Chap. 29 - 'Treasure of the Sea Aura Mod Dress' Pt. 1

The History of Gin
or
A Fox's Tail


Is Life Existential?   You Decide.
by   ' Colorado '  Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...


Chapter 29

Treasure of the
Sea Aura Mod Dress

La Parte Uno

The trio came across each other in a Peet's coffee shop far (a whole block) from their usual haunt, the Starbuck's carved into the base of Trump Tower. Funny thing is, the three women were so immersed in Starbuck's culture (this week featuring the "Plus Mocha Triple Carmella-ccino-licious Grande") they barely could read the Peet's menu. . .What's an "Espresso"?. . .much less understand the clientele gibbering away in the background. It was lots like people from one country, say the United States, being in an entirely different country, say Mexico. Irregardless, the three were drawn together to the same comfy couch in this foreign spot by the natural force of cultural gravitation. It also helped that they already were acquainted.

In fact the prettiest of the three, Ginger Mullins -- whom we all know well and perhaps too well for her preference (I haven't even mentioned her latest fav. dream where she, Jon Stewart and Jim Cramer are a heaving knot of tangled arms and legs in the backseat of her BMW) -- long had dated the stupefyingly inadequate son of the oldest; Mrs. Howard, the mature (to Gin's eye. . .elderly) wife of a big time Wall St. Broker/Trader. Rounding out the band was Fredericka C. Dobbs, a former middle-school chum of Ginny's and, like all Gin's old schoolmates, seemingly decent enough but below the surface a certifiable sociopath looney with decks awash in tidal waves of paranoia.

As the compatriots sat, chatted and sipped something tasting strangely of coffee, they found each was far from home (a ten minute taxi ride at least) on the same quest. . .pursuit of treasure buried deep in the inventory of the trendiest boutique in town, the Sea Aura Mod Dress, located in the isolated hinterlands of the Upper West Side, an inhospitably arid and mountainous region of Manhattan.

The Sea Aura Mod Dress shop is owned and operated by two transplanted Southern-California-hardbody chicks who are best friends and occasional fuck-buddies. Years ago they got their start in the business working for the dress shop's original owner when it was located at Venice Beach, west of L.A. No explanation ever was given for the name -- Sea Aura Mod Dress -- other than it opened off a beach in the sixties selling the horrifying "Mod-ish" fashions of the time, like the stuff featured so chillingly in "Rosemary's Baby." Oddly, customers local to the region claimed the shop's name was vaguely familiar, but no one could put a finger on it. Anyways, the pair sorta inherited the place when the owner, a longtime devotee of the Maharishi, suddenly walked away (some say floated) from the shop into the ocean without looking back. Ultimately tiring of Southern Californian lawlessness, the two relocated their shop to Manhattan's West Side, where they found essentially the same lawlessness. . .plus SNOW.

But the place is a raving success among the Cultural Elite (that is. . .the rich) of the Upper East Side. The females of that social stratum count coup more voraciously than American-Indian warriors, and the ultimate coup is to find treasure in the Sea Aura Mod Dress; to find couture gold marked down to a rock-bottom low, low price. Multitudes of Junior League types and their ilk listen to the stories of treasure awaiting discovery in the Sea Aura Mod Dress. Some brave the wilds of that corner of town to find it. Most return dripping disappointment like sweat. A few never return -- maddened, they turn up in The Village or, worse, New Rochelle.

Rehashing all this and knowing the challenge, the three women at the coffee bar threw in together, promising to share both tribulation and reward as equal partners. The fact they wore the same sizes helped cement the deal; what fit one would fit all when the loot was divvied.

So they loaded up on essential supplies (three Biscotti each, with Dobbs financing this grubstake) and hit the dusty trail -- actually it was more smoggy than dusty -- in search of fashion fortune. It is written that the journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. . .only this was Manhattan, so they were only going a few dozen blocks and they took the subway train (as Rich Manhattan Foxes are wont to do when slumming). The subway ride was pretty uneventful -- that is. . .as strange as it may seem. . . except for the Bandits attacking the train. At such times Ginger always wished her fav. gun, a smooth-triggered Smith&Wesson stainless-steel Model 686 .357 Magnum revolver with 6-inch barrel (picture what Dirty Harry packed only a teeny bit smaller) was compact enough to carry but, in the event, she managed to pop a couple Bandit dudes at close range with the tiny .22 magnum derringer thingy she keeps up her knickers. In fact all three ladies bagged one or two, and the Bandits were driven off. At the end of the line, which in Manhattanese is called a "Subway Station", the partners left the train and hoofed it for the Sea Aura Mod Dress.

