A mission made impossible

Morning again, a double bargain as wheels touch land calmly. The beige odalisque so tightly bunned but redly aproned clasp their hands and bow in unison as pockets jangle loudly of pilfered cutlery dull to the touch. One of them cries accidently over spilt red wine that to her utter surprise fails to leave a blood stain. Magically it simply disappears as does the entire crew searching for the missing passengers.

Outside the atomic clock inside the peripatetic crocodile starts ticking uncharacteristically loudly and far too annoyingly. A stranger out of the blue fog intercedes to offer ground transportation as a means of improbable escape. Such timing is too fortuitous to dismiss despite its extravagance well beyond conventional exchange rates. But who is to complain? Not us, not yet anyway because that gasp for air will become necessary sooner than anticipated.

His vehicle like the drive in is somnambulant, its six cylinders preternaturally humming scary Broadway tunes. Finally time stands still long enough so that the Nehru jacket returns to vogue behind the marbled counter. Issey Miyake security speak into their sleeves opening Sesame Street to Ugly American tourism and Yellow journalism. Randolph Hearst conspires to outduel Charles Foster Kane but as usual Orson Wells is first to the table and last to leave.

Unbeknownst to anyone is the execution by firing squad that awaits in the form of a female Benedict Arnold.