Fletcher Quill Chapter 107
"Some men are born to live!
Most born to die..."
Fletcher Quill 1947-
Lifelong best friend General Duke Parker and Supreme Court Justasss Quill are about to land on an aircraft carrier near Libya. They are on the way back to San Francisco flying low in a Marine Chopper.
Parker and Quill are friends with the legendary Marine Mad Dog Midas. After a week deep in Yosemite National Park they have decide to bring a feast of fresh trout to the young Recon Marines waiting for the Messiah to pull the trigger.
As the two ancient Marine Hero’s emerge on the carrier deck a loud cheers goes up and the Marine Corp Hym begins to play over the ships loud speakers, they are home, home again... Tear’s fall.
"Parker I’ll put on a fly tying clinic for the boys and maybe we can get a Blues Jam going if any of these kids are from south side Chicago hey Pally?"
"Excellent Quilly, lets go up to the Bridge and ask the Captain if they have seen any schools of fish we can play with Jarhead? Might as well give your fly fishing fetish free reign Baby.
Hell these boys look forward to endless push ups and running. We are breath fresh USA air Son!"
"Great to have you two on Board this morning, welcome. Come over and look at these screens. Look around 100 miles due east a pod of Blue Tuna it looks like General Quill.
Might be prudent to have you and Parker and I take a Recon on those big bad tasty Tuna hey Jarheads?"
"Now that’s what I’m talkin bout. Killdafi ain’t goin no place. Lets go play with those monster Tuna Cowboy!!!!"
"Quill what happened to that super hot big tit nurse you were playing with? Nurse Caron was soooo fucking hot Son!"
"Oh yeah, she is still around, back in San Francisco working on the Farm taking care of bidness I expect. Did we bring the Hashish Pipe General Parker?"
Two important Sat Cell calls come in at once, The Pope and Quill’s man Drake from the Supreme Court...
"Please excuse my interruption Sir, I’m afraid your being sorely missed by your new team mates. Fat Tony Scalia is frankly Sir losing it over your girl Sugar Tits and her crew inspecting and retesting your new Stripper Pole.
They have asked me to enquire as to when you may be dropping by Sir?"
"Drake my great friend, tell the Fat Man to keep his panties dry I’ll be back before Closed Session begins.
Have a few more days and will be going home to San Francisco for a week then back to Black Robes and loose chatter bout thangs that almost matter..."
"Quill, just checking on that last three pound Hashish load the Vatican Pot Post office sent you my good man? Was it tasty and head trippy like I promised Oh stoner master to the boner?"
"OH Yeahhhh,, Parker and I are hitting a bowl as we commiserate your lowness. How is the Hague (World Court Trail for crimes against humanity this Pope and all Popes in absentia are going to be tried) going?"
"Up to my Papal ass in deep doo doo Quilly my Boy! We are soooo fucking guilty as charged. Enabler Number One (ENO) they call me at the fucking Hague. Looks like either a Firing Squad or Hanging after the trail.."
"Gloomy fucking Gus over here, hey Parker?"
"For real Dali Baby, pick up that child molesting flabby face of your’s fool. You knew you were going down, right?
This new media info driven world means fools like you and Bullshit Priktators are fucking done Son. Its over in clover Red Robe child innocense robber mother fucker! (RRCIRMF)!"
Whoo, hold on Parker, that’s the Hashish speaking I’m feared Pope. He is trippin.
Parker here help me tie this Tune catching Streamer Son. Now Pope Baby, you and my man the newly employed Spirit advisor to me can send another six pounds of that killer Hashish my friend.
You ain’t swinging by the fucking neck quite yet and bidness is bidness, six pounds please."
"You got it Quill. Gotta run before they catch me Son Ciao."
General Parker and Justice Quill have been invited to eat with the Captain while the crew prepares General Parker’s personal special equipped Marine Chopper with 12 foot Zodiac jet boat attached underneath to be dropped into any water, ocean, river or lake armed with the finest 8/9/10/12 weight hand made Bamboo Fly Rods money can buy.
