Yarcs and the Pulse Jet

Sniffy and the Butane Jet

Yarcs was building a pulse jet in the yard. It ran on butane camping cylinders and pure ego. The frame was mostly scrap metal, coat hangers, and melted plastic.

Sniffy watched from a safe distance (well…sort of).

The jet let out a sound like a blender full of marbles.

Yarcs turned, goggles reflecting the sun.

“Sniffy. I need a test pilot. Someone fearless. Possibly flammable.”

Sniffy wagged his eyebrows. “Does it go fast?”

“Extremely. Possibly uncontrollably.”

That was enough. Sniffy climbed in, strapping on a helmet made from half a toaster and a colander.

The jet screamed to life, rattled across the lawn, and launched into the sky trailing smoke, sparks, and the smell of barbecue sauce (from a prior test).

It crashed into a bird feeder.

Sniffy loved it.

They rebuilt it. Crashed it. Then rebuilt it again.

Every test ended in glorious failure — melted fins, shattered tailpipe, a fence on fire — and Sniffy kept flying.

The final test pushed it too far.

At full throttle, the engine melted right off the frame and exploded midair.

Flaming bolts rained down like confetti.

Then — PFFFT.

A parachute opened.

Sniffy drifted down, hair smoking, smile intact, waving the shredded remains of his seat cushion like a flag.

“Yarcs!” he shouted. “That was AMAZING! Make me another one! Maybe this time with two jets!”

Yarcs scribbled in his notebook:

Flight Log: Meltdown successful. Sniffy unharmed. Next prototype: dual-pulse. Fuel: all of it.

⸻

The Jet Incident

It had been months since the tank throne.

Weeks since Yarcs demanded “a proper tribute vault” for coin offerings.

Days since he started spitting out morse-code insults at the vacuum cleaner.

Tim was tired.

But nothing prepared him for the knock at the door at 3:14 p.m., followed by two uniformed officers and a clipboard.

“Mr. Barnes,” the tall one said, “we need to talk about the jet.”

Tim stared at them.

“The what?”

The second officer flipped through a notebook. “Witnesses claim an experimental RC plane performed an illegal low flyover of the downtown precinct.”

Tim blinked.

“Several claimed it was being piloted by… a rat.”

Silence.

Tim closed his eyes and muttered, “Oh god. It’s finally happening.”

The tall cop narrowed his gaze. “Sir, do you own a high-powered model aircraft?”

“Define own,” Tim said.

“Was it remote-controlled?”

Tim sighed. “Yes. Of course it was. That’s all it was. A… completely remote-controlled jet. No rats. Just signal interference and… illusions.”

Yarcs, from his perch atop the tank in the foyer, chimed in faintly through a speaker:

“TELL THEM NOTHING. DENY THE RAT. SNITCHES GET SWITCHES.”

Tim reached over and unplugged the PA system.

“Look,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m just an old electronics teacher. None of this is real. The talking skull? It’s a gimmick. The tank? A Halloween project. The jet? A remote-control hobby. This whole house is a… cosplay diorama with bad taste.”

The officers exchanged a look.

The tall one jotted something down. “Alright. But if it buzzes city hall again, it’s going in impound.”

As they left, Tim muttered under his breath:

“I swear to god, if that rat builds afterburners, I’m moving to Alaska.”

From the shadows of the supply closet, Sniffy gave a tiny, muffled laugh… and adjusted his little aviator goggles.

⸻

The Flyby

It started with a whisper from the breaker box.

Tim was trying to replace a cracked tile in the inn’s kitchen when the lights flickered in Morse code — Yarcs’ new favorite language for passive-aggressive requests.

Tim sighed. “What do you want now?”

The breaker box hummed.

Then, from upstairs, Yarcs’ voice rasped over the old intercom system:

“THE JET IS OPERATIONAL. FUEL CELLS CHARGED. PERMISSION TO ENGAGE.”

Tim dropped the tile. “Absolutely not.”

“I SHALL TAKE SILENCE AS ‘YES.’”

“Yarcs, no. That’s not—”

But it was already too late. Somewhere above him, an ancient 6S LiPo battery engaged with a screech and a whine. The floorboards vibrated. A hatch burst open in the attic. Pigeons scattered in all directions.

Then:

VROOOOOOOM.

A custom-painted RC jet — sleek, cobbled from scrap carbon fiber, duct-taped servos, and adorned with actual bat wings hot-glued to the tail — launched into the Salem sky.

