Fluffy’s Chopper

Mr Fluffy Jersey Airport SI wish that I could report the battle for control of Jersey Airport was long and heroic, bloody even. However, five rural policemen on bicycles, armed only with truncheons proved, despite their incontestable courage, totally inadequate for the defence of the aerodrome. The unstoppable Anglo-American behemoth rolled over the police cordon with barely a pause. Polyester clad superheroes stormed the control tower and searched the hangars for snipers.

A Phantom with a Chicago accent and sergeant’s stripes Super Glued to his purple Spandex clicked on his walkie-talkie:

“Airfield’s secure. You can come in now sir.”

Almost instantly a threateningly black Chinook zoomed low overhead, plonked itself on the runway and, with the rotors still idling, opened a hatch. In the doorway stood a white, longhaired cat. Mr Fluffy was back.

At the same time yet far away across the island there was a mood of depression within the refectory at La Hougue Bie. The Kittens had discovered that the Lesbian Brides were vegan. Not the bizarrely tentacled yet intellectually fascinating alien inhabitants of the planet Vega, but fundamentalist vegetarians.

“Directly beneath our feet, sitting on the bedrock is a passage chamber some twenty yards long. It is ancient and its purpose is a mystery that the constructors of yore took with them to their graves.” The Mother Superior promised to take the Kittens to see it in the morning. “We have always regarded this historical curiosity a part of our charge, all be it an undemanding one, as until recently it has been cool within, deserted and silent as a tomb.”

Kitty and Scarlet tucked unenthusiastically into their muesli.

“And recently?”

“Recently, my child, it has begun to hum.”

“A good scrub with lye soap,” said Scarlet, “ and a spray with Febreze should sort that.”

“Not exactly. A rumbling, like distant machinery.”

Taking advantage of a momentary lapse in attention on the part of the nun Kiki la Berserker headed off in search of a mouse, any mouse so long as its heart beat bravely and it tasted not of cereal. The fortress proved to be pristine and vermin free. She slipped out through a sally port and commenced a stealthy hunt down the side of the mound. At ground level she was intrigued by a faint, greenish glow from the direction of the stone-age tunnel mouth. The kitten did not, of course, carry heavy armament on a rodent hunt and it was with considerable caution tempering her feline curiosity that she approached the gaping maw. She watched from cover as the emerald incandescence grew steadily brighter and two ghostlike figures emerged into the shadowy half-light carrying weirdly unconventional chemical lanterns, which they immediately stifled. With their large ears, welders’ goggles and long white leather greatcoats the figures were unmistakable.

“Chats Souterrains,” muttered Kiki under her breath.

Next out was an almost dwarf-like figure in a more than floor length yak skin coat, tall orange hat and supporting himself on a gnarled staff. Then, straightening as she cleared the low entrance, an aristocratic, if somewhat carelessly unstylish female figure apparently in her mid thirties. She wore a black wrap-over jacket with ornately decorated cuffs, sashed about the waist and ending at her hips, colour co-ordinated corduroy knickerbockers, with knee-length boots. Her dark hair was pulled tightly back clear of an alert and intelligent face, discreetly minimal make-up, embroidered velvet eye patch. Across her back she carried a 25-inch long ke-tri single edged Tibetan fighting sword. She chewed on a Cuban cheroot and stared directly at the bush where Kiki was hiding.

“You, in the undergrowth, you might as well come out now.”

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