CupsMature

Time passed. We flew on. My muscles began to cramp up from crouching in the passenger compartment behind the pilot's leather seat, which, I noted, looked much more comfortable and luxurious than where I was sitting. Even in the air, hierarchy ran rampant.

Ugly had pissed down my arms and my legs, and by the smell of things, he had something else even nastier still in his trousers. I pulled the neck of my shirt up over my mouth and nose, but all that did was replace the smell of shit and piss with the stench of my own sweat. And for a hard labourer from the part of the city I was from, that was quite an impressive stench.

About half an hour more passed, before I felt my stomach fly up into my chest with a sick, fluttering sensation, as we began to descend. Again, and again, and again, we dropped from the sky, and eventually Ugly spewed up all over my shirtfront. Well, he'd done it. He'd nailed the big three, as far as expelling bodily substances went.

Before I could even react (and if I could have, my reaction probably would have been to vomit myself), we slapped onto the ground. I hopped about six inches into the air and hit the floor of the plane again, a dull, tingling pain traveling up the pointy bones in my arse. The back of my head rattled against the back of the pilot's chair.

We skidded to a sickening halt, and the droning and whirring of the propellers that had harassed my skull for so long ceased. I gasped in relief, sagging even further down into the passenger compartment, heart thumping and guts clenching.

"WHOA! Oh yes!" the pilot shouted, throwing his hands up over his head, making me jump. "What a landing! Yeah!"

He spun around and peered down at me from under his flight cap and his goggles. "Y'alright there, young ones? Ah." He crinkled up his nose, took a whiff of the air. "Did you shit yourself, fellow?"

I stared up at him in horror and disgust. "No! It was.... the baby."

"Oh. Right. Sure it was." The old guy winked at me, and I opened my mouth to explain that it really was the baby. "Anyway! My name's Lionel. But you can call me Cups."

"Cups?"

"Yep." He reached over the seat to shake my hand, and I did so. His gloves were thick and made of leather, with split seams along the sides. "What're your names?"

"I'm Silus. And I - I don't know the baby's name."

"Why not?"

"Because I just stole it."

"You stole a baby?"

"Yes."

Cups raised his eyebrows, lips curling up with a mixture of amusement and admiration. "I like your style, fellow. Come on then, creatures of the smelly London slums. Get ready to have your world rocked."

The End

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