Strapped into the cockpit, bolted down with zip ties and faith, was Yarcs Lluks.

His eye LEDs blazed violet.

The wind howled through his rubber skull.

“BEHOLD, MORTALS,” he screamed as the plane banked sharply. “YOUR NIGHTMARE HAS WINGS!”

He streaked over downtown Salem like a Halloween missile. Below, pedestrians screamed. A hot dog cart overturned.

Then he dove low — too low — and buzzed City Hall.

The mayor’s toupee was never seen again.

⸻

The Visit, Again

The cops were back.

This time with pictures.

One was a still frame from a shaky cellphone video: Yarcs in midair, his LEDs glowing like demonic afterburners, his jaw wide in mechanical laughter.

The caption read: “Is this your ‘Halloween decoration’?”

Tim stared at it.

Yarcs, from the far side of the workshop, cackled through the speaker system.

“TELL THEM I WAS NEVER HERE. BURY THE EVIDENCE. ERASURE IS YOUR SALVATION.”

Tim sighed and rubbed his temples.

“Yes,” he admitted. “That is technically my model jet.”

“And the skull?” the officer asked, eyes narrowing.

Tim shrugged. “Probably a prank. Or a weather balloon. Hard to tell with these things.”

The second cop leaned in. “It laughed, Mr. Barnes. In stereo.”

Tim hesitated. “It’s got… twin speakers.”

The taller cop sighed and closed the folder.

“You’re lucky no one was hurt,” he muttered. “But if that jet’s spotted again, it’s going down.”

Yarcs’ voice buzzed faintly through the overhead lights.

“I’LL BE BACK, OFFICER. NEXT TIME… WITH A PAYLOAD.”

The fuse box sparked.

Tim yanked the breaker.

⸻

That Night

Tim sat in the basement, staring at the disassembled jet.

Yarcs sat quietly on his throne of remotes, LEDs dimmed to a faint blue glow.

After a long silence, Yarcs spoke:

“It was glorious, wasn’t it?”

Tim didn’t answer.

“The wind in my sockets. The thrill of unlicensed airspace violation. The way the mayor screamed like a raccoon in a leaf blower.”

Tim looked up. “You could’ve killed someone.”

Yarcs clicked thoughtfully. “True. But I didn’t. That shows restraint.”

Tim slumped in his chair.

“Next time,” he said, “you need permission. And a flight plan.”

Yarcs nodded solemnly.

“Of course, Tim. Of course.”

He paused.

“I assume evasive maneuvers are still allowed?”

Tim didn’t answer.

But somewhere in the corner, Sniffy the rat adjusted the yaw trim on the controller and gave a tiny salute.

⸻

The Complaint

The knock on the door came at 8:00 a.m. sharp.

Tim opened it slowly, toothbrush still dangling from his mouth.

It was Mr. Fenwick, the neighbor. Sixty-three years old, ex-IRS, and allergic to joy.

Behind him stood two of Salem’s most exhausted-looking police officers.

“Tim,” Fenwick said, nostrils flaring. “We need to talk. About the flying skull that egged my roof.”

Tim blinked. “Flying… skull?”

Fenwick snapped open a binder labeled EXHIBIT A. Inside: grainy Polaroids, video stills, and one hand-drawn sketch of Yarcs in flight, labeled “DEMON PILOT.”

The shorter cop coughed.

“Look, Mr. Barnes,” he said, clearly embarrassed. “Your neighbor claims your remote-control jet is being flown by… a skull. That it—quote—‘cackled like a Bond villain and released farm-fresh ordnance.’”

Fenwick shoved forward another photo: a dented shingle covered in yolk.

“It was a carton of eggs, officer,” Fenwick seethed. “One at a time. With intention.”

⸻

Tim’s Warning

Tim tried to explain.

“That jet has a manual override. It’s always in my control. Maybe it glitched? Maybe a bird flew into it?”

Fenwick threw his arms up. “You expect me to believe a bird loaded a dozen Grade A large eggs into your missile with wings and dive-bombed my eaves?!”

The taller cop stepped in.

“Mr. Barnes. We don’t believe in haunted skulls or RC jet terrorism,” he said, rubbing his temples. “But if we get one more call about airborne assaults, you’re getting cited. No more warnings.”

Tim looked down.

“Yes, sir.”

Fenwick turned to go, muttering, “Insane. Absolutely insane. Skulls don’t fly jets. Skulls don’t fly je—”

A faint buzz sounded overhead.

