Tommyrot and Gin slithered and swayed towards the Customs Area, bloated on a blend of Martell and honey-roasted peanuts.
Long flight from Heathrow to Dulles.
Snockered they were, and toasted beyond the troposphere.
First on, last off, is how they played it, figuring by time they hit the barrier, the agent would be tired, bored, and texting Kismet, to hook up with her for Happy Hour at Francy’s in Reston, clutching his first Heineken, chatting up Francy’s daughter, (yes, the same Kismet), who ran the front of the house.
Problem, though.
Though Tommyrot and Gin were properly docced and it wasn’t their paper that would prompt a delay, it was the smell of them.
And it was about what the pilot and senior attendant would by now have commed to the FTA controllers, who’d’ve passed along the alert to the customs agents at the barrier.
“We should’ve chartered the G5 like I suggested,” Gin side-spoke out the right side of his mouth to Tommy. “They’re gonna nail us, and we’re off the damned plane, fer chrissakes.”
“Shut up,” Tommy hissed. “Play it like it is.”
Next up and they lock-stepped across the yellow line painted on the gray carpet and wobbled to the counter behind which the Agent sat on a stool and said, “Welcome to Washington.”
T&G handed over their red passports and the Agent frowned.
“Diplomats,” he huffed. “We got a report you two were makin’ a ruckus on the plane.
“If these were blue passports, you’d be facing a knockdown horse shedding.”
Gin grinned. His right knee gave away and he dropped to the floor, his chin catching the counter edge.
Blood.
Tommy drug up his colleague. Gin stabilized at the counter. Tommy drew a blue bandana from his hip pocket and handed it to Gin. Gin jammed the hankie up against his chin.
Stem the flow.
“Agent Richards,” Gin said, “we did no such thing.
“Call up any of the passengers and ask if we disrupted their flight.”
Tommy patted Gin’s shoulder. “Careful,” he said.
Agent Richards smiled.
“Tell you the truth, I’m glad we won’t have to go through the rigmarole on this one.”
He palmed his entry stamp on a clean page in each their passports and said, “Be careful.”
They rode the shuttle bus from Dulles to Reagan National, and sat watching CNN on the flat screen at Gate 34B, waiting to hop an Airbus to Nashville.
On the plane, heading south, they did the same damned thing again.
There were four flight attendants, and four untaken seats in First Class.
Tommyrot and Gin ‘encouraged’ them to take their seats.
There were 134 passengers aboard that flight, and, counting the attendants and the cockpit crew of three, a total of 141 souls whose lives became dependent upon Tommyrot’s and Gin’s behaviors.
Tommy and Gin walked up the aisle.
Gin tapped the chief attendant on her shoulder and said, “Let us know if we make a muck of our service.”
Tommy got on the PA and announced, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This jet has been commandeered by yours truly and we are pleased to announce that all meal items, soft drinks, and wine, beer, and liquor are on the house this flight. Or, um, rather, on the wings.”
Passengers caromed from fear to glee and a chorus of cheers and an explosion of clapping hands and feet stomping was inside that aluminum tube, soaring through the troposphere at 480 knots, bound for Music City.
Tommyrot and Gin were in fine fettle and shape.
They doffed all but their Jermyn Street boxer shorts, folding their clothes and storing them in the Personals locker in the attendant’s area opposite the lavatory door behind the locked flight deck.
They found two blue aprons in the same locker and donned them.
And set about setting up the narrow wheeled carts with drinks and chips.
They emerged from the pantry passing through the First Class cabin, explaining to the attendants and passengers, “We’re going to start at the back of the bus and work our way back to you all.”
One guy, seat 3C, clad in black and sporting a three day scruff, huffed and said, “But we’re first!”
Gin, following Tommy, patted the man’s shoulder and advised him to curb his enthusiasm. “We’ll be back soon enough. Just mind that big iPad on your lap,” and smiled cheerily.
The man harrumphed, squirmed in his leather seat, settled down, and swiped his iPad’s screen with a flourish.
As Tommy swept aside the curtain separating the übers from the proles, he was met with a raucous symphony of cheers and applause. Many of the aisle seat passengers stood up, banging their heads on the overhead baggage pods, caught up in obvious gusto for what would most likely unfold.
Gin led from the rear and declared in a voice sure to reach the stern of the bus, “We’re starting at the back. Only seems fair, yes?”
