Another One Hour Speed Write

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Setting the timer for one hour again.
It will having something to do with planes. I know nothing else.

Submitted: April 13, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 13, 2013



Is it just me or does every airplane smell like shit?
I mean I really don't think it's the plane itself just the fifty some odd fatasses with their goddamn rotting cheeseburgers sitting their fut facking asses across two and a half damn seats.
It's just a flight to Toronto from Chicago. It won't take that long. It won't take that fucking long right?
I always ask they flight attendants for those tiny bottles of liquor as soon as the plane leaves the ground, I'd never make a whole flight without one.
I always try to get as many as possible. I've discovered if I give them abnormally large "tips" they'll usually let me have more booze then they're supposed to.
And with that I become, well not really drunk. I guess a bit buzzed. A wee bit buzzed. Whatever I can drink!
The fat bitch next to my falls asleep and here limp molds of fat start to lean over towards me.
Her scent reminds me of when my septic tank backed up, her flesh bulges like cottage cheese and I think I'll barf out my stomach.
I tentatively push the over sized lump of atoms away from me.
She wakes up.
"Go back to sleep."
"Wha? Did you, why did you wake me?"
"I didn't mean to wake you."
This time when she falls asleep she leans the other way and falls in the aisle. Dumb bitch.
I can't see the planet when I look out the window. All I see is massive amounts of fluffy looking water vapor, too much for human eyes to penetrate.
I could kill everyone on this plane.
I could too.
It wouldn't be hard.
Go to the bathroom.
Break the mirror, grab a shard of glass. Stab everyone in the throat. Starting with the fut facking bitch next to me.
That is assuming the mirrors in the bathroom are still made of glass, do they still even put mirrors in there?
I could open the emergency exit, break all the windows.
If I owned an airline company I'd put armed guards on it. I'd give them fucking M-16s and 1911s. No one would fuck with us. We'd also capture other planes on occasion.
We'd call ourselves, "Sky Pirates Airlines".
One day the government would get sick of our shit and send some F-16s after us, what the fuck is it with the American military and the number sixteen?
They'd shoot a couple of our airplanes and we'd go take Air Force One just to show the fucking bastards.
That'd show Obama's what's what if we took his precious private jet.
Then I'd become world dictator with my army of aircraft.
And if you didn't like me we'd execute you.
We'd have two forms of execution.
One would be simply thrown out of a plane, the other would be sucked into the fucking planes engine.
That would teach mother fuckers a thing or two about fucking with the Sky Pirates.
Toronto is clearly much father away than I thought. This is supposed to be air travel. We're flying! It shouldn't take this long.
I order a sandwich. It has cheese and ham and lettuce and tomato and mustard. It is sub par.
I rub my forehead.
I always get headaches when I fly. I hate it so much but my shitty job requires it for some damn reason.
When we bought the equipment to web chat with other companies I thought my flying days were finally over, but nope! It was just Chuck Testa!
Nearly every shitty damn little fucking business we cooperate with didn't buy the shit! So I have to fly to Arizona and New Mexico and Old Mexico and Idaho and North Dakota, to make sure no one was there, and I have to fly to New York! Fucking New York! I still have to fly to Florida and California and now fucking Toronto!
Why the fuck don't those fatasses ever have to fly to Chicago?
It's like all these collective fatasses have a fetish for making me fly across the damn continent. Sadistic bastards.
I let my head hit the chair.
My eyelids cover my eyes. I cannot see. My mind silences the ears. I cannot hear. My mind ignores my nose. I cannot smell. My mind shuts off my nerves. I cannot feel.
I am.
Atman is Brahman.


I am Zen.
I float, above the waters.
There is only me. There is only darkness.
"Let there be light."
There is light.
Water is separated from water. Sky and ocean.
Land rises and breaks ocean.
Trees and ferns and bushes and cacti arise from the land.
A moon rises. Stars burn.
There are crows and mockingbirds. There are bass and sharks.
There are elephants and wolves. There are humans.
I rest.
I am Zen.
Motionlessly in motion.
I fly among the cosmos observing the Earth and evolution from a distance.
Gravity only serves to bring me down. I am falling. Velocity increase, down. Towards the atmosphere. Towards the crust. Towards the center of gravity, towards the core.
My eyelids no longer cover my eyes. I see the seat before me.
My sense of smell returns. I smell fat and fear.
My nerves function again. We are descending. We must be to Toronto.
My ears hear. There is screaming.
Emergency bags of oxygen fall before us.
The speed increases, the atmosphere resists.
I shut my eyes.
"Today is the day I die."

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