He looked up just in time to see a flash of black wing and a glimmer of LED eyes vanishing into the clouds.

⸻

Inside the Jet

High above the old orchard Inn Yarcs was having the time of his afterlife.

Strapped in beside him, Sniffy the rat sat on a peanut butter lid, working the payload release lever with his tail.

“Direct hit on the mailbox, lieutenant,” Yarcs crooned. “Time for the final salvo.”

Sniffy squeaked in agreement and pulled the last pin.

A single egg fell, arced through the morning air, and splattered perfectly across Fenwick’s satellite dish.

“EXQUISITE,” Yarcs roared. “PRECISION DESTRUCTION! ARTISANAL CHAOS!”

The two cackled — one maniacally, one squeakily — and banked hard left, disappearing into the sunrise.

⸻

Tim Misses the Flight

Tim arrived at the old dirt lot just as the vapor trail faded.

He stared up at the sky, hand shielding his eyes.

“You left without me again,” he muttered.

The launch platform still smoked slightly. A single broken eggshell fluttered down and landed at his feet.

From the underbrush, a small voice crackled from a walkie-talkie duct-taped to a gopher skull:

“We’re going long-range next time, Tim. Pack snacks.”

He sighed.

Then smiled — just a little.

⸻

Chapter: Buzzkill

The sun was barely up when Yarcs screamed through the stratosphere, slicing cloud layers in his dual pulse jet like a demon-powered lawn dart.

Beside him, Sniffy gripped a joystick made from a soldered toothpick and an old button. His tiny eyes were wide with glee.

“FASTER, SNIFFY! GRAZE THE SKY! SHAVE THE MUSTACHE OF HEAVEN!”

Suddenly, the radio crackled:

“The is Salem Air One to unidentified aircraft—What the hell are you?!”

Hovering a thousand feet above the city, a police helicopter banked left to intercept.

Inside it, two officers stared at the oncoming object: black jet, skull in the cockpit, and a tail painted with “NO STEP, ONLY DOOM.”

“Uhhh… Command?” the co-pilot said. “You’re not gonna believe this, but I think we just got buzzed by a haunted Halloween decoration.”

Before the pilot could respond, Yarcs screamed past, doing a barrel roll directly under the chopper, then rising vertically to leave a vapor spiral around the rotor.

Sniffy held up a tiny cardboard sign that read:

“HI COPS :)”

⸻

Tim’s Arrest

Down below, Tim was eating a lukewarm breakfast burrito in his driveway when the sirens came.

Squad cars boxed him in. He was cuffed before his salsa packet hit the ground.

“Mr. Barnes,” the officer said, “you’ve officially violated FAA low-altitude drone laws, endangered an aircraft, and possibly committed skull-related sorcery.”

Tim sputtered. “I didn’t fly anything! I was eating! Check the burrito!”

They tossed him in the back of the patrol car anyway.

⸻

Yarcs Intervenes

Halfway to the station, the cruiser’s radio burst with static and evil laughter.

“TIM BELONGS TO ME. RELEASE HIM OR FACE THE WRATH OF SKULL-AERONAUTICS.”

The officer driving frowned. “That…sounded like a threat?”

Then the jet roared overhead, inches from the roof of the patrol car, blowing off the light bar and slapping the windshield with a suction-cupped smiley face.

Sniffy’s face pressed against the canopy, tongue out.

The squad car screeched to a stop. Both cops got out, staring into the sky as Yarcs looped lazily above, LED eyes blinking red and blue like an imitation siren.

“Okay,” the driver muttered. “This guy…this guy is not controlling that.”

The other nodded slowly. “I mean—he’s in handcuffs.”

They released Tim on the spot.

“Sorry about that,” the younger cop mumbled. “Tell your…uh…‘friend’ to stay out of restricted airspace.”

Tim nodded and rubbed his wrists. “I’ll let him know. But I don’t control him. He just—flies where chaos tells him.”

⸻

Later That Night

Back at the garage, Yarcs had parked the jet next to the washing machine.

Sniffy was licking peanut butter from his seat harness. The skull chuckled from deep inside.

“I FLEW INTO THE SUN TODAY AND THE SUN BLINKED FIRST.”

Tim just sighed, opened the fridge, and got a soda.

“We’re going to need a lawyer. Or a priest. Or both.”

Yarcs’ eyes glowed with anticipation.

“NEXT TARGET: WEATHER BALLOON.”

Sniffy squeaked and spun in circles.

Tim groaned.

⸻