I went to a 21st Birthday the other day. There are a few references to what happened over that weekend, mainly that the brakes on my car needed immediate attention, so I took it back over the Takaka hill..... It was fun...

The other things that happen in this one are mostly made up when I wrote it.

The Astronaut

Glowing a yellowish orange, the reentry pod burst into the atmosphere, the friction from the air blasting it as it plummeted towards earth:

'This is Sinclair 11, going to manual control.'

'Ah, Roger, Sinclair 11.'

'This is banging in and out here; I'll have to control it manually.'

'Roger.'

'Sinclair 11, This is Takaka, do you read?'

'Roger, Takaka, read you loud and clear.'

'Sinclair 11, Sinclair 11, this is Motueka Com Tech. Do you read? Over.'

'Roger, Motueka, go ahead.'

'Ah, Roger. Reading you 5 square. Standby for transfer to Motueka Cap Com.'

'Roger.'

Water that would have condensed on the pod turned to steam making a vapor trail behind the capsule as it descended with a blistering pace. This was the extreme altitude where scientists weren't even sure if there was any air for the reentry module to 'rub' against:

'This is Motueka, Sinclair 11. We are recommending that you leave the retropackage on MOT through the entire reentry. This means that you will have to override the 05g switch which is expected to occur at 04 43 _3. This also means that you will have to manually replace the brakes. Do you read?'

'This is Sinclair 11. What is the reason for this? Do you have any reason? Over.'

'Hear that grinding noise? Over.'

'Ah, Roger. Say again your instructions please. Over.'

'We are recommending that the retropackage be jettisoned on MOT. You will have to override the 05g switch which is expected to occur at 04 43 53. This is approximately 4-1/2 minutes from now. This also means that you will have to replace the brakes manually. Do you understand?'

'Ah, Roger, understand. I will have to make a manual 05g entry when it occurs, and replace the brakes, ah, manually. Is that affirm?'

'That is affirmative, Sinclair 11.'

'Ah, Roger.'

The cosmonauts cautiously looked at their watches, 04 43 53. With a steady hand, the pilot reached out to press the big red button over head, the one with 05g written under it. Click. Tense seconds went by. The high pitched whine, the sound of either the module blistering through the air, or the extractor fan, filtering the cO2 from the limited atmosphere inside the pressurized pod, the high pitched whine suddenly changed octaves and with a grinding noise that made the hearers cringe.

'This is Sinclair 11, getting some vague interference relative to reentry altitude.'

'Roger, that should only last while the retropackage is on MOT.'

'Ah, Roger, going to reentry attitude, then, in that case.'

'Roger, everything down here on the ground looks okay.'

'Ah, Roger. This is Sinclair 11, commencing phase one of Splashdown routine.'

'Roger.'

Invisible from the ground below, Sinclair 11 plummeted toward Earth like gravity was going out of fashion. On the ground, the technical department struggled to keep from falling asleep, (most of them had attended a 21st the previous night) while the hierarchy thought it prudent to invest in an extra crate or two of 'V'..... At least that is the official story......

A thin veil of fog smeared the clear night, fuzzing the vision of the masked driver of the black van as he pulled up behind a grove of dead (or dying) cabbage trees outside the 'abandoned' warehouse on the outskirts of Nelson. With his face obscured for reasons that would become obvious, he killed the engine and cautiously but deliberately wound down the window, careful to not make too much noise. There he sat for an hour or so, just observing. At 2:45 a light appeared in a window of the building and the masked man of mystery retrieved his binoculars from the glove box and looked inside.

The smell of the mice was almost visible. Racks of cages containing mice in varying stages of stupor lined one of the longer walls. Canisters containing specific Isotopes of Uranium, some of them byproducts of Nuclear fission were scattered haphazardly on the folding table. A clinically white light flickered in the fluorescent tube that should have been replaced long ago. Mildew growing onambianceting walls of the warehouse offices added to the ambience. With such a scene, you could have expected maniacal laughter from a mad professor with a plot to overthrow the free world......... and you wouldn't be too wrong. Unlike the generic evil genius, spasmodic bwahahaha laughter wasn't part of Hans's repertoire. He didn't find his occupation that hilarious that he would loose control of his faculties. His preference was to sit on an ancient couch and watch reruns of 'MacGyver' (currently he was unable to sleep, so he was watching one of them now). The mice (which he had at first named after Apostles until he ran out of names, then he started giving them numbers) were part of his lifetime's work. His experiments now needed testing on humans, otherwise how would he know whether his serum would achieve it's sinister goal.

