In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

32. Han Shot First

I don't think I have to tell you that our entire entourage made it out of JFK International without one of us being stopped, carted off by airport security for questioning, and tried for unauthorized entry into the States. Otherwise this chapter would be called something like "Yeah, Freddie Was Wrong This Time" or "It's No Fun Being an Illegal Alien" (thank you, Genesis- yes, that's an actual song, look it up). But as you can see, the title has nothing to do with the airport, or customs, or the inconvenience of United States law enforcement. So yes, we pulled it off.

Here's the short version:

We'd barely stepped off the plane when off in the distance here came two customs officials, marching in lock step across the runway.

"What, is our cover blown already?" I whispered.

"No, this is normal, they do this with private planes," Elton whispered back.

The officials boarded the Starship before looking at our Passports, in fact didn't even look at us as they passed. I had the gall to wonder if we'd taken all these precautions for nothing.

"You can come back up here, you know," said the paunchy one in a rather strident Brooklyn voice. I'd grown so accustomed to Freddie's silky smooth British accent that the sound of a New Yorker's voice hit my ears as rather unfamiliar. It was about half-past three in the afternoon and the sun was brutal; since we were so invited, and we apparently didn't have to go through the public customs line, we went back inside the plane.

Again I whispered, "What are they-"

"Snooping around for naughty stuff, of course. Shh," Peter hissed sharply. I sniffed. Jerk. I wasn't even talking to you.

Despite all the careless references to "blow" I'd heard over the past eight hours, the gentleman finished searching after two minutes and gave us a clean bill of health. I looked down at my shoes and tried not to bite my lip. Listlessly I straightened Lucy's blue pencil skirt over my legs. Wonder where they put it.

The younger, leaner fellow approached us now and asked to see our Passports. Peter went first. Nervously I opened Lulu's Passport, ran my finger over the picture and prayed he wouldn't see anything unusual.

When he finally came around to me, with a steady hand I passed my "papers" over. He looked me over, then down at Lucy Leppert's Passport. His brows rose. I swallowed, preparing for the worst.

"Looks good," he said aloud, and handed it back. I tried not to take a deep sigh of relief. Whoa.

Someone tapped my shoulder when he wasn't looking and subtly put out their hand. I placed the Passport into Freddie's palm, who passed it back to Lulu so she could peel away my picture and reveal her own.

This would be the biggest challenge. Two Lucys. It would have to be close.

The official inspected Freddie's, then Rudy's, Jack's, Paul's, and John's.

Then the customs agent took a look at Elton's Passport, and his eyes became wide with recognition.

"Oh, my God," he gasped. "Elton John! Oh, my G- this is- this is unbelievable!"

Ladies and gentlemen, our hard-faced, businesslike customs agent Jake Freeling melted into an Elton John fanboy right before our very eyes. I wondered if Freddie felt gypped, not being recognized by yet another American- and a New Yorker at that. When I turned to see, I saw that clever smirk about his lips. He winked at me, and I realized he'd been counting on this.

NFO: Not so spontaneous as to be unable to craft an impressively complicated plan. This guy is smarter than he gives himself credit for.