John Frum The Reluctant Messiah

Flying Lessons

The still sputtering Miss Edna did little to invoke confidence in John who eyed the new pilot with suspicion. Something just didn't add up and John was unconvinced that leaving Aiden behind for the last leg of the journey was such a good idea.

"Do you speak English?" John asked.

No response. He stared unflinchingly ahead, all the while sporting that creepy, pasted-on smile. John noticed his bulky uniform and wondered why on earth would anyone choose to wear that in this sweltering, sticky, tropical blast furnace. He wondered if perhaps the little guy had started this morning a normal-sized person and like a snowman had simply melted.

"We are headed to Vanuatu, correct?" John asked, "Vanuatu?"

No response. John looked out the window and wondered out loud, "Isn't the sun supposed to be there? And not there?"

The otherwise catatonic pilot locked eyes with John. He stared an uncomfortably long time without blinking even as sweat ran down his round face. John swallowed hard, licking his lips and yet there was no spit left to moisten them. His body tensed, sensing the unspoken danger before his mind could calculate it. Something was coming. But what?

Without warning, the little spawn of Satan suddenly cranked the yoke for all it's worth to the left. Miss Edna groaned in protest as she did her best to carry out such a violent command and responded by entering into a series of tight, vomit-inducing barrel rolls. Luckily, John had been strapped in, avoiding any serious injury as everything began flying around the cabin. It was not unlike someone's bratty sister having a temper tantrum and upending the kitchen junk drawer on his head. The plane leveled out and John looked up at the pilot who was now standing next to him motioning for him to head to the rear of the plane.

"I'm not going anywhere-" John's objection was cut short when he noticed the blued, matte-finished reflection of the barrel of a small handgun protruding from the sleeve of the little guy's coat.

"Whoa! alright, alright-"

BANG!

"So, this is what it's like to be shot," John thought. "It doesn't hurt... Oh, wait a minute- yes it does, it absolutely does!!"

He frantically grabbed at his chest, just above his heart.

"God this really hurts!" he thought. "Wait, there's no blood. Am I bleeding? There's no blood."

There was a small tear in his shirt, a bullet hole. He felt a bump and instinctively pulled it away. It was a dart. A small, crude, handmade dart.

"Oh, OK, " he thought, somehow relieved that he hadn't been shot shot. Just darted like a National Geographic lion of the Serengeti. His attention returned to the little guy.

"It's gonna take a lot more than this to stop me from kicking your pint-sized ass," he threatened.

He lunged towards the pilot and immediately face planted onto the dirty, junk-covered floor. Someone had replaced his legs with rubber ones so, to anyone other than Gumby, they were now pretty much useless. His vision was beginning to follow suit, as if he'd mistakenly put on someone else's glasses. But he could see enough to notice that the creepy smile was still there and why that little monkey's flight suit had been so bulky. There was a parachute beneath it.

John's eyes grew wide, his mouth dropped open in terror as it suddenly dawned on him what that meant. That three foot menace had no plans of sticking around to finish the flight. The pilot then proceeded to calmly pull the rusty cotter pin from the center wheel and removed the yoke. He reached for the red emergency cockpit escape latch, struggling to get it to work. Still on the floor, John realized what was about to happen and had the presence of mind to wrap his arm around one of the co-pilot's seat support legs. 

The latch released and in an instant, the cockpit's glass surround was suddenly gone. The wind had caught it and cleanly ripped it from the fuselage almost taking his pint-sized head with it. He, the yoke, and anything else that wasn't tied down was sucked out of the plane and disappeared into the blue sky.

The engine noise, the rushing wind were all amplified without the cockpit glass and just added to John's complete and utter confusion. And whatever was on the tip of that dart certainly wasn't helping matters. He laid there, alone, frozen, in disbelief trying to sort things out.

"What just happened!?" he thought. 

But there clearly was no time for that. Miss Edna's nose dipped. She began to slowly plummet towards the turquoise water below. He had to do something, and he had to do it now. He closed his eyes, took a long breath and did what he always did since he was a kid to center himself, to calm the nervousness, to tamp down the fear just before he took any action. He exhaled, pulled himself to his knees, and reached blindly under the tattered seat. His hand found his salvation- a pair of long forgotten, rusted vice grips.