CHAPTER 3
"No! Sylvia said in her monotone voice. "You may not have a martini.
"Oh, why not? an already drunk passenger by the name of Mr. Fleming responded, slurring his words together. He was clad in a well-trimmed navy blue business suit, and his chubby face was sweating profusely.
Unfortunately, Sylvia had been getting this sort of thing a lot lately. Ever since Va Ley airlines had its liquor license revoked two months ago for selling alcohol to a 10-year-old wearing a red plastic mustache, there have been many upset passengers who were disappointed to learn that they couldn't drink themselves to oblivion on their flight to Tahiti.
"Sir, we don't have martinis, she responded, moodily, huffing. "We are not allowed to serve alcohol to our passengers.
"Oh please, the Mr. Fleming continued to plead. "I don't even want to drink it. I just want to look at it.
George George, extra terrestrial secret agent, was seated a few rows behind Mr. Fleming. He found this incredibly crampt air vehicle quite intriguing, and the question immediately on his mind was how Earthlings managed to force other Earthlings into them. George George, whose knees were jammed by the seat in front of him, couldn't move his legs an inch.
Seated in front of Mr. Fleming was Mr. Lackey. Mr. Lackey was a short, petulant man who defined his fashion image one early morning in a bout of insomnia when he turned on the television to watch an old British movie. The lead actor in that film was wearing a brown, peppered suit and a bowler hat. The following afternoon, he went to the nearest men's clothing outfitters and ordered a dozen outfits.
Mr. Lackey popped his head from behind his seat and gave Mr. Fleming an annoyed and perky glare. Mr. Fleming responded by drunkenly pursing his lips and rolling his eyes to the back of his head.
Sylvia muttered a wish to disintegrate out of existence.
Just then, a baby started to scream. Its now-frantic mother tried to quiet it by stuffing a pacifier down its throat, but the child evaded it and screamed even louder. Sylvia looked at this child and mother with severe disgust. She squinted those overly painted eyes (which now looked closed).
Still lacking an alcoholic beverage in hand, Mr. Fleming was getting restless. He's a businessman, he concluded. He solves problems every day, and that's how he feeds his family. Surely he can figure out how to get a martini. He just needed to but his think-juices to work. He put his fist clumsily onto his flabby chin for about thirty seconds and began to ponder, very hard. His forehead started to sweat. He gave up.
"I want a martini! he screamed. He ran his palm down his face, squishing his cheeks along the way. Then, all of the sudden, a thought came to him: he would ask for a martini. This, of course, he already tried about two minutes ago, but he forgot. Mr. Fleming raised his hand. "Waitress!
Sylvia was standing about twelve rows ahead of Mr. Fleming enlightening a dark-haired, handsome man about the evolutionary history of a horse. Mr. Fleming's arm, which now had been in the air for five seconds, was losing balance and began to wobble. Sylvia ignored him and continued to converse to the handsome man.
"You see, horses had toes once," she said to him. He was pretending to dial a number on his cell phone in hopes that it would make her go away. "But it has hooves now so that it can run a lot without hurting itself."
"WAITRESS!!! Mr. Fleming screamed so intensely that his face turned red and it strained his voice. "I WANNA MARTINI!
Sylvia stopped talking and shut her eyes out of frustration. She started to wheeze. She put her hand in her apron and found a receipt for a tuna sandwich that she bought in the airport. She wadded it up and threw it, and she hit Mr. Fleming on his forehead.
George George was sitting toward the back of the cabin. He was trying to figure out his seat's reclining system. It suddenly flipped back and onto a grumpy 63-year-old woman's lap.
"Do you mind? the woman's stern voice hissed. Her voice was strangely masculine. George George apologized and clumsily repositioned his seat.
The pilot's voice came on over the intercom. Sylvia made her way to the front of the cabin. The pilot's voice was breaking up over the ill-maintained speakers.
"Uhhhh hello, you are about to uhhh enjoy a flight to uuuuh Tahiti with [static] VaLey airlines flight number uuuuuh 2148. [static] If you would uuuuh direct your attention to your front uuuhhhh your friendly flight attendant will now show you the uuuhhhhh proper way to use the emergency gear in case of an uuuuhhhh emergency. [static]
Sylvia held up the demonstrative emergency vest and (obviously) faked a sunny disposition. She smiled with her mouth closed, but her eyes seemed like they were aiming to set something on fire.
***
As the craft prepared for take-off, the engine seemed to vibrate the cabin more than it should. Sylvia, sitting down in a chair in the back, eyed that dark and handsome man, who was casually writing notes to himself on a pad of paper (mostly consisting of reasons to never ride on this airline again).
The plane was rolling at a comfortable pace, but soon enough, it accelerated. George George grabbed hold of his armrests and, in excitement, he let out a muffled 'whee' noise. When they became airborne, George George's 'whee' became loud enough to bother the rest of the passengers. After only a few seconds of this thrill, flight #2148 became like a regular air-trip for him. The aircraft on his planet might be more efficient, George George thought, but they weren't nearly this fun! Satisfied, he promptly stretched his back and cracked his knuckles (which popped at a volume louder than most humans are able to do it).
***
Only forty-five minutes after takeoff and well after the seatbelt sign flickered off, Mr. Fleming, who had spent the time reminiscing over a happy childhood experience when he inexplicably located a chocolate-coated ice-cream bar under the bleachers in junior high, suddenly remembered that he wanted a drink.
"Hey! he yelled sloppily. Sylvia had been neglecting her flight attendant and was sitting in her seat in the back fondly reminiscing of the 1880 picture of Darwin in which he is wearing a bowler hat and sported a scraggly white beard down to his chest.
"Hey! Mr. Fleming exclaimed, pointing at her. "I asked you for a martini, stewardess! ¦ Now, I demand that you gimme one, or I'll jus' board another airplane!
Sylvia unbuckled her safety belt, walked up to the rowdy passanger and stuffed a handkercheif his mouth.
"Hey!" Mr. Fleming was trying to say over the muffling handkercheif. "That's not a martini!"
Of all the passengers on flight #2148, George George was the happiest, for he just found the answer that he was looking for. Flight attendants are the mightiest authority figures on Planet Earth.
