I'M THE MOST TATTOOED SON OF A BITCH, 2ND CLASS, IN THE FUCKING CANYON...
Bellyache (for Weird Harold)
In the American desert were a load of trash airplanes waiting to be scrapped.
On a muggy night under a million stars something strange occurred.
One of the first pre-production F-15 Eagle fighters was at rest, quietly asleep.
Resting on flat tyres, with faded paint and creaking spars, it was a derelict.
No longer high tech, a threat to an enemy or even museum quality, this Eagle was junk.
Hot desert sun expanded the alloy and cold nights shrunk it, birds shat on it.
No one wanted it, not even the scrap men; it lied here forlorn and aging badly.
Then it happened.
An over flight by a flying disc.
Not one from nearby Area 51.
No.
From Red China.
Did the Chinks want the Eagle’s secrets for a new rip off fighter jet?
Then they could build an F-15 without licence and make a hundred.
No!
They already had Russian Flankers and rip off versions of that, hundreds in total.
Not to mention their two stealth fighters.
So why a Red China secret flying saucer over a derelict early version Eagle fighter?
An eccentric businessman from Shanghai saw a photo in an old aircraft magazine.
He came up with a brilliant idea: steal it!
Like the Yanks did with Firefox, sending in Clint Eastwood.
Sadly the businessman was no Eastwood nor was any Red Chinese pilot.
But money talked and deals were done, all illegal.
So the shiny disc hung motionless over the Eagle.
Sitting inside on one of the panda leather seats was the businessman.
He could hardly hide his joy!
After all, the Chinks hid their feelings.
Nodding, he gave the order.
Steal the F-15A Eagle from its desert bone yard!
Doors opened up under the flying saucer and a green tractor beam zapped on.
The Chinese couldn’t see the green beam, being colour blind after a previous accident.
Agonisingly slowly the Eagle was lifted aboard the craft.
For a second it hung in the air.
A drunken old cross dresser called Weird Harold was a witness.
In disbelief he gawped at his moonshine bottle.
By all that is unholy! he thought.
When he looked back, both Eagle and saucer had vanished.
Harold fell into a drunken stupor.
He awoke sixteen hours later.
A call to the sleepy aircraft bone yard guard ended in laughter.
It wasn’t Harold laughing.
There was an empty gap where the jet had been.
Only Weird Harold knew this; no one listened to him.
Gone were his days fixing deniable Soviet Migs in the desert.
Even then he wore a summer dress and army boots; nothing more.
He cracked a new bottle of ‘shine and waited.
Soon silky desert darkness descended.
A shape blacker than the night between the stars suddenly glided into view.
The Red China disc was back!
Harold whooped with joy and downed half a bottle of moonshine.
The green beam popped on and the missing Eagle was lowered carefully to the ground.
It was over in seconds.
The drunken airplane enthusiast fell asleep.
Hours later he hobbled over to the Eagle.
You’re back my beauty, he whispered to himself.
Then it dawned on him.
Damn plane is facing the wrong way!
Bloody authorities will blame me, grumbled Harold.
In a huff he smoothed his pink summer dress out.
Back in Red China the businessman had his own version of a derelict American F-15A.
Complete with flat tyres and bird crap.
His new laser copying machine worked a treat, paid for by bootleg DVDs.