It was time. Han's retrieved a bottle of 'V' from the small beer fridge that hummed in the background. The fridge was set to 3 degrees C, minimizing the pressure inside the bottles. With a fine drill bit, he bored into the black plastic lid of the bottle. 'Ffiiisssssssssss', the bottle said. With a syringe containing one part 'V', one part serum, Hans dripped the bluish green liquid in, counting the drops. Three per bottle. Sealing the lid with molten plastic, he placed them back in the fridge. 'I wonder what it tastes like?' Hans mused, squirting the remainder of the syringe into a coffee mug that had the caffeine molecule emblazoned on it. As he took a fateful sip, me muttered something underneath his breath about a banana and then passed out.

Seated in the Black van, the driver observed Hans as he worked, noting the precision. When Hans passed out, the driver whispered matter of factly 'It's time'

The Moon overlooked the warehouse, it's refracted beams indiscriminately lighting the corrugated iron roof. The sound of the dry twig breaking that always heralds someone attempting to sneak rang out over the weed infested parking lot. The two guard dogs, no doubt victims of another batch of experiments lay comatose in their kennels awaiting the sun to waken them from their invigorating sleep. Half a dozen shapes stirred behind the gorse, black smudges in a dark grey fog. Silently and swiftly, the black shapes exited the Black van, coagulating as they approached the warehouse, kicking down the door, they entered the run down complex.


The overalled invaders searched through the office complex of the warehouse, though instead of ransacking the place, the methodically searched the place in an attempt to discover the whereabouts of the formula.
As genius as Hans was, he was in the tradition of all great scientists, a bit dumb (as can be seen by his ingesting some of the serum), and also like many scientists from movies that he had modeled himself on, he had his plans all inside his head. He was painfully aware of what could happen if these plans were to get out into the open, so he never wrote them down. Not until he could patent them that is......
Getting anxious, the invaders decided that the bottles of 'V' would have to do to achieve their purpose.

The stolen goods were placed inside a box. It looked innocuous enough, a smallish kitchen appliance box with a picture of a kettle on the side. At three fifteen in the morning, you don't ask questions.

It was a tense moment, with hands gripping the steering wheel, and eyes darting cautiously to and fro, looking for potential unwanted attention, the driver of the black van sat and fumed. This hadn't been part of the arrangement, it was shear stupidity, but what could he do?

A faint tapping sound on the rear passenger side window was enough indication, the driver unlocked the door to let the thief in. With a cough the engine started and the relieved passengers started to loosen their tensed muscles as the old bomb drove off toward their rendezvous with the other members of their team.

We had a contest at the church luncheon to see which of the guys could bring the best food. There really wasn't any tension, but it makes the story sound more interesting. I hope I have spelled Spirilini right.....

The Onion

'Beep beep beep', the alarm clock blazed in my ears, as if it was angry that it wasn't getting any attention. 'Beep Beep' I reached out from under the covers, silencing that menace for now. Snooze buttons are very tempting in the early morning. A pale pre-dawn twilight came through the vertical blinds draping the fixtures with contrasting stripes of grey.

I sat up and leant on one arm and peered through the window to see the smoke from the neighborhood’s smoldering fireplaces becoming part of the atmosphere. 5:12 – time to get up.

The butter sizzled on the hot stove as the onions were added. Softened onions have a weird smell that I would do a disservice if I tried to describe. Actually, come to think of it, there weren’t any onions in this recipe.........

The coil glowed with an inner radiance, heating the pot containing their magnum opus – their Grande Finale - Baked Tuna Spirilini. With careful precision, we prepared our entry.

With coffee in hand, I retreated to my bedroom to watch the sun rise. When I awoke, it was time to hasten to church to await the outcome of the contest.

In an effort to avoid opening up old scars, I will keep this brief, but this tale must be told or all this might have happened in vain.

After church, as the entries were rolled out, a vague sense of apprehension fell on the gathered throng. Maybe it was when Simon’s exquisite creation was unveiled, or when the aroma from Jason’s delightfuliscious entry wafted from the kitchen, maybe it was just the sobering shriek of the zip boiling – wailing like a Nazgúl, whatever the cause, a foreboding felling was felt even by the judges. And then it hit me like the old dog hits the hard road – there were no judges.

It’s been one week since the contest, but it feels like only a few hours. The tension is still palatable, though the exhibits have been long digested. At least they all went to a worthy cause. There were four of us entering – foolhardy and arrogant, easy to say in hindsight, but no one could have foreseen the consequences that this competition would bring.