Dobbs, who was particularly whiny (and had been since the first grade), kept saying they should have gotten donkeys for this leg of the trip but no one paid her any heed because she didn't make any sense -- it's not like they were prospectors trudging through jungle and desert bound for a mountainous goldfield. Even Ginny, who was wearing rather too much heel for so much walking, eventually got a little pissy (an extreme rarity). But Howard's resolve and wile got the party to it's destination, just like Walter Huston (director John Huston's pop) did in a movie I saw once.

In the Sea Aura Mod Dress the old-timer, Howard, found the first nugget; her long life experience again besting her young companions. You see she knew of the old trick where store clerks secret the best deals behind restroom toilet tanks, kinda like that time in 'The Godfather', for later retrieval to either buy for themselves or offer to favored customers. When the trio walked into the boutique, Howard beelined for the powder room. As she excused herself, Ginny smiled and told her to hurry back. Dobbs only radiated suspicion.

Just like Micheal Corleone, Howard found what she sought behind the toilet; a darling Prada crocodile-skin clutch bag, pink with adjustable shoulder strap marked down from $8,889 to $2,499 ...it even had Gold-tone metal hardware. Howard returned to her companions, not to shoot them both dead at a table (this isn't that movie), but to share news of her find... (see Part 2)

To Be Continued

Chap. 28 - 'Ginny's Rodeo Song'

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

The History of Gin
or
A Fox's Tail©


Is Life Existential?   You Decide.
by   ' Colorado '  Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...


Chapter 28

Ginny's Rodeo Song

(to a Western beat)

I went to the Rodeo when it come to town.
Know what I seen there. . .know what I found?
With all of that action swirling around...
Right in the middle, a Rodeo Clown.

Ragged attire and a painted-on frown,
Beaten-up derby set low on his crown.
Hopping about in a dirty nightgown;
Horse-laugher heralds - the Rodeo Clown.

I seen lotsa cowboys throwed to the ground,
While hoof, horn and muscle all flew around.
With an iron nerve and bravery profound;
Always salvation - from a Rodeo Clown

I'm from a big city where wonders astound,
Where bankers and doctors and lawyers abound,
Where money is common as dirt from the ground.
But I'ld trade it all in for that Rodeo Clown.

So I flashed him a smile n' he circled around,
Then I batted my eyes and he was in-bound.
We got along swell and now I propound -
That the best place for love is a Rodeo Clown.

Life goes in a rush, sure to confound,
When home is a place where people surround;
Here on Manhattan, up high from the ground,
Where I give all my love to a Rodeo Clown.

He's smart as a coot. . .lean as a greyhound,
And I am delighted with what I have found.
I hitched up my wagon to the best stud around,
Cuz I planted my brand on a Rodeo Clown.

Yep, I done put my brand on that Rodeo Clown.

To Be Continued

Chap. 27 - 'A Hello to Arms'

Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink

PRESENTS :

The History of Gin
or
A Fox's Tail©


Is Life Existential?   You Decide.
by   ' Colorado '  Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...


Chapter 27

A Hello to Arms

Ginny was tickled pink (a fav. color) on discovering she was flying one of those cute P-38 fighters. Although she'd never done it before, Ginger had no problem piloting the plane. . .She'd learned how to fly ages ago from the Microsoft Flight Simulator, Combat Edition, computer program (which her father co-invented) and was an Ace of Aces with 1,300 hours combat flight time and oodles of kills. So the real thing came to her naturally.

She glanced over at her wingman (also a woman) and saw her particular close friend. . .you know, the blond one. . .grinning like a 'possum in another P-38. I guess flying a fast and deadly war bird. . .like driving a BMW M3 or Mazda Protege. . .can really be a kick.

Anyways, Ginger was delighted to be popping her pilot cherry with this super cool plane, the Lockheed P-38 Lightning, variant G -- You know the one. . .that two-engine, long-range fighter-bomber with the distinctive "twin boom" fuselage bridged in the rear by the tail and having a bobsled-like cockpit slung forward on the wing between the engines. Aside from jets and a couple other things those damned scheming Nazis cobbled together for special missions, it was the most distinctive airplane of World War II. It was neato alright -- tricycle undercarriage, 1,400 hp turbo-supercharged 12-cylinder Allison engines, counter-rotating propellers. . .and a darn good radio. But the best part for Gin was the armament packed into her plane's nose; two Browning .50 caliber machine guns with 200 rounds each and two .30 caliber Brownings with 500 rounds each. The 37 mm "Oldsmobile" cannon with 15 rounds Ginny could take or leave. . .Oldsmobile could barely make a car, much less a cannon.

