembering that his father had come aboard. Time to cross his fingers. Hopefully things would get better. He crossed his fingers. Or was it too early to cross his fingers? He often played these games with fate.