Chapter 11: Ferengson – on the plane to Peru – same day
Sven Ferengson reclined in his first-class seat; tipped his pre-flight glass of Champagne into his mouth; let the bubbles tickle what they could; and then stole a glance at a flight attendant's backside.
"Excuse me, stewardess," called out Sven, to a different one. She was closest to him.
Slowly turning to him, and before seeing him, she responded, "Yes, sir? What can I do for you?"
"Ah, thank you stewardess, only, my drink is dry," began Sven. As she turned to him, he saw she was short and stout; he explained, "I wonder if I could trouble you for a refill."
Smiling cordially, she responded, "Yes, sir; coming right up, sir."
When she turned to fetch the bottle from the ice bucket, which sat ahead in the spacious aisle, Sven scrutinized her form. He concluded she was the matronly type, thus, certainly not his. Her nametag read 'Cindy' but in his mind, Sven substituted 'Frumpy' for it.
Cindy returned, filled his glass, and cheerfully said, "There you are, sir!"
"Thank you," replied Sven, with a forced smile.
Then Cindy offered him advice and because she whispered it, Sven had to assume she clearly meant to be helpful. Cindy explained, "Only, people refer to us as 'flight attendants' nowadays, sir!"
"Ah yes," began Sven. Then, ingenuously, he continued, "Of course they do – it has been a long time since my last flight. Forgive me."
With satisfaction, Cindy replied, "No problem, sir."
By the time she had fully turned round to leave again, Sven had decided that Cindy had not deserved to be so smug. Suddenly, Sven's sarcasm popped up for a visit. It inwardly remarked, 'Big problem dear – you've a butt so big, it fills the aisle and spills into my seat!'
Sven smiled at his quick-witted thought, but then quickly altered his demeanour from insincere to lascivious once he had returned his glance to the rear end of the first 'flight attendant'. Her derriere was rare: he compared it to Miss Levinski's from a few days back. This one's ass is nicer than hers was – firmer and more compact!
The standard dong sound accompanied by a flashing red light went off alerting passengers that the plane would soon start moving. As always, Sven quickly grew nervous. His pre-flight tension was mounting. Despite being a passenger aboard over 200 intercontinental flights in his career; nevertheless, Sven was still afraid of flying.
If Sven were a passenger in a car with a suddenly sick driver, then Sven could easily replace the driver – he might even stand a chance doing the same in a boat or a train – but not in a plane. Planes had multiple height, speed, and directional, indicators – not to mention cabin pressure. Cars had gas, brakes and steering wheels – much easier.
Planes were complicated enough to have backup drivers – co-pilots – but Sven reasoned that only when he flew, and if the pilot became ill from tainted food, then so too would the co-pilot. It was all perfectly logical to Sven.
Nor would Sven accept believing that pilots shared differing sleep schedules as a safeguard. Sven knew that most flights were only a few hours – Sven imagined that both would be sound asleep at the controls if one were.
Sven sipped his drink and wondered if the pilots were currently following his suit. Yes, they were probably getting drunk up in the cockpit right now! Later, with everyone up there contentedly asleep in the cockpit, the plane would crash into a mountain, and Sven would be none the wiser for the last few seconds of his life.
Sven needed a distraction. He finished his drink for one, stole another delectable backside glance for two, and ordered another drink from Frumpy, for three. Seeing the refilled cup in her hand as she returned calmed him. Then he accidentally refocused on her appearance and his anxiety returned.
She was a 4-foot, 11-inch, walking rectangle, who had just corrected him by explaining she was a 'flight attendant'. Under his breath in a questioning tone, Sven muttered, "Flight attendant – You're a mobile refrigerator with orthopaedic loafers on your feet." Sven downed a large gulp of champagne as if to wash the image away.
Suddenly, the flight attendant with the delectable backside turned to face his stare and to Sven's surprise, she was black. Where he currently ventured, the women would be similar. Sven had been with brown-skinned women before, but not with a woman of such darkness. The women he had the last time he was in Peru were coloured café latte.
A minute passed, and then the departure warning sounded, alerting passengers. Sven raised his seat into the upright position and fastened his seatbelt. In doing so, he noticed a Christmas decoration pinned to a traveller's seat in front of him. He noticed a child in the seat, and thought back to lonely Christmases in Sweden without his mother.
Sven shook his head slowly and thanked fortune that he was a happily childless single male. In addition, he had just started a third round of expensive Champagne while sitting in lavish first class on an expense paid intercontinental flight.
Since he felt suitably calmed by what he had consumed so far, Sven prepared himself to savour the remainder of his third drink, slowly. After all, these French bubbles would cost anyone $15 per glass at the retail price. As he finished a small sip, he paused to examine the tiny bubbles. After having computed that each of hundreds of these minute bubbles must be worth 15 cents apiece, Frumpy interrupted his pleasure.
