Post by Otto Berg on Jan 21, 2017 12:07:48 GMT -5
Otto had noticed—even at an early age—that there was a distinct correlation between the enjoyment of a flight and the attractiveness of the cabin stewardesses. It wasn’t just the eye candy factor, either; any airline that knew to hire attractive hardbodies to serve coffee and hand out warm towels usually also knew how to make the rest of the flight bearable, too. It was one of those when it rains, it pours situations.
It was midday on Monday by the time he clambered back into the Mercedes with Alvar at the wheel once more, only this time he was carrying luggage. With the aluminum suitcase safely stowed in the trunk along with a fairly heavy manila envelope addressed to himself, they set off to the Arvidsjaur airstrip, where he said a surly goodbye to the family butler (not that it was his fault or anything, but Otto was understandably in a surly mood), who just smiled and wished him a safe journey in that sparse Finnish way of his.
The first leg of the journey, Arvidsjaur–Arlanda, was dull. Two hours of wishing he wasn’t on a tiny airplane with a kind, professional, but aged stewardess. They also didn’t serve alcohol. On a scale from one to ten, he gave it a four. Arlanda–Vantaa was better. For one, instead of a single middle-aged Swedish woman at his beck and call, there were two very pretty Finnish girls who were maybe a little too aware of how well the neckerchiefs and the tight buns in their platinum blonde hair suited them. That, and the fact that they were happy to pour him a measure of Finlandia in one of those flimsy plastic tumblers. Seven out of ten.
It was Vantaa–Narita that was the real tour de force: four Finnish girls this time (a rarity, usually when the crews got that big you’d see at least one male), all of them near-identical in their shallow, vapid beauty. It was the same airline that had taken him to Helsinki from Stockholm, so he had already acquainted himself with the finer intricacies of just how their skirts behaved when they bent over to pick something up, and Otto surmised they probably didn’t have more than six brain cells shared between them. It was a truly wonderful flight, replete with all manner of vices. Ten out of ten.
So it was perhaps with a slight sway in his step—he wasn’t quite drunk, but he certainly wasn’t sober, either—that he disembarked at Narita with one last appreciative look at what he surmised would be the last Scandinavian girl he’d see in a while. What a shame.
He slipped on his Ray-Bans and set off in the direction of the airline desk, his suitcase trailing behind him and his jacket slung over his shoulder. It was staffed by an Oriental girl—no surprise there, even if it was a Finnish airline, keeping staff abroad was expensive so they often hired local talent—and it was only slightly jarring to have someone with those beautiful almond-shaped eyes and long black hair greet him in Finnish as he approached. Jarring, but extremely titillating. It was the little things.
He gave her his name and asked if she had an envelope for him—she did—and while she pulled it out from under the desk he took the opportunity to scan the surrounding area. He had been told someone would be meeting him here, but whoever it was, he hadn’t been able to spot them yet. Maybe they had forgotten to come. Wouldn’t that be nice?
The Finno-Japanese curiosity had located his envelope and she handed it to him with a smile, which he was all too happy to return as he slid his sunglasses down his nose and peered at her from over the top of them. There was a Swedish diplomatic mail sticker on the front of the envelope that hadn’t been there this morning, but Otto didn’t dare question Alvar’s methods. He considered asking the girl at the desk if she was free for dinner tonight while he opened it to check the contents were intact—and indeed they were: his SIG Sauer P229, a couple of spare magazines and a few boxes of .40 S&W greeted him as he peered down into the manila depths—but he realized he didn’t actually know if he was free for dinner tonight. A real shame, she was very pretty.
Instead, he thanked her, slipped into his jacket, and with the hardware envelope in one hand and his suitcase in the other, he thought he would attempt to make good his escape.
°779
It was midday on Monday by the time he clambered back into the Mercedes with Alvar at the wheel once more, only this time he was carrying luggage. With the aluminum suitcase safely stowed in the trunk along with a fairly heavy manila envelope addressed to himself, they set off to the Arvidsjaur airstrip, where he said a surly goodbye to the family butler (not that it was his fault or anything, but Otto was understandably in a surly mood), who just smiled and wished him a safe journey in that sparse Finnish way of his.
The first leg of the journey, Arvidsjaur–Arlanda, was dull. Two hours of wishing he wasn’t on a tiny airplane with a kind, professional, but aged stewardess. They also didn’t serve alcohol. On a scale from one to ten, he gave it a four. Arlanda–Vantaa was better. For one, instead of a single middle-aged Swedish woman at his beck and call, there were two very pretty Finnish girls who were maybe a little too aware of how well the neckerchiefs and the tight buns in their platinum blonde hair suited them. That, and the fact that they were happy to pour him a measure of Finlandia in one of those flimsy plastic tumblers. Seven out of ten.
It was Vantaa–Narita that was the real tour de force: four Finnish girls this time (a rarity, usually when the crews got that big you’d see at least one male), all of them near-identical in their shallow, vapid beauty. It was the same airline that had taken him to Helsinki from Stockholm, so he had already acquainted himself with the finer intricacies of just how their skirts behaved when they bent over to pick something up, and Otto surmised they probably didn’t have more than six brain cells shared between them. It was a truly wonderful flight, replete with all manner of vices. Ten out of ten.
So it was perhaps with a slight sway in his step—he wasn’t quite drunk, but he certainly wasn’t sober, either—that he disembarked at Narita with one last appreciative look at what he surmised would be the last Scandinavian girl he’d see in a while. What a shame.
He slipped on his Ray-Bans and set off in the direction of the airline desk, his suitcase trailing behind him and his jacket slung over his shoulder. It was staffed by an Oriental girl—no surprise there, even if it was a Finnish airline, keeping staff abroad was expensive so they often hired local talent—and it was only slightly jarring to have someone with those beautiful almond-shaped eyes and long black hair greet him in Finnish as he approached. Jarring, but extremely titillating. It was the little things.
He gave her his name and asked if she had an envelope for him—she did—and while she pulled it out from under the desk he took the opportunity to scan the surrounding area. He had been told someone would be meeting him here, but whoever it was, he hadn’t been able to spot them yet. Maybe they had forgotten to come. Wouldn’t that be nice?
The Finno-Japanese curiosity had located his envelope and she handed it to him with a smile, which he was all too happy to return as he slid his sunglasses down his nose and peered at her from over the top of them. There was a Swedish diplomatic mail sticker on the front of the envelope that hadn’t been there this morning, but Otto didn’t dare question Alvar’s methods. He considered asking the girl at the desk if she was free for dinner tonight while he opened it to check the contents were intact—and indeed they were: his SIG Sauer P229, a couple of spare magazines and a few boxes of .40 S&W greeted him as he peered down into the manila depths—but he realized he didn’t actually know if he was free for dinner tonight. A real shame, she was very pretty.
Instead, he thanked her, slipped into his jacket, and with the hardware envelope in one hand and his suitcase in the other, he thought he would attempt to make good his escape.
°779