Little Alex had been circling on the luggage conveyor belt for hours now. Fairly soon she would be joined by the luggage from the crowded plane bringing the throng of people headed to the international anvil convention, so little did she know how much danger she was in.
It would not come to that however. After growing more and more impatient, and doubting more and more whether David would clear his mind enough to remember the important fact that he'd left his child as unclaimed luggage, she decided it was time to end the whole charade and take matters into her own hands.
She opened one eye, to make sure she wasn't being watched, and attempted to stand up and make her way off the belt. She had to act fast because she was about to go through the damn annoying part of the continual journey where the heavy plastic flaps guarding the entry to the luggage loading part of the concourse would repeatedly thump and scrape her.
It wasn't easy. It was a wonder, she thought, that the human race had evolved this way. She was wobbling all over the place, falling, bumping into umbrellas and briefcases. Eventually she accidentally succeeded in her mission by simply falling off the belt. The only thing that had fallen into place for her so far.
Getting more of a hang of things she tottered over to the airport exit and out into the night.
It would be fair to say Alex was not what she seemed, she seemed to be an ordinary baby girl. Doubts about her authentic babyhood would be raised if one where to know that her little stunt on the plane, sealing the window and saving the day, had been completely her doing. All for no reward except for one foul tasting cookie.
Her first port of call would be the nearest seven-eleven, where some urgently needed diapers could be obtained.
Pop was beginning to see little wisdom in involving Nyartholep in his plans for the occupation of the planet and eventually the galaxy. His first sign of this had come the very first day they met where he noticed a tiny bit of snot clinging to the outside of his left nostril. The sign of someone who will not be a great help in conquering worlds.
Not that the evil Pop guy particularly believed in wisdom. He remembered a time when he'd caught a fine looking woodpecker and was holding on to it for dear life. Upon seeing a further two peckers in a nearby bush he mentally laughed at the suggestion that they were of equal worth to the rather distressed one he was clutching and simply caught them as well. Giving him a total of three birds which was worth both more than the one in his hand and the two unsuspecting free ones meandering in the shady bush. Wisdom be damned.
At least he had the meaning of life in his safe possession again.
Nyar had been counted on the play a major part in his plans, not only that but with him being in charge of most things evil on this planet he was a powerful (if unreliable) ally. With his participation uncertain at best it was time to go over his head, for all the trouble that might cause. Pop was going to have to travel to the moon to do this, as corny as that sounds.
Normally, in the usual course of things in the primitive material world, for Pop to get to the moon would take 20 years of planning, some billions of dollars, the participation of NASA and some 48,000 scientists and other employees and a good probing. But Pop didn't know the meaning of the word normally, which was strange in itself.
He stepped outside, causing a drunk hobo wandering past to yell at him to "For gods sake, put some clothes on." Pop ignored the hobo's rage and took the lid off the bin sitting beside the mailbox. Before doing what he had to do he noticed he had some mail, so he decided to take it with him and read it later. He put the mail away (don't ask) and stepped into the trash can which was filled with water and some chicken scraps that someone had deposited in there on their way past.
The hobo, feeling apologetic after seeing Pop climb into the bin, wandered over to console him and tell him that things weren't that bad, he just needed help. Much to his surprise the nude man was no longer their, but as luck would have it their was some tasty chicken scraps that would do for dinner.
"Where'd he go??" Asked the hobo to no-one in particular. He looked at his wine bottle in a funny way, flung it into the night, and was promptly arrested by the cliché police.
Jagger was racing like the wind to the Romantic Roomy Restaurant, his lips flapping in the breeze.
He was praying that David and his child, little Alex, was at least safe for now. Thank god for Pretty Thing, that multitalented cat. He remembered once getting a nasty scratch to the eye one morning while in bed, and realized instantly that PT was trying to tell him the house was on fire. Jagger had raced out in his underwear and called the fire brigade, who ended up fining him for a false report. It wasn't until the next day that Jagger had worked out after much pondering that PT had warned him before the fire started, thereby saving him and the house. What a cat.
Now the cat had alerted him to a present danger that could have far-reaching consequences. Little Alex, the offspring of Jagger and Bowie, was the babe with the power. What power? The power of voodoo. Whodo? Never mind.
By startling co-incidence the Romantic Roomy Restaurant was just a few blocks down the street from where Jagger lived. He stopped short of the entrance, knowing that if he was recognized it would make it difficult for him not to stop and sign autographs. He knew David was here for he ate coco-pops, and had entered the Date With Bowie competition a few times himself.
Suddenly he had a cunning plan and fished a paper bag out of his front pocket. After cutting holes for his eyes and gigantic lips he made his way inside a restaurant that was less and less living up to it's name.
A few blocks away an angry MEOW could be heard through the dark night that had descended.
TO BE CONTINUED...
"We shape clay into a pot,
but it is the emptiness inside
that holds whatever we want."
Tao Te Ching