Chapter 8: A Ride in an Aero-Plane.

My affair with the ticket girl ended quickly, with some of her hair still lodged in my false fingernails. By and by I found myself aboard the plane. It turned out that the "dampest port of call," for which I'd ordered my ticket, was a Central American banana republic called Isla de la Humedad. The complimentary publication left in my seat informed me that the country led the world in malarial infections for the fifth straight year. Although that sounded quite dreadful, I was impressed with their dedication to consistency.

Perhaps upon my arrival they would make me their queen. These Central Americans were quite fond of accepting the supremacy of European royalty, if I remembered the history taught to me by West Belgium's Minister of Propaganda correctly. In fact, West Belgium had once held a large swath of Kansas as its own imperial fiefdom, without even bothering to stoop to tell the Kansans. It was only after a traveling circus impresario offered us the Brooklyn Bridge in exchange that we handed over the deed to that dusty Central American state. "I should inquire about the bridge toll collections when I return home," I thought to myself.

A servant wench passed by with spirits and sundry spiked beverages. Indeed, my blood alcohol level was dipping into the single digits, and this was simply not acceptable. I swiped a handful of the shamefully small bottles and poured them directly into the IV port I'd had surgically inserted into my liver. I was about to settle down and flip through the SkyMall catalog, in the hopes of finding a nation or two that daddy could place in my stocking that year.

Then I noticed the phone embedded into the seat before me.

"It's been weeks since I've called the Corey Hotline!" My heart pounded, much like my fists had pounded against the ticket girl's skull in our fight to the death. I began dialing down the center to place my collect call, and spread my legs in anticipation.

But then, fate struck, like a bolt of lightning from a mad scientist's weather-control machine. Only fate was a deeper hue of purple and felt less tingly. "This is your captain," a voice announced. "We've reached our cruising altitude of 35,000 feet and I'm turning off the seatbelt light."

Unbuckling myself from the rigid, constricting restraints, my bosom heaved heavily with freedom. If the ticket girl's assault on me with a cash register didn't actually count as sex, then I'd been deprived far too long. I thought to pay a visit to the strapping military officer in the cockpit. Perhaps we could enjoy a full state dinner and humor each other with anecdotes of royal protocol violations at previous state dinners. Perhaps the first mate would be eager to play a game I learned during my incarceration. I approached the cockpit door and knocked.

"Hear ye! I announce that I, Katrina von Pain, Crown Princess of West Belgium, demand entry at once! In accordance with official protocol, stand at attention and unbuckle ye pants! I'm coming in!"

There was no answer. The servant wench was making her way back up the aisle towards me, attempting to apprehend me. She reached out to grab my shoulder. "Miss? Could you please take your seat?" she asked.

"Remove thine hand from my royal personage!" I yelled, and I squirted a travel-size packet of Grey Poupon into her eye. Sure, she may have only been trying to seduce me, but it was quite rude to interrupt a state dinner nonetheless. In case she didn't get the hint, I ripped a seat cushion out and taunted her with it. (I'd learned the deadly art of the pillow fight during an episode in an Iraqi terrorist camp.) Several passengers joined the fray, and I briefly recalled a scene from our royal theatre's audience-participatory production of Caligula. It was tragic how the entire cast had later wound up lynched by jealous commoners. Damn proletariat. We had offered to let them eat cake!

A fight ensued and lasted for some time. During that time, we began to descend in our final approach to Isla de la Humedad. As we crossed over the stagnant water along its coast, the struggle continued like a weathered sitcom after jumping the shark. I managed to gouge the eyes out of a small boy who wouldn't stop crying just because I'd killed his uncle. But then a burly man slammed the drink cart into me, propelling me against the bulkhead and loosening the cabin door. The door swung open, and I was sucked out like, well, I won't go into that here. Let me simply state that I was flung into open air, clutching the seat cushion and hoping to land somewhere erotic.

I came to washed ashore on a deserted beach. In front of me stood a swashbuckling figure in silhouette. "Ahoy! I be Cap'n Ron, and this be my island of Fear, Treachery, and a fermented grog I call 'Ron Juice'."