“To buy a ticket. I can buy a ticket here. Of all places, I should be able to buy a ticket.”
The officer looks at him.
“It depends where you want to go.”
“I want to leave.”
“Are you planning on returning…”
The officer holds up a radio to her mouth.
“Do you support Crime Stoppers?”
“I know someone that has been kidnapped.”
“Then you should call the police.”
“I know that someone will be waiting… at her address.”
“Why would she be at her address if she was kidnapped?”
Baxter steps back.
“Because I’m trying to kill her.”
The officer reaches for her stun gun. Stops, and pulls out her 9 mm.
“On the floor!”
Baxter lies on the floor.
“Don’t you think you might be interested in knowing?”
It was more of a sudden thud, like a hammer landing hard on a piece of rubber. Half of the officer’s face seemed to fall off, slide to the ground. Her face dismantled. A chunk of something lodged in the wall behind her as she tumbled forward. No arms, just flat.
Baxter gets to his feet and moves to the next line. There are two Chinese women trying to pay with a debit card having trouble and the attendant brushes them aside.
“Cash.” Baxter mentions.
“You want a ticket here? You are here…”
“I want a ticket that brings me back here as slowly as possible.”
The attendant stares at him.
“Will that be first class or economy?”
“I want a room. I want a suite with a bathroom, a bedroom…. I want a mini bar. I want a drink.”
She looks at her computer.
“There is an A380 leaving in twenty minutes for Dubai. It returns to New York.”
“That will do.”
Baxter sits in the lounge at sixty seven thousand four hundred and fourteen feet above sea level, drinking a vodka soda with a twist of lime and smoking a Monticello number one, ashing into the empty case of a Rolex boulevard alarm clock turned upside down. The gold plating wilts from the heat.
“So you are into advertising?” she asks, tossing her hair. Purses her lips together.
“I have a package that I sent to an unhappy customer.” He shakes his head.
“Is she going to get her money back?”
“She is going to get her moneys worth.”
“I want to sleep with you tonight.”
Baxter turns slightly.
“I’ve only got room for one.”
“So I can’t bring a friend?”
Mahogany is heavy. So is marble. Why would they use it on this flying machine? Just to impress people that don’t know what it costs to live, people that want to show they can spend more than they can consume? Is that why she is sitting there, beside him?
“I’m not one of them.”
“Then you might be looking for something towards the end of the counter.”
She points to a girl sitting alone at the end of the bar. She’s drinking a beer, wearing a tank top and tight jeans, her hair bleached blonde and frizzy. Baxter watches her roll her head with some brief turbulence.
“You never even asked for my name.”
“Most men want a name. At least a name for the night.”
“I guess that’s why I didn’t ask.”
She stands up and pulls a jacket from her chair.
“I’m sitting in A-34. I’ll be sleeping there too.”
Baxter returns to his room. It is on the third floor – yeah, the fucking plane has three decks. Three more underneath for cargo and transport. Wires and machines that make the thing fly through the air at over six hundred miles an hour half way around the world. If only he could take it back eighty years… it would blow some minds.
Same as a cure for cancer.
Looks over the wood panel. Fucking boring shit, likely a veneer,
The attendant stands at the door he forgot to close.
“Fuck,” Baxter says. “You…”
“Scared me?”, she finishes his sentence.
She is wearing a white skirt and an open blouse.
Baxter decides to kill her quickly. Grabs her head and stuffs it into the toilet. Her muffled screams bubble out of the water until he finishes her off with a quick twist to her head. Then bends it down. Keeps her face in the water and pulls back on the porcelain until…
He looks around.
Rips off her skirt to have a quick look. Every woman has a different clam down there, and he checks hers with a straw he lifted from the bar. Sticks it in and pries open…. one flap hangs lower than the other.
One benefit of killing women is they don’t complain.
Baxter moves to the minibar and removes a vodka bottle. The microwave sits above on the counter and he twists open the cap and places it in the microwave. Gives it 56 seconds for the water to boil off before he jams it up her cunt.
“Am I hot enough for you?” He whispers before flicking his bic.
The bottle explodes, blowing him back. Sitting in a daze he hears alarms singing and lights flashing.
Rubs the blood off his face, already black, opens the door and pushes through other attendants.
“Get out of the fucking way!” he screams.
Passengers turn and rise to their feet as he runs through.
“Fire!” sets them back in their seat.
At the cockpit slams his shoulder through the door and grabs the pilot.
“Parachute,” breathing. “Now.”
The Captain points. Baxter pulls it off the wall, places it on his shoulders. Pulls the helmet from the co-pilot and smashes out the window, then jumps into the wind.
The sudden blast takes his breath. It’s black and cold. Baxter waits ten seconds before he yanks the cord, falling through space. Nothing happens. The plane roars past, flames flying from it’s engines above. He yanks it again and the shoot opens just in time to catch a flock of geese, one flapping in the top of his parachute.
Baxter lands on soft gravel. The bird flips around with a broken wing, squawking.
It’s dark and damp. Baxter thinks about what he has done. Downed a plane, blew up a stewardess with a mini vodka bottle, stole a parachute and killed a bird.
“No.” he whispers. “I haven’t killed a bird.”
He picks the goose from the ground and steps on it’s head.
“I’ve killed two birds.”