Panache and the Great Hunt for the Acryli-Beast

[Panache]

Panache and the Great Hunt for the Acryli-Beast

A Victorian Tale of Horror told in Chapters

Chapter 11

We were favored with clear skies and fair winds that swiftly sped the Saltire to the Canadian border. The crew was performing admirably. Their airborne rendition of Schubert’s Trout Quintet over Montpelier was a thing of transcendent beauty.
Soon we saw the great city Montreal’ on the horizon. As we neared this city I decided to make a quick tour of the airship and congratulate the crew for their most excellent work. I made my way from station to station offering handshakes and pats on the back to the musicians who made up our crew. Eventually, I came across David amidships at the bombardier controls. The elegant Englishman was staring intently into the bombsights and seemed to be making some calculations. He murmured softly to himself “ …drop set for 3000 kilometers with prevailing winds to the North at twenty kilometers an hour. No need to set the timer, impact detonation will do just fine…” Somewhat alarmed I asked, “David what in blazes are you doing?”

Without looking up he said evilly “well with any luck, causing an international incident”.

Fortunately the bomb racks required a safety key to be inserted and engaged to operate. I quickly hastened to them and removed both keys. It was only after I had tucked them safely in my sporran that I returned to yell at David.

”Have you lost your mind! We aren’t here to invade Canada! This isn’t the first step in some insane scheme to conquer the world! Good Lord man! Think of the innocent people! Think of the children! Think of Colin!”

“I did think of Colin! Why do you think I was going to start bombing his country? Frankly I think you are really being rather judgemental and derogatory, not all schemes to conquer the world are “insane”. That’s just showing prejudice on your part.“

“YOU ARE NOT GOING TO BOMB CANADA! WE ARE NOT GOING TO INVADE CANADA! WE ARE NOT GOING TO CONQUER THE WORLD! PERIOD!” I shouted.

"Well what about MY needs?” David lashed back.

“What on Earth are you talking about?“ said I completely taken aback.

David said angrily, “Todd is the Helmsman. He gets to be involved in all manner of ship’s operations. You are always giving him things to do. It’s always: “Starboard Todd.“ “Port Todd.” ” Take us up Todd.” “Stop speaking German Todd!” “Down Todd.“ “Increase speed Todd.” “What did you say Todd?” “Decrease speed Todd.” “I told you I don’t understand German Todd!“ “Full power Todd“ “Stand by to land Todd” And of course “Take the bridge Todd as I have a headache again”. It’s just simply not fair. He gets to do all sorts of things!” David looked at me most indignantly and took a deep breath before continuing his tirade.

“He gets to feel like a contributing member of the crew. Todd has job satisfaction. It may be a Germanic job satisfaction, but it’s still job satisfaction. But what about me! I’m the bombardier. Where is my sense of validation? What about my need to contribute and feel like a participating member of this crew. It’s never “Open bomb bay doors David”, “David lock on target” , “David stand by to drop bombs”, or even just a friendly “David what say we go blow something up!” Todd gets to say “Ja Mein Kaptain” everyday. I have never gotten to say “Bombs away” ,not once. I find that that you are showing complete favoritism for the bridge staff and the engine crews and absolutely ignoring the potential of the bombardiers!” He glared accusingly at me.

I stood dumbfounded and unable to begin to formulate an adequate response to David‘s rant. Eventually I simply said “I’m going to hold on to the bomb rack keys. If I ever feel the great desire or need to blow something up, rest assured, you will be the very first to know”.

I spun on my heels and retreated to the relative sanity of the command gondola.

David shouted after me “I’ll report you to the Labor Board!”


Though David sulked, the rest of our journey across Canada was a relatively calm one. We glided across Canada's majestic forests with stately grace. The Saltire and her crew performed admirably during this long trip. Our ascent and crossing of the Canadian Rockies was accomplished with little effort and we all marveled at the awesome sight of the magnificent mountain range from our lofty vantage point. During this time I sought to avoid David as well as our kilted reporter Jake. The latter’s constant patter of imagining our expedition’s eminent doom had began to wear on my nerves. His insistence on continually describing various ways that I, as Captain, would personally meet my nasty and lingering end was of particular irritation. I asked him once if perhaps he could focus on some other member of the crew’s possible future misfortune. Innocently I suggested that he might direct his writing efforts on our bombardier. Jake peered over his glasses at me and I was informed that “the general public isn’t nearly as interested in the gruesome death of bombardiers as it was of airship Captains.” He then began speaking into his recording device with thoughts of me being pecked to death by rabid penguins on an ice flow. When I noted to him that penguins are native to the Antarctic not the Artic, he responded that “the general public isn’t interested in accuracy. The general public wants expedition leaders pecked to death by rabid penguins. That is what sells. Actually if you were to be set on fire before being pecked to death…” At this point I left him to his musings.


We did need to stop for a day in Winnipeg for supplies as we had a crucial shortage of A strings among the Cellists and two members of the trumpet section had developed valve problems. During shore leave David was able to kick a few kittens and puppies which put him in a much better humor. Soon we were again aloft and in a matter of days we were soaring above British Columbia. We sailed gracefully over the golden statue Captain George Vancouver atop the Parliament Buildings and from our high vantage point took in the beauty of Victoria. It was impossible to land the zeppelin in the quaint neighborhood where the ancient kilt maker known as “The Wizard of British Columbia” had set up his shop. Todd rejected my suggestion that we moor the zeppelin to the spire of the church across the street with a simple utterance "Balloon, Pin, POP!". After a small amount of searching Todd chose the athletic field of a nearby High School just southwest of the neighborhood to land.

Mr. Splash, Mr. BEEDEE, and Mr. Mender insisted that they accompany David, Todd, and myself in our Landing Party.

“We have heard that this Wizard is old,” Mr. Splash had said.

“Crotchety,” said Mr. BEEDEE.

“Mean” said Mr. Mender.

“Senile” added Mr. Splash.

“Cantankerous” continued Mr. BEEDEE

“Irritable” offered Mr. Mender

“and an engineer!” finished Mr. Splash.


Our security detail looked at we three Moderators with great concern. I nodded my head, “You’d better come with us. Engineers can be difficult folk to deal with.” With this we set forth on foot and headed to meet with the notorious Wizard of B.C.



To Be Continued…