If there was one thing I, and most other pilots, hated, it was a chatty Cathy over the comm. The term “zip up and shut up” didn’t come from men who wanted to have a full conversation in the sky. But somehow, Solo didn’t strike me as the type to give a shit about that one way or another.
Lucky me. “I’m in position and got you in sight. Let’s get this done.”
“Aww, what, no small talk?”
“I’m not here to entertain you, Solo. I’m here to win.”
“Can’t you do both?”
I was just about to tell Solo to shut his damn mouth and focus when Gucci’s plane appeared from out of nowhere and locked on to Solo's position. Then, just as it always happened up here, things went from intense to insane in a matter of seconds, as Solo shot off and began to climb, clearly about to implement some serious repositioning maneuvers.
I had no choice but to go with him, and the two of us punched our jets in gear and began one of the fastest, most extreme ascents known to man. We were on the straight-up vertical now, and the thunderous sound of air rushing by as we pulled some serious fucking Gs made my entire body vibrate and come alive.
The rush of living this close to the edge, the knowledge that you were doing something only a handful of men and women could physically and mentally do, took a high-octane mixture of ego and guts, fear and intelligence, and when Solo finally reached the pinnacle of his climb and banked left before executing a hard dive, I knew I was witnessing the ego and guts firsthand. Crazy motherfucker.
As Gucci followed suit, Solo began a series of high-speed turns and rolls, each one reactive to Gucci’s attempt to lock him in for the shot, but there was no way he was about to get a clear go at a plane executing the moves Solo was.
Keeping pace with my lead, I had to admit Solo was one hell of a pilot. He was fast, fearless, and precise, and today he was playing by the rules. It was obvious he was here for a reason, and as the two of us outmaneuvered and outpaced Gucci and Whiplash, we managed to get behind them and zero in on our targets for the kill.
Well, I’ll be damned—maybe this wouldn’t be the disaster I’d feared all along.
“Hell yes,” Solo called out through the comm as we won the first hop. “I told Gooch he wouldn’t beat me today. Not fucking today.”
“Not bad,” I said, relief flooding through me. I’d been prepared for the worst, but he’d flown clean and we’d kicked ass right out the gate.
“Not bad? Is that your idea of a compliment?”
“Your ego’s big enough. Let’s head back to base.”
When Solo didn’t respond, I took that as an agreement and made a hard right back to NAFTA. It wasn’t long, however, before I realized he wasn’t following.
“Solo? There a problem?” Glancing around, I found him heading straight up, leaving contrails in the sky. “What are you doing?”
“Just showing Gooch whose is bigger.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.“Cut the shit and get back to base.”
“Can’t. Gotta make it long and thick.”
“Make what long and thick?”
“My sky dick.”
“Your sky…” I lost my voice as Solo began to descend, and sure enough, a penis began to form from the line of contrails he was leaving behind. I watched in horror as he began making figure eights at the base of the phallus.
“Yo, Panther, how are my ball’s lookin’? Are they big enough?”
I didn’t respond. There was no way in hell I was getting involved in this, because those contrails weren’t dissipating, and I’d be damned if I lost marks for this prank.
“Come on, man, I can’t have wonky balls. Just tell me if they’re the right size.”
Ignoring Solo, I began my descent as the runway came into view, and just as I touched down, I heard him say, “Man, that’s a beautiful penis. Look up and tell me how hot my dick is.”
It was impossible to miss the massive drawing in the sky, and it was also impossible to miss what exactly it was.
I’m going to fucking kill him.
8Solo