Several of these prized Bamboo Rods built by Quill at Raven’s Haven his Irish Castle which he is beginning to desperately miss as the evenings aircraft carrier social scene begins to unfold.
It seems two of the crew are from Chicago and played with many of Muddy Waters still active associates including living and dead featuring Little Walter, John Lee Hooker, Buddy (Mother Fucking) Guy, and Quill’s best Pal most famous San Franciscan Jerry (Capt Trips!!!) Garcia.
These two fifty year old sailors are deep into Steve Wonder’s "Ain’t superstitious " when Quill the inveterate South Side Chicago Blues Harp playing fool just can’t fucking help hisself...
"Excuse me fellas, mind if I join in and get this thang backed into Funky Town gentlemen? How bout little deep, deep Chicago Blues Boys? Little Mack Wheeler’s killer "Muddy Waters Goin To Run Clear"...
It’s on, house lights go way down and Quill begins the low slow key of G intro on his Gold Harmonica. Smell of Black Hashish and Libyan Pot fill the mess room air.
Soon the jam goes straight into the Marine Corps Hym as the mood swings and tears fall...
Moments pass and the energy changes San Francisco Pachouli oil and the soulful blues sound of one of Frisco’s seminal rock gods Mike Bloomfield comes ooozing out with his Steller rendition of the awesome, "Sweet Little Angel"...
As Mr. Bloomfield winds down his fifty minute Set another mood change as cold Recon Marine reality breaks the hypnosis...
"Gentlemen your morning five mile run and two hour callisthenics have not been cancelled no matter what the rumor mill Scuttlebutt?
Our esteemed visitors General’s Quill and Parker about to lift off on a morning Blue Tuna recon, our hearts go with them as they deadline for San Francisco, Gods speed Marine’s..."
As the dark green Marine chopper jumps off the aircraft carrier the Marine Corps Hym plays while Quill and Parker strap in and start watching digital sonar/radar screens looking for the Blue Tuna Pod before pointing the green bird toward the Golden Gate Bridge and home sweet home.
After spending several hours and burning too much fuel the Blue Tuna search is abandoned as the Pilot, Quill’s life long Marine General best Buddy Duke Parker begins asking around for a naval ship he can refuel on as the Chopper will need another full tank to catch America air space.
As the Sun sets and fills the chopper cockpit with red splashed shadows out comes Quill’s Gold Harmonica...
"Man, I’m really missing San Francisco and my Beach digs Duke. That new fucking Ferrari F12 waiting to be rung out on the Great Highway. Getting excited over here."
The mood is shattered when an emergency cell Sat/Cell call from California’s now infamous Ex Ruler/muscle man/actor/leader/Kennedy family member his lowest of low new ruler of Charlie Sheen land and Leader of the Tiger Wood infamy race brings a new reality, It’s the Sperminator...
The Sperminator Comes Almost Clean!
"Holy Shit Quill you must have heard about my 14 year old other Son which I fathered while Marie was doing her TV thing and all these kinds of things?
So I need a place to hide and you are my first call Quill, you have to help, my Film career over, my life is over now everyone will know I’m worse then a fucking Serial Groper married to Skelator and all these kinds of things!"
"Sperminator Dude, your banging your ethnic slave maid Dude? That is sooo fucking uncool Hollywood! Insane in the membrane, got no brain! Look Marie or Skelator ain’t going to go away easy Son!
Her and Oprah and that Bitch man hater Lawyer Gloria what the fuck will make fucking sure your homeless Mr. America. You get your ass over to Ireland and hide out at Raven’ Haven until I get home in a month or so.
There you go Mr. X Film Actor, Dude It’s fucking over. You might consider jumping off my San Francisco Golden Gate Bridge, great way to end your pathetic existence, think about it? You're done Son!"
"My life is over, it was too easy she was there, just there, too easy, I’m an idiot. Fucking Tiger Woods won’t return my calls, I’m shit like Mel Gibson, I’m shit now.
Please ask the Pope to send me more of that insane Hashish and these kind sof things. It will help the pain of becoming an international falling star looser, looser."
How many more falling Star’s before the whole Galaxy explodes Cowboys?
