And a little later in Seattle...

[The Boss]

WHANG!

The Boss leaps out of her chair, knocking a cup of so-called coffee substitute to the floor as the sound of something smacking into the hangar reverberates through the building.

"What the hell...?"

She looks around. The loss of her drink fails to distress her in the least. It was cold anyway. Fortunately, adrenalin is a good substitute for caffeine, whereas that stuff was decidedly not.

Her eyes are drawn to a new and very large dent right in the center of the hangar door. Whatever it was, that's where it hit. She pulls her cap down and marches outside to see who has done what to her hangar. She pushes open the people-door next to the big hangar door and confronts...

Nothing.

She looks again. There is no one there, and nothing nearby that would account for the dent and sound. Not even a jet taxiing out that might have caused a misplaced end-wrench to fly up and smack the door. She pushes back her cap and scratches her head in puzzlement, then looks up at where the dent should be.

Oh yeah. That's a dent, all right. She hopes it won't interfere with the opening of the door, in fact. But what on earth could have...

Luke. It has to be something to do with Luke. Last she knew, he was frozen solid in the middle of Valdez, but knowing him he's managed to thaw and get into more mischief. Curse him...

Then, in the increasing light of dawn, her eyes spy something wedged in the dent itself. Whatever it is, it's still there. Good. She can get it and put it on the tip of the IDOD when she catches Luke.

She goes and comes back with a "borrowed" cherry picker. Minutes later, she's prying the object out of the hangar door with her LeatherHombre (Deluxe "Boss" Edition, of course).

She lowers the cherry-picker arm to the ground and studies the small brown tin in her hand. It has Cyrillic lettering all over it, but she can't make heads or tales of it. Shaking her head, she pockets the tin and returns the cherry-picker to its usual spot, only a little worse for the hotwiring.

Back in the Hangar, she still can't for the life of her figure out a connection between Luke and the Cyrillic gibberish on the tin. Not that that has ever stopped him before, of course. She shakes her head again and decides to take her chances opening the tin. But first she grabs a welding helmet off of the wall and puts on a pair of welding gloves. No sense in being totally stupid about this.

Thus attired, she carefully pries open the tin.

It is dark.

Moments later, the smell hits her.

Oooohhhh....

She pulls off the helmet to reveal a decidedly sanginary smile that immediately puts one in mind of Kitty. The Boss knows now what this is, and has a pretty good idea of where it came from. The dent is forgiven, and Luke is off the hook.

Minutes later, the deliciously potent scent of freshly-brewed East Elbonian coffee wafts through the hangar.

[The Boss]

The Boss sips at her steaming cup of good East Elbonian coffee. Ahhh... much better. How the Elbonians managed to come up with what is probably the most potent coffee in the world is beyond her... she wonders if they grow the coffee in mud or if they import the beans for roasting. She wonders then if she should really be wondering about this at all, since, knowing the Elbonians, there is a high probability that she would not really want to know the answer if she had it. She decides she'll just enjoy her first cup of coffee in days and quit wondering about it.

She picks up a PIREP from Darby and begins to kick back in her chair to read. Unfortunately, this is a very tricky chair that is only slightly broken but still a perfectly good chair if you're careful, and if you know the trick to kicking back in it. She leans backwards, feeling for the notch...

RRRRRRIIIIING!!!!

The overly loud bell on the phone startles her, causing her to jump slightly, miss the notch in the chair that will allow for a safe angle of recline so the seat pitches abruptly backwards and she is obliged to pitch herself forward to keep from cracking her skull on the concrete floor.

Argument for The Boss saving her cup of coffee from being spilled all over the floor. Argument starts as Very Weak. I mean, come on -- pitch over backwards in a broken chair and not spill the coffee? What are the odds? However, this IS The Boss we're talking about, so on the basis of her reputation for achieving the impossible, we'll raise the argument to Weak. Roll the die... 5! YES! The Boss is SO good...

