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Time's glory is
to calm contending kings, To unmask falsehood and bring
truth to light.
William Shakespeare
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Considering the details
Jack forgot to mention in his invitation, Hank
Campbell would have been much happier spending the rest
of his time in the dark.
For one, Her Majesty
Gertrude VII's
kingdom, Medillo
Grande, is the only part of Poco Cabesa that isn't automatically
preceded by "that godforsaken hole" in normal conversation.
And Gert rules there with a mysterious and matriarchal hand,
which keeps visitors to a minimum.
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Rudy
Tonagachowski -- The "slack-key King"
of Medillo Grande, Arbor Day, 1939
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Izzy
Wu O'Riley
Local notable and freight-hauler, circa 1920
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"Hopeless"
Hollinsworth and unidentified Milanese man
during ill-fated guano panning scheme, Summer of
1904
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Over in Joetown, things
were and are quite different. Comrade
Joe the Only, enlightened capitalist though he might
be, is also a product of his culture. Any business showing
a profit draws Comrade Joe and his boys like picnics draw
ants.
Despite his education,
Joe carries the genetic code of the risk-takers, freebooters,
buccaneers, and marine supplies salesmen who made Poco Cabesa
what it is today. Try as he might, sometimes his pirate
nature gets in the way of his entrepreneurial spirit.
At various times, Comrade
Joe the Only's uncle (Comrade
Joe the First) claimed that he could trace his heritage
to ancestors as diverse as Hyman
Klinkle, an ancient African Aksum king named Malik Malik,
and a quarter-Cherokee singer-barmaid named Dewdrop.
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Failed
"guano catcher" device, circa 1906
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The
Do Me Quartet (Dewdrop, far right)
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Hyman was a circumspect, devoutly religious man, who bored
his own long-suffering wife to tears for nearly fifty years,
nobody in ancient Aksum ever heard of a Malik Malik, and all
that was worth remembering about Dewdrop was lost long ago
on some repainted men's room wall. |
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nobody holds these reality misdemeanors against Joe the First.
Making up your past is as common on Poco Cabesa as tattoos
on a professional basketball player. |
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"Sylvester"
at war, June 1942
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"Sylvester's"
old outfit
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Add to the above the
simple fact that Jack Waller's
"Following the Equator Air & Sea" is, simply expressed,
a bottom-feeder in the charter biz.
Its "clients"
are people who wait until the last minute (or those who
don't have a choice to begin with) and it flies where no
else bothers to go (or wants to).
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Early attempt at bungee-jumping
on Poco Cabesa
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All this, of course,
depends on Jack's ancient PBY Flying Boat, "Sylvester,"
being, well, flyable.
The preceding would be
bad enough were it not for the fact that the one enterprise
on Poco Cabesa best suited to work arm-in-arm with FTEA&S
is owned and operated by young Emma
Riley, Jack's mortal enemy.
A voluntary refugee from
the business world rat-race, Emma operates "Riley's Dream"
(or tries to), a cluster of bed-and-breakfast cottages on
the southern point of Medillo Grande.
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Built by her father,
Cap'n Roy (another
naval aviator, Jack's first C.O., and an island legend or
apparition, depending upon your viewpoint, who also happens
to have been Her Majesty Gert's last husband), the modest
resort failed aborning.
"We was gonna attract
the world's luminaries!" Jack still claims.
In Emma's mind, Jack
gets top-billing in the story of her father's island debauches,
shaky investments, and untimely demise. Anything or anyone
associated with Jack is persona non grata to her.
Which is going to complicate
things quite a bit for old Hank.
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Emma's
old hometown.
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Is
"Riley's Dream" on his take-over list?
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When "Sylvester" does
fly, distance is no barrier (assuming you have lots of time).
That means FTEA&S clientele run the gamut, from the
learned to the loony to the sometimes shady, and the routes,
well, the routes sometimes follow the Equator.
It also means that,
like the old tramp steamers that once wandered the world's
oceans, FTEA&S takes the risk that a potential customer
is waiting at the next stop. But, considering the risk someone
takes when they charter "Mad Jack" and crew, everything
balances out in the end. Anyway, it makes for some dandy
tales!
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The
altar-cloth of one eon is the doormat of the next.
-- Mr. Twain
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