Clunge takes to the skies in this rip-roaring, high-octane action rollercoaster. ‘Mad Mick’ McLusky is a former Special Forces soldier now working the ‘circuit’. Having recently finished a job, Mick finds himself on a routine domestic flight from Norwich to the Midlands. What could possibly go wrong?
He hated flying. He always had done ever since that incident with the blazing Hercules courtesy of the Argentinean Air Force back in ’82. It was, however, a necessary evil that he simply had to endure. There was no other way of getting around the globe on top, well-paid jobs - apart from crewing up on super-tankers. Sitting on a floating petrol bomb-full of five hundred trillion gallons of bulk fuel, whilst a bunch of niggers in a speedboat took potshots with RPGs filled ‘Mad Mick’ McLusky with even more unease. So Ryanair it was.
He’d just finished a protection job on a rig off Great Yarmouth. It was one of his less exotic assignments but this baby had paid handsomely due to the threat of gangs of marauding Romanian metal thieves in the North Sea. Two rigs had totally disappeared already, and the petrochemical industry was getting edgy. Mick had become something of an expert ‘talking head’ on maritime pikeys and he was in great demand on the networks. Being the rough-arsed, gun-toting ex-squaddie that he was, he’d insisted on diamonds as payment. There was no point in cash these days, not with the international markets in such disarray, so a nice little velvet bag of sparklers suited Mick nicely. Bank accounts were for African despots, homosexuals and Belgian kiddie fiddlers, not tough ex-SF operators.
And tough he was. Regarded by many in the regiment as the nailsest of the nails, the former AGC clerk had been the youngest applicant to have passed selection, ever – apart from a thirteen-year-old army cadet who’d passed it by accident during a summer camp back at ‘H’ several years before he’d joined. It was a one-off. Many former regimental luminaries personally endorsed Mick’s expertise in slotting bad guys and generally blowing shit up. SAS legend Mick McStab himself had publicly stated that he was ‘on our fucking side!’
The Boeing 737 bumped through the turbulence and Mick glanced outside at the moonlit cloudscape – his mind casting back to the night when an Argie Mirage had raked his C-130 with cannon fire over San Carlos as he waited in the door to lob in to the fighting below. The 20mm rounds slashed through the fuselage, reducing the kite to an inferno. He was the only one who’d got out. The crew and two pallets of powdered egg and compo smashed into the cold waters of the South Atlantic.
He was disturbed from his reverie by the passenger sitting next to him. Mick usually travelled in British Airways Business Class, but as this was Ryanair, he was lucky he’d got a seat and wasn't stuck in the hold. Unfortunately, one couldn’t pick and choose in cattle class and he’d found himself sat next to some filthy foreign swine: a heavily-bearded follower of a certain faith. The minging fucker stank, though what of Mick couldn’t quite fathom. Hair gel? Marzipan? Cordite? Odd. The jundie started nodding and chanting some barely intelligible mantra before unfastening his belt, getting out of his seat and hastily making his way forward towards the front of the jet. Mick ignored him. ‘Probably off for a slash.’ he mused before busying himself in the pages of the in-flight magazine. He prided himself on his situational awareness. ‘Always switched on and never on standby.’ was his mantra.
It was surprising what one could learn from such literature. Apparently, Dublin was a cosmopolitan city of culture and not just a haven for thieving bogtrotters, druggies and freeloading parasites from East Africa and the Balkans. Mick then thumbed through the sales brochure, paying particular attention to the watches and prompting him to glance at his Luminox Nighthawk special – all nine hundred dollars’ worth of it. And that was with BX discount too.
The peace of the cabin was shattered by a piercing shriek from one of the cabin crew up ahead. Instantly, Mick unfastened his belt and sprang out of his seat like a startled antelope and sped towards the commotion in the forward galley area, his heartbeat pounding in his ears above the screams of terrified passengers who were blatantly ignoring in-flight mobile restrictions and feverishly updating their Facebook pages.
The wild-eyed look on the face of the foreign gentleman turned to manic terror as he shouted loudly in some heathen jibber jabber and desperately tried to ignite his facial hair. Mick knew instantly: explosive beard gel. Ingenious - and 100ml of the deadly substance was more than enough to blast an airliner to Valhalla and back. The would-be martyr looked up but it was too late as Mick’s massive fist smashed into his smouldering jaw with a sickly crack. The jundie dropped like a stone and started twitching on the deck. Mick grabbed an in-flight services trolley - all 200lb of it - and effortlessly swung it above his head before crashing it down on the screaming psychopath’s scull, spilling packets of Cheesy Wotsits and bottles of Highland Spring across the aisle in the process. ‘Take that cunty boy!’ he growled in his thick Yorkshire accent - adding several well-placed kicks to the miscreant’s groin for good measure.
The cabin erupted in cheers and applause and Mick felt the unmistakable touch of a woman grasping his arm. The sobbing stewardess kissed him, her warm tongue snaking itself between his lips. She was gagging for it. ‘How can I ever repay you – whoever you are?’ Mick laughed. ‘Dry yer fucking eyes princess and empty the sand out of yer knickers. I’m Mad Mick and I’m just a rough-arsed ex-squaddie doing what I get paid for: rubbing out raghead scum and saving the world. Fancy a shag?’ Mick knew that all trolley dollies were up for a bit of action and she wasted no time in dragging him into the forward washroom whereupon she eagerly noshed the hero off to completion.
Two minutes later the couple emerged to be greeted by a confused and apparently relieved captain. ‘Not as relieved as me’ chortled Mick to himself. The embarrassed semen-spattered stewardess wiped the remains of Mick’s seed from her garish, ill-fitting uniform and grasped his muscled arm for all it was worth. ‘Hi I’m the pilot. I’ve just received a call from Tesco. There’s been a product recall due to a batch of contaminated Value Beard Gel and it would appear that the gentleman you’ve assaulted was simply having a bad allergic reaction. I’ve had to radio ahead and the police are waiting for you on the tarmac where you’ll be arrested for attempted murder. Sorry old chap… er… begorrah. Regulations, so it is so they are.’ Mick laughed. Coppers? He’d shit ‘em and frequently did on Friday nights back at H.
The hydraulic whine from below his feet signalled the undercarriage and flaps lowering. They were on finals and would soon be arriving East Midlands Airport. Mick glanced out of the window. ‘They won’t be the only flaps lowering tonight.’ he sniggered. He laughed and smiled at the stewardess who by now had handcuffed herself to Mick’s brawny wrist as the bright lights of Castle Donnington sprawled below. Thank god he’d booked a holiday with Thomas Cook in Egypt. He needed a break.
Of the many works Clunge has penned, Scare Plane is by far the most controversial, pushing the boundaries of believability to their very limits – especially as it is supposedly based on true events. Some would opine that Clunge has plummeted to new depths in his urge to satisfy the most eager of his fans. Whatever. The phenomenon that is Clunge continues unabated at breakneck speed and Scare Plane is a future classic in its truest sense… probably.
Inspirational – Big Phil Campion
More nails than I remember – Andy McNab
There’s no such thing as bad publicity - Michael O’Leary
There’s no such route as NWI – EMA you fucking passenger walt – Michael O’Leary