“I have talked to Iron John himself who summons you to his presence soonest. But until the Chariots of Fire appear could you-oh, would you!-play us a number!”
His words were drowned out by hearty masculine cries of joy
“Let’s set up for a quick gig, boys-these guys deserve it.” I looked around. “Any requests?”
Many were shouted, but “Nothing’s Too Bad For the Enemy” seemed to be most popular. Best choice too since it had an all male lyric. Loud thunder rolled while lightning flared and sizzled. Our fans fell back into an appreciative half circle while we let fly.
Death and torture and murder and rape
WE LIKE IT! LYRE LIKE IT!
Cutting and slashing and murder and looting,
Hacking and cracking and stabbing and shooting.
Blowing up slowing up showing up to kill
Arson and cursin’ done with a will
‘Cause . . .
NOTHING’S TOO BAD FOR THE ENEMEEE . . .
Drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking
Shouting and cursing and lying and stinking
Chasing girls grabbing girls huggin’ and kissin’
Showing girls all the things they been missin’ . . .
As can easily be imagined this delicate flower of a lyric rally went down well with the troops. They were still cheering when there was a hissing rumble behind us and we turned to see that our transportation had arrived. Perhaps the locals were used to these things but it was really eye-bugging time for the tourists.
“Only for special occasions, special people,” Ljotur said proudly.
We gaped in silence, lost for words. There were two of the vehicles, made of wood and decorated with gilt scrolls and strands of jewels. Each had a single wheel in front which was steered by a tiller. This was manned by the driver who rode high above. I looked at the closer one. A wide seat was in the middle and there were two wheels to the rear. All of which was pretty commonplace-not counting the pricey decoration -if you did not allow for the propulsion at the back. This was a shining metal tube, now crackling and emitting an occasional puff of smoke. I drew my attention away from it as the ornate door was thrown wide. I stepped in and seated myself on the soft cushions. Floyd and Steengo were ushered reverently into the other vehicle. Doors were slammed and Ljotur shouted a command to the drivers.
“You’re off? Fuel on! Frapu viajn startigilojn! Drivers hit your starters!”
I saw now that there was a metal tank under my driver’s seat. He reached down and opened a valve and I could hear the gurgle of liquid in the pipe. Then he stamped down on a pedal; the starter I guess.
No-it just started the starter. The pedal pulled on a cord that ran on pulleys to the rear of the chariot. This lifted and dropped a small hammer that banged the starter on the shoulder. This was an individual, dressed completely in black, who sat on a little platform slung behind the wheels. Not only dressed in black, but with blackened arms and face, his hair a burnt stubble. I soon found out why. Liquid was now dripping from the metal tube and the starter reached out and touched a match to it, jumped back as it ignited. A tongue of black smoke and flame leaped out to the rear, singeing the soldiers who weren’t quick enough out of the way.
Now the starter was grinding away at a handle, presumably pumping air into the primitive jet. Within seconds the roar grew louder, the flame longer-and my Chariot of Fire shuddered and began to slowly roll forward. Very showy. Though it probably only got about a mile to a hundred gallons. I waved cheerfully to my fellow victims, who waved feebly and fearfully back. Relax Jim, sit back and enjoy the ride.
It was hard to do. I admit I did not see much of the passing scenery, being too involved with thoughts of survival. Nor did I relax until our little convoy had stopped and the blowtorch behind me was extinguished. The chariot’s door swung open to the blast of discordant horns. I grabbed up my pack and stepped down onto a gray stepping block.