Cursing as she takes her coffee cup in her other hand, she wipes her usual coffee-holding hand (now splashed with coffee) on her jeans. Who the grumblemuck...

"PGA Hangar!"

...

"Who wants to know?"

...

The Boss's angry countenance suddenly slides off her face and down the floor drain. She immediately tries on a surprised look, but quickly replaces it with a wary aspect.

"Right. And how can I help you, Mr. Colt?"

The response sends the wary aspect packing as a broad grin spreads across her face.

"Of course! Not a problem at all, I have just the pilot for the job. The pickup will be when, exactly?"

...

"Great. Perfect. I'll set it up right away. A pleasure doing business with you. Thanks for calling PGA."

<click>

The Boss's grin continues unabated as she takes another sip of her coffee, then sets the cup on the desk. She starts to chuckle. Then the chuckle turns into a full blown laugh. Suddenly, she leaps in the air, yelling, "WHOOO HOOO!" while tossing her cap up and clicking her heels (fortunately, she's not wearing ruby slippers). She dances around the deserted hangar for a few minutes, punctuating her celebration with the occasional "YES!", "It WORKED!", and "We DID IT!"

Finally, she settles down and retrieves her coffee from the desk. Okay. Deep breath. Sip. Right. Gotta get things moving, as this next bit is just as tricky. First thing's first. She picks up the phone and dials the number for Tacoma Narrows.

[The Boss]

The Boss hangs up the phone and grins. Everything has been set in motion. Her plan is coming to fruition.

She sits down and kicks back in the chair -- successfully this time -- and sips the deep black fragrant liquid, thinking she might just take the Waco over to meet him...

[The Fuzz]

Meanwhile, near a not so much seedier part of the ramp... there is a car in the shadows... red and blue lights can be seen on the roof... It's occupants, although slow in intellect, have the uncanny ability to smell coffee and doughnuts from just over 5.8 miles. This is not a detriment to these particular guys job, as they have drawn the "Brew Beat" chasing crooked contraband coffee concealers and persecuting them publically before the mahem of a caffeine starved seattle populace.

J: You smell something?

Other cop named J: Just your feet and your seat.

J:no, I mean really...

Other J: Oooh, Jelly filled?

J: I'd bet on raspberry, but more importantly the stench from some brew pot is overpowering your socks...

Other J: Really? I didn't figure that was ever going to.... Unless... You think?

J: Yup, could only be pure grade. Fresh import?

Other J: Maybe, but why didn't the customs dogs?

J: They are low-riders... Maybe air delivery.

Other J: Those aireoplane thingies?

J: Could be... Let's check out that suspicious hangar over there with the two wingy thing out front and a light on... No one could be awake at this hour without Vitamin Coffee...

Other J: What about coke?

J: No-one drinks cola anymore, this is Seattle for God's sake. lets check it out.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK... THUMP_WHUMP_THUMP_WHUMP....

OPEN UP... IT'S THE COPS!

[The Boss]

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK... THUMP_WHUMP_THUMP_WHUMP....

"OPEN UP... IT'S THE COPS!"

This time The Boss doesn't merely lurch forward -- she in fact lurches forward and spews coffee out of her nose. Very uncomfortable. But personal discomfort is not the priority subject in her mind at the moment.

Thinking fast, she drains her cup in one gulp, then grabs up the small can of East Elbonian brew. Where to hide it... This stuff is potent... it needs to be hidden with something that'll cover the scent...

She considers some of the pilots' lockers along the back wall -- judging by the stench over there, there're plenty of dirty socks to cover the coffee... No, that's too obvious....

Dammit, where?

THUMP WHUMP THUMP!

"OPEN UP! Hey J, where do we shoot to take out the lock?"

Running out of time...

A shot is fired and a small hole appears in the middle of the door, well away from the latch. The bullet ricochets off the concrete floor, but doesn't get far. She makes a note to ensure all of the hangar doors are that sturdy.

"Um, JUST A SECOND! I'LL BE RIGHT THERE!" Crud. She still needs to stash this can.