She declared, "All trays must be folded up and securely fastened for take off, sir!"
Sven had lost track of time, and weakly protested, "Certainly, however, I could easily just hold on to the drink afterwards."
With the same sort of smug smile as before, Cindy stated, "The rule is for your own protection, sir!"
Sure that she was taking perverse joy in spoiling his pleasure, Sven gruffly responded, "Fine – I'll just finish it then!"
Without breaking her grin, Cindy added, "Please do, sir."
Sven took a decidedly dignified and delicate sip of his Champagne – a normally appropriate sort. Then he noticed that Cindy was still standing in front of him, only now she had her hand positioned as if awaiting tediously, an Olympic sprinter's baton pass. Reasoning that he could not win with his delaying tactic, Sven unceremoniously gulped the remainder of his drink down as if it were an undesired medicine.
Sven's anxiety altimeter climbed acutely when he felt the rush of the plane starting to roll. In an attempt to distract himself from his nausea, Sven reviewed the short paper report that General Wessel sent him a few days earlier. He would immerse himself in work until this giant craft levelled out in the sky.
He tried to read, but quickly felt the effects of his gulped Champagne beginning to tire him. Sven placed the paperwork into his briefcase and resolved to have a sleep. A few moments passed and then he felt the plane lift off, and so he drifted off, forming an image of the delectably shaped black woman as he went.
Suddenly, Sven heard a female voice whisper, "Excuse me, Dr. Ferengson."
In his alcohol-induced daze, he opened his eyes and saw a hazy looking nametag two inches from his face. Attached to the nametag was a busty, stunning brunette, holding a bottle of Veuve Cliqout Champagne. Am I dreaming?
"My name's Montana," purred the woman.
Still dozy, Sven questioned, "Mount Anna?" sure he was dreaming, Sven suddenly became as frisky as Bond, and added, "Certainly, my pleasure; and I don't believe I'll ask the Queen for permission!"
She replied, "I'm sorry, sir – you seem confused. Sorry for waking you, but I have a message for you."
Sven watched as she lowered his table; placed yet another glass of wine on it; and then, produced a sheet of folded paper from within her blouse, which she handed to him.
He was certain she had produced it from her cleavage area: his head began to clear immediately. Sven decided she must want him physically, and as soon as possible! He wondered if there was a washroom free for him to woo her. It would be uncomfortable to be sure, but he would try his best. He dared to comment, "I might have the time, but I expect this plane has no place!"
&nb
sp; With a wink, Montana replied, "Ah ha, the General warned me of your charms, doctor!"
Hearing Wessel's title caused both Sven's fantasy and enthusiasm to flee in a heartbeat. Disjointedly, he asked, "The . . . General . . . sent you?"
Montana explained, "He said it was urgent, doctor. He said he requires you to review the update I just gave to you. He demanded that you contact him after you arrive at your final destination – he was most adamant!"
Subdued again, Sven nodded to Montana in acknowledgement, and then she turned to walk away. Sven decided she walked as if she was a fashion runway model, and he could not resist leering at her and trying to restart his fantasy. He stopped his fantasy reboot when he replayed her words in his head. 'The General warned me of your charms' – it was as if the General were here watching him.
Sven felt somewhat betrayed, at least by expectation, and then he worried about his privacy. Even at 35,000 feet, the General had prying eyes. Focus. The folded paper indicated that the General received data that revealed a Malevcon miner had recently discovered a thick vein of almost pure gold. This had occurred at the existing Peruvian site. As Dr. Sven Ferengson examined the technical statistics of the report, he concluded that this vein could eventually prove to be the largest ever found. This could be the gold deposit of all time!
On the other hand, the note indicated that the English bitch, Clarkson-Smythe had demanded an inspection of the mining facility in Peru for Monday, March 16th. This was equally important to find out! Ruth Clarkson-Smythe was a meddlesome spinster intent on circumcising every man's right to gain from the Earth!
Sven heard the warning alerting him that he could move about freely again, and so he unbuckled his belt and went for a short stroll. The news about the gold find made him restless. As he walked, he noticed he was unsteady on his feet. He counted them up in his head and realized he had already drunk four glasses of Champagne.
He decided to refresh himself by splashing water on his face. He entered a washroom, turned on the cold tap, cupped his hands to receive as much water as he could hold, and then threw the water vigorously onto his face.
He then relieved himself and, as he looked down at the stainless steel toilet bowl, Sven recalled that the General had referred to Nazca as a 'third world toilet'. Indeed, as Sven washed his hands, he wondered if he should limit his expectations to hoping for potable running water in that hellhole.
When he returned to his seat, flight attendant Frumpy offered him a refill, which Sven accepted. Although another drink would be excessive, Sven rationalized that it might be the last decent drink he would enjoy for three weeks. He finished the Champagne and then slept off its effects for the duration of the flight.