Rudiger slumped backwards into the airplane seat, trying to tug the collar of his shirt far enough upward to shield his eyes from the light and get a quick nap for the last hour or so of the flight. He had shelled out a nickel for a newspaper back in New York, but the third time through, one really tended to stop caring about Roosevelt's New Deal. And the fate of Amelia Earhart was really the last thing he wanted on his mind right now.

He knew rest was hopeless. He hated being confined like this, and sitting on airplanes always made him antsy anyway. His stomach turned a bit as the jet lurched in an updraft. Rudiger drew in a slow breath and tried to distract himself by looking around to try and see what everyone else was doing.

ArchieArcher slumbered easily in his aisle seat, his head lolled to the side and one arm hanging into the walkway like a cheap salami. Still, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that his steel-trap reflexes were ready to snap him into fully alert action at the slightest sound of trouble or a dessert cart.

Crawford sat a few rows back holding, between his thumb and forefinger, a miniature tumbler. He turned the tiny glass this way and that, frowning his disapproval at the drink therein. Rudiger figured he was probably running the schedule through his head, minute-by-minute, move-by-move. This deal, and every one he was involved in, would go off without a hitch, or he was honor bound to commit suicide.

LoveGun was... nowhere to be found. Whatever. Having no idea what was going on meant everything was normal.

"Coffee," Crawford had told them back home. "Get it?"

You could almost taste the goddamned quotation marks when he spat out the word "coffee". And there was only one thing in Brazil that would be of any interest to them. Rudiger got it.

"Remember," they were told. "We're exporters. Nothing more."

Which was plenty true. Rudiger wasn't sure if this was being dumbed down for his benefit, Archie's, or the boss'. Or simply because Crawford was a horse's ass. Likely at least two of the four.

"They've got so much 'COFFEE', they've got to get rid of it." Crawford wouldn't shut up, "They're putting 'COFFEE' in their 'COFFEE', it's so abundant."

Rudiger had gotten tired of that shit. Coffee, got it. Don't say cocaine, say coffee. Coffee coffee coffee. He just knew this was going to ruin his mornings for the next month when he would wake up to a nice big cup of tea, just for spite.

He slowly let the air out of his lungs and settled back into his terrible-posture-window-watching-won't-this-fucking-flight-end-already position, and let his eyes glaze over as the clouds slid past.

He resigned himself to just try to turn his brain off and wait for the engines to start winding down.

There were two light knocks on the other side of the door as LoveGun's hands gripped the edge of the sink. The bathroom was small, but she enjoyed spending time in it and making faces at herself in the mirror as she sipped on her glass of rum. Plus, it kept her away from those damn snooty flight attendants and their obnoxious matching uniforms the color of sea foam green. One woman wouldn't even let her sip from her bottle and forced LoveGun to pour her drink in a glass. A GLASS?! What sort of person did they think she was.

Another knock came and then a few more in rapid follow. Must have been that glass demanding old sea foam green stewardess. LoveGun pursed her lips, widened her eyes and pointed at the mirror in mockery of the woman she assumed was on the other side of the thin door. She took the last swig from her glass and opened the door right into the stewardess. LoveGun stifled a laugh under her breath and scurried back down the aisle to her comrades, which were no where to be found. Those bastards, they put her on the wrong flight again didn't they. She thought to herself while scouring the airplane for an empty seat.

As LoveGun trudged up the aisle she found a seat. She slowly approached it making sure it was indeed empty and when she was close to pounced into it. For all she knew this seat was hers and it had been waiting for her to return to it. LoveGun looked at the man sitting next to her out of the corner of her eye. Well, he wasn't going to be filling her in on anything soon, he was asleep. He looked dead, but he was snoring. She made herself comfy in the seat and closed her eye. Moments later they snapped open, her heart picked up pace as a new thought made itself prominent in her mind. Maybe she was going to China. Her lips slipped into a grin that spread to her eyes, showing off her excitement. LoveGun slipped back into her pretend sleep, really, she was plotting. Oh, the things she could do in China.

Just as she was about to slip into some sort of mess between sleep and hallucinating, a voice that sounded like it came from a person who ate gravel every day for breakfast, awoke her. It was that attendant. LoveGun leaned back quickly into the sleeping dead man next to her and glared at the woman. She was stalking her. Appalled, LoveGun glared at the woman hoping she would leave, but she kept smiling.

"Ma'am, can I interest you with some coffee as the flight lands?"

Coffee? What? Did LoveGun look like a woman that drank coffee? She shook her head, but it looked like the woman wasn't going to be leaving until LoveGun took some coffee. The stewardess had probably poisoned it, taking her revenge.

Coffee with a li'l rum?

The sea foam green frowned at her.

Oye fine.

As the woman passed her a cup of the piping hot poisoned dark liquid, LoveGun had a sneaking suspicion she wasn't going to China.

The airplane rumbled to a stop on the gritty Brazilian tarmac, and not a moment too soon. Rudiger was plenty done with being stuck in this upholstered tin can, crammed between affluent middle aged cows who were all too quick to remind you that they normally wouldn't slum in a degenerate rathole town like this, but their husbands (who, did they mention, are very respected and successful partners in a firm upstate) had some business to attend to here, before they whisked themselves away to some other, more exotic, and much more elegant final vacation destination, of which they doubt the likes of you have ever heard.

"Shut up, you braying manatee, I'm too busy cursing God for not answering my prayers to send this godforsaken flying mailbox into a flaming tailspin the fifth time you mentioned that you met Will Rogers once." Rudiger thought to himself as he made his way to the door to demand that he be let out of this goddamned plane right this second.

Wake up!

Rudiger hissed as he planted the backside of his hand sharply against ArchiArcher's cheek. His seemingly superhuman awareness had apparently been sabotaged by the rapid change in altitude. But Rudiger was not going to let this impede the mission. Well, not THE mission, but the only one that mattered to him at the moment-- fleeing the airport with all due speed.

The beaming Sao Paulo sun mixed with the salt water breeze and the South American humidity in that perfect cocktail that made you almost thankful to have your brain slowly steamed to mush under the cover of your cheap tourist kitsch Panama hat. Having finally been spat out the other side of the airport, Rudiger was taking in a world that would prove to be both a new experience and an oddly familiar specter from the past. There were no burning schoolhouses, the panicked shouts of Spanish were instead lazy chatter in Portuguese, but still the memories were drawn to the surface.

Let's get a drink.

being business-oriented individuals, and having packed accordingly, Rudiger and Archie were loosed upon the city as free men, unburdened by real-world obligations or luggage. They beat a path for the cafe across the street, hoping to find at least a moderately pleasant place to hide from the daylight while they waited for the rest of their party to catch up with them.

I'm having a caipirinha. What do you want?

"Club soda." Came Archie's response.

You're a goddamned animal, man.

"Alcohol will only impair my ability. I have to stay sharp."

Rudiger thought this odd coming from a man who had lapsed into a mild coma somewhere over the Caribbean. But he kept this to himself, ordered, and reclined against the patio railing as he watched Crawford sashay across the busy avenue, trailed closely by the young Brazilian boy he had paid to lug his trunk around town for the afternoon.

Where's the Boss?

I remember reading this when it came on to the streets, very good story and I look forward to seeing more. I don't role play but I wanted to give credit where it is due.

Bravo Rudiger!