Chapter 12: Four by Three Spells Trouble

We were awakened at first light by a scratching on the door. Oh, shit ... who da fuck?

"Who is it?"

"Tim ... Get up. Hurry. You don't have a lot of time."

Ah, Timothy Leary ... AKA The Shaman. "I thought you left."

"I did ... I came back. Someone really fucked up."

We were all scrambling for a modicum of clothes.

Tim was already taking down the hut. The outside cover came off with a tear and rip.

"Whasup?"

"You guys have a choice ... Marry the wives of those two," he pointed at the pair of emasculated natives, "or get gone. You're in a hurry and I doubt you've got time to load the plane.

"Killing the attempted rapists was OK ... not great, but Ok." He pointed at the 'warning dicks' in front of the hut. "That made it a SERIOUS Tribal offense." He shook his head. "Wendy, how did you expect those two to live in the next great adventure with no plumbing?"

"How many wives?"

"Two ... each."

"OK."

"They have kids."

"Shit!"

"Kids, not shit. Three per wife. Four wives." Tim was holding up fingers, " Three times four is past a passel... 12 is serious trouble. If you stay and marry them you can't go back..." He grinned. "Violet is right; you can't live here. If you try to take them with you..." He let the statement sink in.

You never saw three ladies and one guy move so fast in your entire life!

"I didn't think you could do it." Tim was in awe.

In a fit of terror we actually loaded the plane ... they say humans are capable of superhuman strength during times of great stress. We loaded the rifles, the ammo crate, and the crate of drawings ... minus the apple. and tied them down. The rest of the crap Tim said he'd take care of. Little did we know.

Hugs all around ... Warm up ... take off. One circle waggling wings and we headed east.

Behind us a huge explosion took place. 'I'll take care of it, ' he said. Where once was a flat level airfield was now a huge hole ... already filling with water.

Oh, he took care of it, alright ... perfectly.

Off to our left a black G55 appeared. The canopy slid back. Tim waved ... pointed behind. We made a slow 360. The mushroom shaped cloud rose and dispersed. Not nuclear ... just a whole bunch of C-4. Sitting on top of a crate of nuclear fuel rods. I wonder how long that'll take?

He pulled alongside, pointed at his watch and did a full roll. For no explainable reason, our radio worked again.

"Thanks for the G55 ... best thing Fiat ever made. Flies better than the 109. Byeee."

The plane disappeared in the middle of the rollout after a rolling figure eight.

'We gotta learn how to do that.'

'Yup!' Three times.

We settled in to the flight. After about 20 minutes I thought about it and thought to Wendy...

'Wendy ... it's your watch. Push the stem winder. When you feel like it.'

She grinned behind her oxygen mask. 'I like it up here all alone. Not another plane in the sky ... No traffic control ... No government hassles. Let's just fly back to Lansing and then push the watch.'