Monday, September 30, 2013

Clash of the Figments - Chapter 13

When I finally came to, I got up and ran forward, suddenly feeling the need to escape from the oppressive gloom.  Elbowing panhandlers out of my way, ignoring the come-ons from the working girls (except for one brief conversation with a cute little dish in row 53 wearing a mini-skirt to die for; I got her number and promised to call), and finally just kicking one guy straight in the nuts for no real reason, I reached the curtain and burst back into First Class. 

The flight attendant thoughtfully whacked at the reaching hands of the coach passengers with a canoe paddle until they receded back to their domain, the anguished moans & shrieks fading away as they went. 

Weary and sore, I plopped down in my seat with a sigh of relief and realized that I had been gone so long that Jimmy now had a notarized deed to his new property and was in the process of selling timeshares on the outer rings of Saturn.  Then I saw Simon emerge from the lav, which only confirmed how long I had actually spent in coach. 

Simon sat down and I called to Jimmy to put off selling mineral rights on his planet and join an impromptu meeting.  After the obligatory “Wha-zaaaaaaa’s  we got down to brass tacks. 

“Alright,” I began, “What have you two found out while I was gone?” 

“If you drop your gum in the toilet up there, don’t bother to try and reach your hand in to get it.  It’s a waste of time.  Or so I’ve heard,”  Simon offered. 

“Yeah dude, and if you look at the chick in 3B when she goes for her wine you get a pretty decent cleavage shot,”  added Jimmy. 

I bit my tongue so hard my elbows bled.  “Let me rephrase the question,”  I said.  “Tell me what you have learned that specifically relates to our mission.” 

“I thought I just did,”  replied Simon. 

“What mission?”  said Jimmy. 

I didn’t bother replying.  Instead I got up and walked to the cockpit.  I needed information and I needed it now.  Like, where the hell was this plane going?  So, not bothering to knock, I pushed the cockpit door open and instantly came face to face with the business ends of no less than seven serious looking handguns held by all three of the very serious looking pilots. 

Freeze asshole!  they yelled seriously. 

Figuring that this might be a bad time to rush up and hug them, I did as they suggested, and rather than asking who was holding the 7th gun (not to mention who was now flying the plane), I quickly excused myself. 

“Uh .  .  .  .  my bad.  Sorry, sorry.  Nothing to see here.  Sorry.  I’ll be on my way now.  You gents take care.  Just leaving the cockpit.  Backing up now.  Sorry again for the intrusion.  Bye now.” 

When I had backed out and shut the door, I took a few deep breaths and then went to the lavatory and changed my shorts.  All cleaned up, I took a different tact and approached one of the flight attendants, throwing a question at her and leaving it hanging in the air as tactfully as the smoke from the joint she was smoking. 

“Hey there, stewardess person,”  I said, “when do we arrive at .  .  .  .  .” 

“The airport?”  She said in all her blondeness, hiding the doob behind her back and waving the smoke away.  “About 20 minutes.” 

Damn.  Snookered me. 

“Yeah, 20 minutes.  That’s gonna be great, just great.  Say, yeah, this airport, um, what is it called again?” 

“That would be AIA,”  she said with a bounce. 

Damn.  Snookered again. 

“Good,”  I said.  “Real nice.  Tell you what, let’s do something crazy and go out on a limb here for a moment and assume that I don’t know what those letters would stand for.  If that were the case – and I know that’s a real stretch – what would be your explanation to me as to what those letters represent?” 

“Why, the first letter in each word of the airport’s name, silly,”  she said giggling. 

“Yeah, thanks, that’s terrific information.  You know, you’ve been just a fountain of knowledge here.  I really appreciate all your time you whacked out reefer smoking heifer bitch.” 

I retook my seat and waited for the plane to land. 

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