Many nodding heads agreed, though a few passengers seemed less than enthused.
As they marched down the aisle, a pretty blond, top-heavy and tanned, pinched Gin’s bottom and giggled.
Gin turned to her and said, “Off limits, my dear.”
They arrived at the back of the Bus, about-faced their carts, and set about doling out drinks and chips.
The gnarled gent in 34D stared at the boozy bounty on his fold-down tray and said, “So you’re not Islamists?”
“No,” replied Tommy. “We’re just messing with the airline.”
Thirty-four D smiled.
The mother in 29 F, seated between her two charges, said,”I’d like a double whisky and soda, and orange juice for my kids. And can we have extra chips?”
“Done,” said Gin, as he dropped a heap of little cello bags on her tray.
“Thank you!” she gushed.
By the time they were halfway up the aisle, the back of the bus was atwitter with prate and wonder.
TenC asked Tommy, “Is this legal? Are we on video? Will we get in trouble when we land?”
“Not a problem,” replied Tommy. “We’ll take the blame.”
“This has never happened to me,” 10C declared.
“Nor to most other flyers,” Tommy assured her.
“Can I have another glass of champagne?” she said, thus.
“You can and you may,” Tommy corrected her, pouring Champers to her flute’s rim.
As they approached the Class Barrier, Tommy turned to Gin and said, “What a happy crowd: they’ll never forget this trip.”
“Aye,” said Gin, gin-grinning.
In First Class, the passengers and attendants, long awaiting their high jackers, volleyed questions and declarations to Tommyrot and Gin.
The least attractive attendant of the four said, “What’ll happen when we land?”
Gin replied, “Tommy and I will most likely be hoosegowed, but you’ll all be safe and besotted.”
“Well I never—“, she thrusted.
“All in a day’s work,” said Gin.
Tommyrot and Gin dispensed liquors and chips to the übers and retreated to the pantry and refilled the carts for their second pass.
Tommy said to Gin, “That guy in black in 3C needs a shave and a clothing consultant.”
“I think he needs a horse-shedding,” said Tommyrot.
Much silence had descended into the bus tube.
A few drinkies will do that sort of thing, thus T&G well knew to temper their next pass with a tad of restraint.
Gin got on the horn and announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, though we are kind and beneficent hijackers, we urge you all to restrain your wants for free booze.
“We don’t want any of you to fall off this bus onto the exit ramp and cause concern for the airline greeters.
“Besides, they only have so many wheelchairs to accommodate the disabled.”
Tommyrot set aside his organizing the cart for the next go-round and walked back to the man in 3C.
“Come with me, sir,” he said, grabbing the black-clad man by his nape and steering him to the pantry.
Three C’s eyes were wide and prancing near full tilt terror:
“I’m your prisoner!” he cried. “You’re going to kill me!?”
“Nay, lad,” assured Gin, “we want to know what you do to live.”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you make your bucks?” asked Tommyrot.
“I own a startup company. We’re launching next week, if I live!”
“Oh,” said Tommy, “you’re going to live, but we think you should reconsider your garb.”
“What?”
“Everyone is sporting black these days. We think you should consider something more sartorial, before you beg for more capital.”
“Yeah,” said Gin, adding, “black is the new old theme. Try dressing as a preppy, or the head man that you are. Maybe a chicken bone pierced through your nose.”
Gin’s voice bespoke of derision.
Three C’s face defaulted to ash gray.
As Tommyrot and Gin took their second pass down the bus, most of the passengers declined another drink.
“This is sufficient,” said the silver-haired gentleman in 12D. “I’ve had my fill, thank you, but are you sure you’re not terrorists?”
“Ain’t there anything but chips?” asked 14D.
“Yes,” said Tommy. “Up and coming.”
The back of the bus got sloshed on the second pass, and gratefully noshed on the hot dinner offerings from the pantry.
All the while, the flight crew in the cockpit were assured by the chief attendant that ‘all is well.’
After putting all away as it should be, T&G joined the Attendants at the front of First Class and jibber-jabbered as the jet descended to Nashville.
They’d done it once again.
Tommyrot and Gin laid waste to an entire plane of flyers, and all descended complete.
“It is sometimes the way of the world which disrupts madness.
“Certain malarkey can overcome crazy and be so nutso that the likes of Tommyrot and Gin get crystal clear away with their mayhems.”
Beltram Gilland, London, Sept 30 2022
