sr-71 blackbird

“Irving, no.”

“Hear me out, Bob.”

“Where did you even get this thing?”

“I didn’t say ask questions; I said to hear me out.”

“Sure, yeah.”

“Dead & Company is going to have the biggest tour of the summer, and it should have the best jet.”

“You and me define ‘best jet’ in very different ways.”

“Think of the publicity!”

“Okay.”

“Nope. Still a terrible idea.”

“What’s the worst part of touring? The travel, right? This cuts down the time you’re in transit.”

“How fast is it?”

“Marin County to Fenway Park in 48 minutes.”

“That might be too fast. It’s 3,500 miles, Irving: it should take an afternoon, at least. And, you know: there might be another hiccup.”

“Yes?”

“Only seats two. And neither of them is a passenger.”

“No. There’s a whole back section. Fits a whole team of people. Well, not people. Mutants.”

“Are you thinking about the plane from the X-Men?”

“I thought Brett Ratner’s was the best one.”

“Sure. Yeah, Irv: that’s just a set. This thing is an SR-71 Blackbird and it takes, like, years of training to be allowed in the same building with the thing.”

“Huh.”

“On the spectrum of planes, if Zeppelin’s Starship was all the way to the left, then this one would be on the right. It has no shag carpeting, and you can’t do any coke on it. Not even little bumps.”

“Stewardesses?”

“None.”

“Huh. Still, I think we should think about it.”

“I thought about it, Irv.”

“Iron Maiden has a plane.”

“Because their singer is a pilot.”

“Irv?”

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Think about something else. And you should probably see if it’s even legal to own this thing.”

“It passed the emissions tests.”

“Ah.”