Actually, clustering all the armament in the nose rather than the wings (where the projectile trajectories had to be set to criss-cross at several points ahead of the plane in a "convergence zone") meant P-38 Lightning pilots must aim more precisely. But then the useful ranges of these nose-mounted guns weren't limited by pattern convergence, meaning good pilots like Gin could shoot much farther. A P-38 could hit targets reliably at any range up to 1,000 yards, whereas other fighters had a convergence range between 100 and 250 yards. The Lightening's clustered weapons had a "buzz-saw" effect on the receiving end. . .which means that any dirty totalitarian henchmen crossing Ginny's path would end their days in a flaming smear of metal, plexiglas and petrol arcing across the clouds. The very idea gave her goose-pimples. . .a surprisingly pleasant sensation she enjoys, as do I.

Only thing was the cockpit was very hot and Ginny realized she was wearing the typical P-38 pilot's summer flight suit. . .just tennis shoes, skivvy shorts and a parachute -- she seriously considered shucking the sweaty shorts but didn't (her wingman, who was a woman, already was flying barefoot and bare-assed).

While Ginger was quite at home in her aircraft, she wasn't quite as at home with where it was because where it was was a complete mystery. Noting the extreme heat and several seemingly jungle-encased islands on an expansive ocean below, Ginny was a smidge disappointed to realize she wasn't in the European Theater of Operations. Given her druthers, she'd prefer to deliver Goring's fly-boys, flambé, to their own private corner of Hell. In fact, she'd resolved to personally ensure the Krauts were taught their lesson good this time and returned permanently to making cuckoo clocks and Hummels. She believed if they were smart, the Hun (to use the catchy British nickname) would scrap these dopey wars and instead establish a European Hegemony peacefully under cover of a confederation, or union, laced together by shared economic policy and regulation. . .kind of like a big bazaar, or market, on a village green, or common. But that could never happen, especially given the Germans' pathological inability to pick good allies, say the UK and US, over goofy ones, like the Austro-Hungarians and Italians.

Regardless, given the topography and the fact the P-38 was used most extensively and successfully in the Pacific, Ginger quickly figured she'd be facing a different enemy of democracy entirely. And speaking of the Japanese Empire, what was this thing they had always starting wars with sneak attacks. Gin thought they should do it the shrewd way, like America, by either stumbling into an ever expanding quagmire or being pulled into it to save the goofy Limey's chestnuts. But out here, high in the sky where the rubber meets the road, such geopolitical concerns were not her hunt. . .All Ginger needed to do was help the enemy dudes die gloriously for their country.

Returning to the tableau before her, Ginny concentrated on getting her bearings and, thanks to many happy hours pouring over Google Earth, quickly recognized the Solomon Islands, with Bougainville peeking from the horizon. And when she saw the flight of Japanese airplanes, including two Mitsubishi G4M "Betty" bombers, a ways below in the distance she knew exactly what to do.

Scrupulously maintaining radio silence, Ginger caught her wingman's attention and told her, via hand signals, that for some seemingly unfathomable reason (though totally explainable by Chaos Theory) they found themselves not chatting in a Manhattan Absinthe bar, but in one of the cleverer missions of World War II. . .the ambush of Admiral Yamamoto, architect of Pearl Harbor, during his morale building front-line inspection tour of Japanese bases in the Solomons after Japan's Guadalcanal big-time butt-kicking. Some savvy American code-breakers learned his itinerary and sixteen P-38's sortied from that newly-won toehold in the Pacific on a 435-and-a-half mile race to catch and dispatch him. Continuing to sign her message, Gin told her friend she didn't know why nor how they were there, nor where the other P-38's -- which had flown at wave-top to avoid detection -- were; but it was April 18, 1943, the admiral was in one of the two Mitsubishi G4M's now arriving at Bougainville Island and they needed to get him. . .on the personal side, Gin added that her wingman's hair looked awesome fixed that way (kind of a wind-blown, wet look) and asked to borrow her Manolo alligator mid-heel halter-backs later. Her friend, smiling wide, flashed an enthusiastic "thumbs-up".

With that -- and seeing something had distracted the screening Zero's -- Ginny dropped wing tanks and barrel-rolled the plane in a screaming dive to the ocean. Pulling up level with a yard of air to spare, her P-38 skimmed the waves like a sharp stone thrown at Yamamoto. ...Her wingman flowed with every move, like a shadow.

At precisely the perfect moment Ginny angled up at the soft belly of a "Betty", unleashed her trigger finger and, from wingtip to wingtip, raked the fat prey to tatters with long streams of hot leaden slugs. Her wingman did exactly the same to the other plane.

Both Japanese planes already were coughing smoke and dropping from the sky when Ginger noticed more P-38's beginning their attack. . .one "Betty" crashed in the jungle; the other hit the water. Rocking her wings in victory, Ginny arced back up to altitude where she and her wingman disappeared into a cloud with none the wiser that they'd even been there. An immediate controversy brewed, and simmered for decades, among some of the P-38 pilots as to who had shot Yamamoto from the sky.


Ginny hoped the next time she turned up in World War II, it was in a P-51D Mustang.

To Be Continued