“And knee guards,” the Gasman put in.
“Oh, man,” Iggy breathed. “More, more.”
He never would have done this in front of Max, Fang thought. She would have been all over him like ugly on an ape, telling him what a sexist pig he was.
But they were all guys here.
“Um, there’s a girl meeting her friend,” he went on. “Her friend is giving her an ice-cream cone. Oh—it’s dripping. Huh. It, uh, dripped on her...chest.”
Iggy drew in a hissing breath.
“It’s gonna stain for sure,” the Gasman said. “That’s chocolate.”
“Hmm,” Fang said, watching the girl dab at her chest with a paper napkin.
“What’s that sound?” the Gasman asked.
“Huh?”
“That sound,” the Gasman insisted. “What’s that sound? Fang.”
Fang blinked a couple times and looked down, where the Gasman was yanking on his sleeve. “Sound?”
Then he heard it. A droning hum. A teeming chorus of metallic voices.
Oh, crap.
“Up and away!” he said. “It’s Flyboys. They’ve found us!”
66
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Busted-up Hollywood
So, for those of you in the LA area, I need to fess up about the major wreckage over at the big Hollywood sign. A million hopefuls have fixated on that sign as a symbol of future movie careers, and I sure do apologize about it being destroyed.
&n
bsp; But it wasn’t my fault.
The Gasman, Iggy, and I were minding our own business somewhere in the greater LA area (which extends from Tijuana up to Pismo Beach), and suddenly, out of nowhere, a couple hundred Flyboys dropped down on us. How did they know where we were? I always assumed they tracked us either by Max’s chip or by Angel’s dog.
Which, as you’ve probably heard, are with us no longer.
So how’d they know where to find us?
Unless one of us three is telling them?
Which is impossible, of course.
Anyway, like I told you before, Max saw thousands of Flyboys back at the School, hanging in rows, charging up. So today they let a bunch of ’em go for a test-drive. I have to tell you people, those things are fast. They’re strong. They can go for a long time without stopping.
But smart? Not so much.