3 Mustaphas 3

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They came from out there and disappeared in cloud of dust way over there.

started - to be continued - text to come stamped from National Forensic Academy, Szegerely; approval granted.



I will always remember the day that the fragile crop-duster took off from Szegerely’s old ‘Departure’ Aeroport. This was before the cheap new money flooded in and they built brutal ‘Askadinia Internal’, with its terminal zone and duty/fee shops. Cash can change memory as persuasively as time, but that scene is as crystal in my mind, fixed and frozen; a lost and hairy hunter waiting for the forensic archaeologists to defreeze and decode.



Aloft, high over the glittering river it flew; a river as unrepentant as the day Billie Jo Mustapha jumped off the Szegerely Bridge. The clouds, so tame in the postcards, shaped themselves into mocking fingers of welcome. “Come hither, fly, and I swat you” as the proverb says. Small planes should not tempt fate. Lightning loomed.



They say a man’s not supposed to fly except on the wings of love, song or drugs. And a diving board is fine once in a while when the gods are otherwise occupied. What restless spirit, defiant urge, unslaked torment or driven hubris gave Patrel Mustapha his feathers that day? The air beckoned.



Patrel felt the weight of the package on one shoulder, the weight of the pistol on the other. The nametag ‘Uncle’ was stitched in copper thread on his shirt. The best qualification, better than those forged pilot’s papers won in a pinochle game from some Douglas De Havilland type. “Stupid man. Without a moustache I will never believe it” he snorted. His eyes caressed the jewels and dials of the analogue dashboard in front of him, reminding him of a sparkling carnival night years earlier when his Italian promoter took the band out to the Circus; the gleeful tiger peed into the front row. Hard to beat that for entertainment, he chuckled, but a tricky flight might just do it.



He pulled the stick back. The old crate responded like a young box. The ailerons flapped as if they were dancers at the Crazy Loquat. What a club! Yes, what a club! If I never drink again, let it not never be not never not in the Crazy Loquat. His mind swooned with negatives. Careful. A wingtip grazed the transmitter tower’s tinned top. A crackle zricocheted down the mast to the radio station below, adding another interfering noise to the nightly broadcast from the club. Duty engineer Askadinia winced. Tchah, always something. Mustaphas play, tapes disappear, and now what?



We will never forget the day we lost our memory.

and this one we remember. newly found evidence of performance at the Double Door Inn in Charlotte of the North Carolina place in the USofA. 1988 in January it was and we were on very hard work tour of deepest America. We were tired and the audience were not expecting us. We were from out of town. Thank you to our friend Mr Gizmo Guy for finding it.