it was a scene right out of the movie, ‘dr strangelove’. instead of slim pickens riding the a-bomb down onto some ruskie missile silos or moscow or some damn place or another, it was keith richards wearing a ten gallon hat and landing the C-130 with a hooter in his mouth. the largest blunt he’d seen this side of bob marley. he was sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. his knuckles white from hanging onto the arm rests. the C-130 seemed to clip every palm tree in it’s path as it lined up on the dirt run-way in the jungle.
keith just puffed and grinned as almost inaudible guttural sounds came from deep within his slim chest. he was back in mexico. keith richards was flying the plane, while he was smoking a joint. a huge joint. nothing odd there but KEITH RICHARDS was flying the plane or more to the point trying to land it! holy, shit! were the only words that came to mind.
the palm trees thinned out some and keith was able to bring the plane in lower as the run-way loomed. he powered back and dropped the flaps. the heavy C-130 groaned and yawed a bit to the left. keith corrected for it and dropped even lower as a huge smile grew on his face.
‘eye reelly luv this pawt, mate’. the big plane dropped like a stone the last 10 or 20 feet. it hit the dirt run-way and bounced back up 6 or 7 feet. keith shoved the controls to the dash and throttled back even further. the plane hit the run-way very hard but stayed on the ground this time. laughing like a madman, keith slammed on the brakes. the C-130 fishtailed to the right and almost made a 180 degree turning slide on the small landing strip. as the nightmare unfolded, the man screamed but no sound came out of his mouth.
the plane kept on skidding in the dirt, a huge rooster tail of red clay trailed behind them. finally, the right landing gear broke in half and the plane came to a rocking stop.
‘yeeee fookin’ haw!!!’, screamed the rolling stone, as his eyes rolled up into his head and he passed out.
‘hey! what the fuck? come on man, wake up!’ the man shook his pilot but keith was out cold.
shaken, the man undid his seat belt and made his way to the back of the plane. as he was about to enter the C-130’s belly he realized there was a pistol and ammo belt on the back of keith’s pilot seat. he turned to grab it. the holster and belt were in the old cowboy style. the gun was a .357 mag and loaded with full metal jacket rounds. the cartridges on the belt were of the same type with a few wad cutters thrown in for good measure. the belt was a bit small for him but he got it around his waist and secured.
well, crap. here i am, armed and dangerous, on a plane with a broken landing gear loaded with cambodian red. along with keith richards passed out in the pilot’s seat, in the middle of a mexican jungle. the phrase, bringing coals to newcastle came to mind for some reason. he shook off the feeling of impending doom as he made his way through the plane. crate after crate of cambode red were still securely attached to the C-130’s walls. and he was the only other person on the plane. keith richards of the rolling stones, tons of the finest smoke on the planet, and him. all seemingly alone in the mexican jungle.
another fine mess crossed his mind as he tried to make sense of it all. what was going on here? he found the lever to lower the back ramp, pushed it and the ramp slowly descended. not taking any chances he pulled the .357 from the holster and crouched beside one of the crates. the ramp made a soft thud as it hit the red dirt and it sent a small cloud of fine red dust up into the hot air.
he didn’t move. the only sound he heard were his ears finally popping and the local bird population. he waited until his knees started to ache then he stood up to shake out the pain. there hadn’t been any movement or sound other than the birds. they were alone in the jungle. and he was too old to be doing this. again.
he woke up in the bright sun sitting in a chair. he wasn’t sure where he was but he wasn’t in a jungle or in mexico. he was, however, in the courtyard of a spanish style house. then he saw it. he knew he wasn’t in mexico because he could read the large sign with it’s large white letters that read, hollywood. no mistake about it. the sign was off in the distance shimmering in the sun. he knew he was in los angeles. he heard her before he saw her. a click clack of high heels on the mexican pavers. the angel was walking toward him carrying a tray of food and drink.
look to the ether for the even parts of the story.