There's always that moment of waking, before your eyes open and you drink in the world around you. It's a fuzzy place, where you're remembering your dreams while separating them from your reality. This morning, I can't get a sense of either; instead, a dull thudding headache pervades my consciousness. My eyes open to slits as I search for something to jog my addled mind into remembering the previous night. My memory doesn't flash back, but the searing white light turns my headache into a migraine of respectable proportions. I try to blink the light away, and, as I wince against the pain, I hear a shuffle near the end of the bed. I see something metallic hovering above my face. Great. It's the barrel of a gun, and I don't remember ordering hot lead from room service.
It's impressive how a revolver up your nose will jog your memory, because I can suddenly recall some fragments of the night before … the familiar sound of cards falling into place via a riffle shuffle and the glimpse of many empty bottles of champagne. I see poker chips, and I hear laughter as my once-proud stack dwindles before my wine-hazed eyes. The night couldn't have been good to me. But, they rarely are.
The man with the revolver speaks with an oily thick Cajun accent. My eyes are still trying to pull focus, but the mix of accent and typical villain cockiness betrays his identity instantly. His name is Thibodeaux, and he gives hard-working criminals everywhere a bad name. As the faux-politeness spews forth from his mouth, there's more stirring, but this time, it's from the other side of the bed. A red-headed creature of delicate beauty sits up, looking confused and slightly afraid. I guess last night wasn't that bad after all. Thibodeaux greets her with that ridiculous voice of his and then mumbles something about a shrewd gambler and always collecting debts early. Before I can react, Thibodeaux nonchalantly confiscates my remaining cash and, in a moment of what I can only assume is monumental stupidity, grabs the keys to my plane. In a snap, he's out the door.
In a bolt of energy born of the absolute need not to lose my wings, I'm out of bed and fully dressed in a flash. Just before dashing out the door, I take a moment to offer a few parting words to my lady-friend. I'm a gentleman, after all.
After rushing outside, I'm greeted with more head-shattering morning light, but it's nothing that a few aspirin and a midday martini won't fix. Thibodeaux has already readied my plane for takeoff, and now he's just a few feet away from pulling up into the morning air. In an act of daredevil idiocy, I leap onto the starboard wing. The rush of crisp air greets me, as does Thibodeaux, aggravated and wondering at my sanity. Ignoring his raucous, questioning cries, I scramble up to the cockpit. Oops, almost slipped, but death, it seems, isn't on the agenda this morning. I see Thibodeaux is strapped tightly into the cockpit seat, and, thinking quickly, I yank the ejection pull-cord, uttering an unrepeatable cliché that seems at odds with my normally scathing wit.
After slipping into the cockpit seat, I feel the buzzing vibration of the engine behind me, the cool morning mist on my face, and I'm invigorated once more. I pull back on the stick to rise gently above the waters, and I feel the familiar tingling that the freedom of flight brings to me every time. I'm home again.
Unfortunately, Thibodeaux still has the keys to and control of my blimp fortress and base of operations, the Pandora. I'll have to do something about that, but first, I have to make a call for reinforcements. I test the radio waves to see if Betty, my perky partner, is up to her old tricks this morning. Sure enough, she's there. Perfect. She suggests I shake off the morning rust with some maneuvers and target practice. Not a bad idea.
If I felt at home before, pulling a couple of snap-barrel-rolls and an Immelman or two was enough to send shivers of familiar pleasure down my spine. Now, on to target practice. Oddly, and luckily, there happen to be a few abandoned blimps floating around nearby. After a few quick passes, they go up in satisfying balls of flames and fall to their graves in the sea below. I'm satisfied that my guns are operating smoothly. Next, I have to try my missiles on a few out-of-order missile turrets. The missiles work just fine, but I still need to scrape together some scratch to upgrade them. I'll deal with that after I retrieve the Pandora. Speaking of which, I can see it now, floating peacefully while Thibodeaux's goons fly guard around it. I almost feel sorry for them as Betty and I throttle up and rocket towards them.
My name is Nathan Zachary, and these Crimson Skies belong to me.
Article by Alex McLain
