Special: I Never Met A Serial Killer pt. 1

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far, I said I'd try my hand at Gonzo Journalism when I went to Memphis. While I didn't write much while I was actually in Memphis, I did at the airport leaving home. At this point, I have little to no idea what I was actually talking about and it is nothing like journalism at all, but it's still an interesting segment that I'd like to share with you.

What's better than packing right the first time is packing right the second. That way, you know that you didn't forget any of your important little baubles. Now, forgetting underwear and a toothbrush, well, that's what the third time is for. But after the first time, you still get that feeling of accomplishment and you know that there is another possible adventure coming your way. Not that all the little adventures that people new to flying experience aren't enough, but for someone like me you need all the adrenaline, anxiety and stress to mess with your pneumonia as possible.

To get to the point, we are sitting at Gate E4. It was 4:40 last time I saw the clock. There is a man in a black leather cap, a woman with a sweet little red head (though quite exuberant), and a plethora of fascinating suites. The black cap continually eyes me. Maybe I'm too loud about the Gay Rugby League of Australia and abortion. I don't care about being politically correct in America. It consists of people born with a naturally rebellious and hard headed spirit. If that were different, I wouldn't love my country half as much as I do. The fellow is a bit creepy, and though I seek out that kind of stuff, I know if it is potentially dangerous, to stay away. Mr. Quiet Laptop, unperturbed by my idiosyncrasies does seem a little put off by Carrot Top's activity...

I'd give you a setting, but there isn't much to say for the homely - national, mind you, airport. It's all blue, gray and black other than the splotch of purple that was once a woman and the gay tie parade. But boarding, as we tend to do with quite a lot of hub bub, was greeted by a pleasant surprise. While the sky station was rampant with tall-dark-handsomes, one particular, a bald-scarred-vitamin water-drinking-and-sadly-Fortune Magezine-reading individual did grace our gate. I was under the impression when he rushed on with the rest of the suits that he was a first classman, but found that he too was one of the guardians of the plane. As the emergency exit dwellers, we have a great and terrible responsibility to defend the lives of all other passengers in an emergency. More than just that hit me as we sat down in our seat, however. The succulent smell of humanity pierced my senses in a nearly pleasant manner. I felt close to comrades, I also felt that I was the only one on the plane that held such feelings.

Even as we buckled ourselves tightly in and I watched the foily wings of the plane wobble at our side, I wasn't struck by that adventurous satisfaction that I was lookig for. Up in the air, the lights of the city were a short lived delight, and so was the shallow blue horizon as it faded to black. All that remains is the hope that Mr. Fortune Magezine will live up to his interesting face.

... Meh, he's a Sprite-filled conversationalist. Should've sat next to the leather cap.