"Tiny Airport"

Once upon a time, there was a tiny, tiny airport in a tiny, tiny town. It was frequented by tiny, tiny airplaines, which had tiny tiny propellers.

These planes were manned by an elite flying corps of tiny, tiny men. Their names were:

Ikki, Bikki, and Dot.

Ikki and Dot were brothers, and had been pilots for many years. Bikki came from Papua New Guinea, and had, prior to attaining his pilot's license, made his living as an exotic dancer in a small Siberian town called Clean Steve.

Unfortunately, the denizens of Steve were less than properly appreciative of Bikki's act, which incorporated a canary cage and two day-old poppyseed bagels.He left, and became a pilot after seven days on the cold roads without food or water. He ate the bagels the first day. He ate the canaries on the fifth. On the sixth he was run over by a Belgian bicyclist named Pierre, who told him to wait and then returned with a pickup truck and a bottle of vodka. Pierre used the canary cage as a fulcrum and hoisted Bikki into the back of his truck. He took the bottle of vodka and before Bikki could request a drop he downed the entire litre in a single glug.

Shouting at Bikki where he lay in the back of the pickup, Pierre let loose with a stream of Belgian that sounded like a poor translation of the last three pages of Jane's Fighting Ships and threw the bottle into some conveniently located bushes. Bikki was quite certain that he was about to meet with a permanent and irreversible misadventure, but as it turned out,

Pierre was quite a fine driver, despite the devastated road and rickety truck. As they were bumbling along, a small, odd motorcycle pulled alongside the truck. "Who are you and what is that??" Bikki shouted in broken French. "It is an Achilles!" Shouted back the pretty girl.

The End.

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