Ahhhh... a barrel of waste oil. Perfect, and it can only improve the flavor. She tosses the can into the nearly full 50-gallon drum, where it sinks to the depths with a single "bloop!"

A second shot makes another hole, this time in the wall of the hangar. She's pretty sure it's not a good idea to go anywhere near the door, at this rate.

"HEY! HOLD UP! I'LL OPEN THE DOOR!"

About this time, Seattle's Best figures out the door wasn't locked to begin with and burst through the doorway, guns in hand. The Boss reflexively reaches for her own weapon, but fortunately she catches herself in time and faces them with her hands up.

"FREEZE! POLICE!" J and J are flush with excitement, sniffing the air.

"Uh, hi guys. How can I help you?"

"Where's the coffee?"

"Sorry, guys. No coffee just now. I've got some WYSIWYG over on the counter if you're..."

"We know there's coffee here. What are you doing awake at this hour if you don't have coffee?"

"Actually, I was asleep before you guys came along and started shooting holes in my door."

"A likely story. J, you look over there. I'll check over on this side."

The two cops begin a more or less methodical search of the hangar based on olfactory cues. As J nears the area by the coffeepot where the desk and chair reside, The Boss suddenly realizes that there is coffee residue both in her cup (on the desk) as well as all over the desk from where it came out her nose a few minutes ago. Crap. More fast thinking required.

Suddenly, from by the pilot lockers over across the hangar, J #2 calls out. "Hey! J! I think I got something here!"

J #1 breaks off his search before reaching the desk and moves to join his partner, who is standing over a pile of 50-lb canvas bags that had been under a large black tarp in the back.

"Phew... that ain't coffee..."

"What is it?"

"Label says "Prime Grade-A Guano. What the heck in guano? Some kind of narcotic?"

"Don't think so... hmmm... Guano... rings a bell...hey, you know, I think my brother-in-law got a bunch of this stuff for his prize roses. He put some of that on them and they grew like crazy."

"Smells something awful... just the sort of place I'd look to hide coffee if I had any."

"Good point..."

Meanwhile, the Boss is watching for an opportunity to get to the desk and deal with the cup and coffee splatters... although she hasn't a clue how she's going to do that.

But wait a minute...Wait. What was that he said?

Grew like crazy.

Grew.

Grue.

There are no windows in the hangar.

It would be dark, if the lights went out.

And she has an LED flashlight in her pocket. It's red, for night flying, but it's enough to keep it from being Dark. At least, Dark in her immediate area.

She edges slowly towards the breaker box that is just a few feet to her left. Fortunately, Seattle's Best are now engaged in trying to determine if any of the bags could contain coffee, and so don't notice. A few more inches... there.

She doesn't know if the door on this box makes any noise, so she figures it'll have to be a quick open-the-door-and-hit-the-switch manoeuver. She takes her light out of her pocket and prepares. Open, hit the switches, hit the floor, turn on the flashlight.

She's trusting the Grue will go for the bigger targets. Hoping.

Okay. On the count of three... one... two...

THREE!

BANG WHACK CLICK POOF!

...


It is dark.

You are likely to be eaten by a grue.

[Grue]

The grue, who is indeed present and who normally would be glad to partake of a couple of doughnut-stuffed cops, has been sleeping through this entire event, stirs slightly as the lights go out. Mmmm.... she was dreaming of coffee... real coffee...

(Black, of course)

It's been weeks since she's had a cup of coffee. And, unfortunately for The Boss, creatures of the dark sorta need the stuff to stay awake after the lights go out.

The grue stretches and turns over, almost makes a noise as she mumbles something about coffee, and falls back into a deep slumber.

...

It is dark.

There is a sleeping grue here.

[The Boss]

The Boss thinks she sprained her wrist when she hit the floor, and as such she dropped her light. This is decidedly not good.

Over across the hangar, she can hear Tweedledee and Tweedledum fumbling around. Dang it... the grue should have swallowed them whole by now!

