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CHAPTER ONE
 
ALLIED FOR LIFE
 
 
...Heathrow airport
...outside London
...sometime in the too near future
 
 
 
 
 
"Uut oof me way, yoo roody sod!"
"Nice mouth!"
"Stuuff it!"
Big girl, whole gang load of them push past everybody else -- CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK -- clad in hefty metal and rough soled biker boots.
"Hey! Watch who you're shovin!"
"Shoove yoo, yoo poof!"
"Shove you back Sally!"
Wrong move-- CLANK CLANK -- gang load jumps the sorry bloke.
"Fuuk 'im uup! Fuuk 'im uup uugly!"
They do as they're told, these girls, with studded belts and steely toe plates, while the crowd around backs way off.
"That's that Cissy Coombs, that's who that is!" Someone snipes.
And the nastiest fatassed of the bunch flashes the finger, some sort of ribbed ring sheath t'poop uup yoor ruudy buum 'ole!
(CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK)
Heathrow has been shut down. Scheduled flights have been rerouted to Gatwick. Concourses, escalators, lounges are mobbed. Kids. Millions of kids and rude and loud, and elite Brit SAS troops stationed in tight formation in front of the Terminal 4 VIP Pavilion. Throughout the day the traffic in celebrities has been phenomenal, jet loads of them -- AK47, CRAM, Parson Nevilles and Jeb Latham, Arbie Riffendorf, Tom Scum, Child Bride, Constance Flit, Luther T. Wallop, Early Stook and the Kid Squid. Later in the afternoon, Swag, Sore Losers, the Scupper Plugs fresh out of East Auckland, Ether Bib, Liz Croft, Rob Hart and the Red Hot Cherry Busters, Seattle's Orphic Gizzards -- the list goes on. Not that the kids can catch a glimpse of a one of them. There's this fleet of helicopters lifting the stars directly off the tarmac and up over the crowd toward the stadium. Still, every whine of a jet engine, every whip of a rotor blade sparks this surge of excitement, this movement. Kids gain a few feet. Red berets step back. It's a standoff, but hey, they're here, they're part of it, and no way these diehard rockers can get within striking distance of Wembley.
Besides the day's not over with, not yet. It's near midnight and Chipper Stirbee's due in direct from Melbourne. He's on last and he's late, as usual.
Enough of a delay for Cissy Coombs and her girls to make headway. The stout ones up front storm the VIP gate. They're in no mood for no, no sir, no pardon me please, no step aside otherwise, No Admittance Beyond This Point Without Proper Clearance, no skirts to hike as they hurdle the crush barriers. Girls look stylish in slick black leather zip suits, punker hairdos, Cissy's is plum purple brushed up center and shaved along the sides, and she's got flared nostrils and pierced nipples on a pair of exposed double D's, and chains rankling anyone who dares step in her way as she marches straight through the metal detector --CRANK CRANK CRANK CRANK CRANK -- gets everybody going.
Troops listen up.
Not that these biker babes have a gripe with the boys in fatigues, fact a rumble or a tumble with the likes of some broad shouldered British specials would be A-OK with them, no, it's Chipper Stirbee they're after, and if the Army's going to bar the doors, then the girls'll stomp through the plate glass shattering windows, thank you. Cissy Coombs and her sisters hop outside onto the darkened tarmac.
Troops pursue, hands on their holsters, although the damage has been done, scores of teenage travelers pour rapidly through the breach behind Cissy's gang to get a closer look.
Her timing couldn't be better. In the shadows is a Leeds Executive Supersonic gliding to a stop, a hundred feet from the charging beauties.
(CHIPPER!)
Crowd calls.
(CHIPPER!)
Rampaging kids being perfect cover for a paramilitary maneuver.
(CHIPPER! CHIPPER!)
Which could be a warning, which could be a greeting, at near hysteric decibels.
(CHIP- CHIP- CHIPPER!)
Like a shrieking mulch machine... while a compact yellow and red sea rescue craft hovers overhead, and sensing trouble groundside switches on its high intensity beam.
There's the slightest whirrrr as the cabin door of the executive jet slides open and a ramp descends. A pair of bright blue eyes peers out, curious, cautious -- and a pair of black velvet ears -- perked!!
Chipper?
A flash of the telltale platinum blond hair. A whip of a spiny black tail.
It's... the crowd grows closer, yes it is, it's...
(CHIPPER! CHIPPER!)
Cry goes shriller still! Blue eyes blink... black ears twitch... "Don't much like the looks of the welcomin pahty. How about you gihl?"
There's this audible gulp. Hers, his, who knows? They're both abruptly whisked back inside the jet, instead a detachment of QuotLink Inc Security types in uniform blue blazers with buzz cuts clamors down the ramp.
QuotLinks off the plane survey the crowded terrain. Right away they figure Cissy's not friendly, could be the needle tips, could be the mean sucker curl to her lips. Whatever. She's advancing and the elite paratrooper unit is lagging behind. Hence the best defensive posture for the private security squad is to close into a wedge formation around Chipper, who's toting his classic 56 Fenderbender in a gig bag. Two types on the edge cradle assault weapons. The rest are armed with double-handled batons. The one on point has his eyes aimed directly at Cissy. And a rigid black tail brings up the rear!
WHUPWHUPWHUPWHUP -- rescue chopper is attempting to set down in between the opposing forces.

Cissy Coombs doesn't flinch, doesn't slow her pace.

     
 
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