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ACRO E-mail Archive Thread: [Acro] My newest article: A MUST READ: Paco' ...



                


Thread: [Acro] My newest article: A MUST READ: Paco' ...

Message: [Acro] My newest article: A MUST READ: Paco's Story

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From: "a b" <dorseyaero at hotmail.com>

Date: Sat, 07 Sep 2002 02:24:30 UTC


Message:

"Paco's Story"

It was another of those lovely, almost seductively warm, breezy summer 
evenings that those of us fortunate enough to have lived in South Barnham, 
Georgia had come to expect.

While the temperature that day had nibbled at the 96 degree mark on the 
old-fashioned Coca-Cola thermometer that so pleasantly hung outside the 
window of my hangar, the evening was an invitingly mild 69 degrees.

And so it was that out of the 40 or so airport tenants, only two of us 
remained into the evening.  Sipping on lemonade, eating cookies and telling 
airplane stories, we watched as the golden sun inched closer to the horizon.

With about 45 minutes of sunlight remaining, Paco, the local line boy pulled 
up to wish us a wonderful evening.  He was on his way home and would open up 
the main hangar by 6 AM if the past were any prediction of the future.

I motioned to Paco to join us.  He backed up his ’72 Ford Pick-Up, a rickety 
machine with a beastly engine recently acquired from an aging, 82 year old 
construction worker and his wife.  Paco loved that truck and we all loved 
Paco.

Paco, Bill and I were speechless as the evening’s beauty, interrupted only 
by my Waco on the hangar floor in the foreground, made its impression on us. 
  Then, Paco said, “why don’t you take the Waco up for a spin before 
sundown, it is such a lovely night?”.

Bill looked at me and smiled.  It seems that all of us were aware that the 
Waco could seat three.  The PIC in the rear and two passengers up front.

A quick preflight and briefing and next thing we all knew, we were looping 
and rolling above the lovely kudzu, maples, oaks and wildlife that made 
southern Georgia what it was then.

It was as if those 45 minutes of sunlight evaporated more quickly than the 
ice on the hot asphalt ramp that hot summer day.  I, for one, knew that I 
had to inform the others that we had to put her down….it was getting dark.  
I am sure that these words resonated in the ears of my passengers like 
dreadful news passed to a knowing, doomed soul.  For we all knew it was 
getting dark, we just hated the mere thought of putting this graceful 
machine on the ground.  She truly belonged in the sky.

A post-flight check and a pulling of the hangar door closed saw Bill depart 
for home and his toe-tapping wife April.   April so worried when Bill was at 
the airport past dark.  A lifetime of marriage to a pilot made her painfully 
aware of what a late arrival could mean.

Paco, however, did not seem so eager to leave.  He looked at me deeply and 
knowingly.  It was as if one thousand words were said that moment.  Paco and 
I softly embraced and fondled each other for what seemed like ages.

I unlocked the hangar door.  I led Paco by the hand. His soft, supple 19 
year old brown skin still radiating from the evening flight.  Adrenaline 
raged through his body and I could hear his heart pounding out loud.

I bent Paco over the horizontal stabilizer and pounded his ass like a 
butcher tenderizing meat.  I, a mustache wearer since the 60’s, keep mine 
trimmed and within the borders of my mouth.  I do so, not because it gives 
me the flattering look of Adolf Hitler, but because it so nicely frames the 
asshole of a teenager.  Many mistakenly believe that the asshole of a youth 
is the same diameter as that of a grown male. It is not.  An aroused teen’s 
asshole is approximately 9/16th of an inch used while that of an adult male 
is nearer the 13/16th mark.

After painting Paco with my love, I realized what I had done.  Paco was 
dearly loved and those at the airport would shame me if they came to learn 
not only of my homosexual predilections, but of my unwillingness to bravely 
face the future with Paco on my arm.

“I must kill Paco”, I remember thinking.  Over and over and over, these 
terrible words echoed through my brain. “Kill Paco”, “Kill Paco”.

I kept a tire iron in the hangar as a result of a passionate, on-again, 
off-again love affair I’d had with a ’68 Triumph.  That fine lady went 
through tires so fast that it seemed as if I were constantly changing them.  
I abruptly swung the tire iron through the air with the grace of an Olympic 
discus thrower.

The thud with which it hit Paco surprised even me. Paco was down and, 
without question, out.  I proceeded to chop Paco’s torso into small parts.   
I loaded the parts into an old smoke oil drum that I’d kept in my hangar.

Necessarily so, my new ritual had become dropping parts of young Paco in the 
countryside on my way to aerobatic contests.  I’d drop a leg on my way to an 
April contest.  An arm would be deposited into the lovely green hills on my 
way to a May contest. If the Waco held up, I felt I could have ridded myself 
of Paco by the November contest.

Some special parts, like Paco’s asshole and his penis were kept in my hangar 
for years.  Then, in the early 80’s, I got roped into providing trophies for 
the local contests.  Not knowing what to do with the many parts remaining, I 
became creative.

I’d unscrew the cheap plastic trophies and insert a body part into the 
trophy.  A little superglue here, some tape there and the recipient would 
never know the contents of his or her trophy.  True to my form, I’d reward 
those with body parts according to their finish.

To the 3rd place Sportsman finisher, I’d insert an unimportant body part, 
say a kneecap, into the trophy.  To a 1st place finisher in Unlimited, well, 
I’d insert a testicle or some other meaningful part.  The unlimited 
competitor had trained longer and spent more money, he or she deserved the 
testicle was my way of thinking.

Feeling heat from the local law men and receiving suspicious stares from 
Bill and the others at my airport, I decided that it was only prudent to 
creamate Paco.  The ashes, ironically, were deposited into an Aeroshell 
Ashless Disperssant Oil Container.  Now, whenever I load smoke into the ol’ 
Waco, I put a little of Paco into the syrupy fluid.  The shine and silky 
texture of the smoke oil remind me so much of Paco’s tender, sweet ass.

Beloved Paco sails through the sky with me to this day………Ahhhhh……those 
lovely summer nights in south Georgia.  I love aviation.






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© Dr. Günther Eichhorn
Retired
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