This thought causes her to break into a cold sweat.

She feels around frantically for her light, but it's nowhere in reach. Without a light, she's grue-bait. But if she turns the lights back on, they might find the coffee...

She pulls herself up and hits the breaker switch. A grue is a grue. She'll take her chances with the cops.

[The Fuzz]

She'll take her chances with the cops.


What the boss didn't realize is that the can the coffee was in had a few grains of the stuff on the edge of the lid. These sparse grains were decanting in the used aeroshell 50, and the barrel was starting to smell almost, but not exactly, like the late night hangar coffee from days of old...

Smelling this odor beginning to waft from the drum, our doughnut cruncher's noses goes up and out of the Guano bags.

J: You smell that?

Other J: Yup, just like your socks...

J: I mean the coffee...

Other J: Yup, Just like your socks...

J: Nevermind my socks. I think I found it.

They make a bee-line for the oil drum.

[The Boss]

The Boss is alive and in one un-grue-eaten piece, but now has occasion to be horrified to see the java gendarme heading directly for the barrel of waste oil in which she dropped her treasured can of coffee.

Cue music from "Psycho."

[The Boss]

The two examples of Seattle's Best lean over the barrel, sniffing like a Frenchman in a vineyard.

"This is definitely it," states J #1.

"Yep. Smells just like your socks," replies J #2.

"We'll have to confiscate it."

"Yep. Just like your socks."

"Forget about socks. This is coffee. Help me get this out of here."

The Boss sighs. She has lost, dammit. She hates to lose. More specifically, she hates what's going to happen to all of that bribe money she brought up from San Jose to help keep Bonez dead. How the heck did they smell the coffee in the bottom of 50 gallons of waste oil? Or is police coffee more like waste oil than the usual PGA hangar coffee?

The two officers get some semblance of a grip on the oil drum. Watching them, The Boss thinks at least she'll get some amusement out of this next bit -- the drum must way about 400 pounds, and they haven't thought to put a lid on it.

They groan and strain and somehow manage to lift the drum about an inch off the floor. Impressive. They must be pretty motivated. Suddenly, J #1 loses his grip. His side of the bottom edge hits the concrete floor with a loud THUMP, just missing his toes (rolled a 1, darn it...). J #2 loses his balance and reflexively pushes himself away from the overbalanced drum. The liquid sloshes. The drum balances precariously on one edge for a moment, then slowly topples to the side, hitting the floor with a tremendous CRASH as the thick goo spills out on the floor, heading for the floor drain.

The Boss's brain shifts into an even higher gear. If that oil gets to the drain, it'll go down the drain... and next thing she'll have the EPA pounding on the door and talking fines and prison time for everyone. Talk about bribe fund crisis...!

She leaps into action, racing across the room and grabbing up the box of doughnuts from the table, then hurls herself to the side while flinging superhard pastries towards the onrush of oil. They land in a row at the leading edge of the flow and begin to swell.

Nothing soaks up coffee like one of Luke's doughnuts.

The Boss hits the floor and rolls over her shoulder into a crouch, tossing the final doughnut.

The doughnuts swell. And swell. And swell.

The two officers have somehow ended up seated in the puddle, and are watching, wide-eyed, as a mere dozen of the world's stalest doughnuts absorb the entire 50 gallons of waste oil.

They totally miss the small brown oil-covered tin that floated out of the drum with the oil and has now been left high and dry in plain sight.

The cops look at one another, then at the now-huge, quivering, oil-soaked doughnuts.

How long has it been since they've had coffee and doughnuts?

Quite a while, it seems.

Before the Boss can move, J and J have propelled themselves forward and began gorging on the sodden pastries.

The Boss stands up. It is safe now. She walks calmly across the hangar and retrieves her coffee, wipes down the can, and goes over to the desk where she stuffs it in her flight bag. She's overdue to meet The Old Man, and now seems like a really good time to be leaving.