I haven’t been this annoyed in years. These fuckin’ 214 fuck-boys and the queen bitch have really gotten under my skin. But I’ve got no time to complain about it right now, I’ve got to board this fuckin’ plane and get my ass to St. Louis. There’s just one fuckin’ problem…
“I want my candy!”
This petulant little shit shouts in his mother’s face, screaming for more candy. The little shit’s face is already covered in a pound of chocolate, and his fat little stomach pushes his shirt tight and distorts the shit out of the Spongebob illustration on the front.
He screams again. I’m two seconds away from backhanding this kid through the window and out onto the tarmac, and yet his mother sits silent. She’s pretending to ignore her little crotch goblin from behind her AirPods, but it’s clear by the look in her eyes that she hears everything the shit is screaming.
Fuck me runnin’. She reaches into her oversized purse and pulls out a Gameboy. She hurls it into the kids chest, he catches it, and immediately the kid drops down to the floor stomach first and starts frantically smashing the buttons with his fat little sausage fingers.
She stays silent.
This is Lindsay Troy. This is her life. This is Conor Fuse begging her for candy, and she shuts him the fuck up with a Gameboy. His whole personality is based on the fact that he stayed in his room and played video games his whole fuckin’ life. The guy has Nintendo buttons on his wrestling pants for God’s sake. This kid….this kid is Conor Fuse, age ten.
“Flight 257 to St. Louis is now boarding,” a female voice over the intercom announces.
That’s my flight. Finally. I scoop up my duffle bag and throw it over my shoulder and take one last look at that fat shit’s mom and give her a wink. She tries to hide a smile behind whatever bullshit novel it is she’s reading and ignores me. But I saw the smile, and she knows I did. She’s not the most attractive woman I’ve seen. Hell, she’s not the most attractive woman in that row of chairs. I mean, she’s hotter than Lindsay Troy…but who isn’t?
I walk my ass across the staging area and get in line behind some dumb fuck who is talking on his cell phone. He’s not just talking on his cell phone, though. He’s being way too fuckin’ loud for a public area. This shit drives me up the fuckin’ wall. It seems every airport has about 50 of these guys just walkin’ around gabbin’ it the fuck up.
My thoughts drift back to the fat shit little kid and his mother. The thought of her makes me wonder how Conor Fuse’s parents must have felt. Embarrassed? Ashamed? Worried? Why would a perfectly capable boy stay inside the house all day? Was he bullied? Was he mentally unfit to handle the real world?
The questions are of real concern to me. Why did he play video games his whole life, instead of venturing out into the real world? Maybe I can beat it out of him? Maybe that’s exactly what I’ll fuckin’ do. What the kid needs is a father figure. A hard nosed disciplinary type. I know someone who could fulfill that role, his name is…
Fuck, I lost my train of thought. The loud mouthed hosebeast from behind the check-in counter shouts my name. I look at the guy behind me in line, and grit my teeth. He’s visibly shaken which means I’m definitely getting my spot back in this line.
“What is it?” I ask, dropping my duffle bag to the floor behind me.
“Sir, we’re going to need to see your boarding pass.”
“Airline policy, sir. Can I please see your boarding pass?” Her tone reminds me of Lindsay Troy. God damnit.
I search quickly through my pockets and then realize…it’s on my fuckin’ phone.
“Shit.” I reach into my pants pocket, pull my phone from my pocket, open up Apple Wallet and shove that shit two inches from this blithering cunts face.
She doesn’t flinch. She sarcastically smiles instead, and brings the scan gun right up to her face and scans the QR code on the boarding pass.
“Thank you, sir. You’ve been upgraded to first class.”
I don’t really care for first class, but this is just the perks of the Best Alliance I suppose. I’d rather sit in the back of the plane and piss and moan the entire trip, but I could use the elbow room and a cold beer.
I don’t thank her. My expression doesn’t even change. I just put my phone back in my pocket, pick up my duffle and walk over to the first class boarding area, relieved that I won’t have to listen to that fuckin’ jack wagon talk on his cell phone anymore.
It seems like hours pass before they open the door to board the plane, but finally they open the door like we’re about to fuckin’ board Apollo 11. But we’re going to a place far dirtier and more desolate than the moon…we’re going to fuckin’ St. Louis.
One by one, like Soldiers headed to war we board the plane. We’re greeted by brand new veneer teeth and Aquanet sprayed black hair and shown the way to our seats. I shove my duffle bag into the overhead bin and plop my ass down in the faux-leather gray seat that I’m assigned to.
This is the best part of sitting first class. You board first, and you get to stare down the shit show that files into coach and cram their asses into their seats, shoulder to shoulder like sardines in a can. Maybe I do like first class better.
“Excuse me,” the flight attendant says, placing her hand on my shoulder. Her bleached white teeth nearly blind me as she smiles big.
The joyous look on her face quickly turns into a scowl.
“The pilot would like to speak to you,” she says in a tone I haven’t heard since my wife caught me banging the chick down the street a few years back.
I wink at the broad…but this one…she doesn’t smile. She scoffs, flips her hair and storms down the aisle. She mutters something about a sexist prick under her breath, which is weird cause I haven’t heard any raucous on the plane.
Reluctantly, I get up from my chair and walk down the aisle myself. I’m too wide for this tiny plane – it’s a fuckin’ 747 – and my shoulders bounce of the back of every head on the way through. I don’t turn sideways. Why? Cause fuck ‘em. That’s why.
I make my way to the cockpit and give the door the ol’ single knuckle two knock. The pilot turns around and as soon as he sees me his face lights up.
“Steve Solex! What in tarnation are you doing on this flight?” The heavy accent is annoying as fuck. At least it’s real though. Can’t say the same about Zeb Martin’s bullshit, douchebag, fake ass accent. Fake ass country boy. God damnit, I hate that fuckin’ jerk off.
“Well, let’s see Cap. I’m on my way to St. Louis for Refueled, and to beat the fuckin’ breaks off those 214 fucks.”
“214? Like DD-214? Section DD-214?”
“Exactly like that.”
The pilot scoffs and laughs in the direction of the co-pilot. His southern pride is showing and just like that my brain goes to Zeb Martin.
I’m back in 2020, and wheeling that stupid little country bitch down the ramp to do some commentary. Fuck. That dude was insufferable about that shit. Zeb just had to do commentary that night. He couldn’t let me have the spotlight at all, could he? And to top it off, the motherfucker was all hopped up on some kind of pills or someshit. I don’t know what the deal is with that dude. Grant him the serenity, God. Grant him the courage to change the things he can, and accept the things he can’t change. I despise drug addicts. That’ll make the whole thing better.
I throw up the deuces to the pilot, who has seemingly run out of any more conversation, and head back to my seat. I recline my seat back and flop down the tray table before take off, like a boss. Fuck those stewardesses, I don’t give a flyin’ fuck. See what I did there? I throw my AirPods in, turn on the noise canceling feature, and put on some Larry Fleet.
The flight is a bit delayed, and I have to meet Byrd at some shit hole bar in St. Louis by 2pm. It’s not that I have to be on time, but I’ve got a disorder when it comes to punctuality. I’m a Soldier, what the fuck do you expect? Not that you would find that level of discipline in today’s Army. Fuck, no you wouldn’t. These days you’d find runty shitheads like Conor Fuse and Zeb Martin bitchin’ about deployments and field time. Imagine Conor Fuse in the middle of fuckin’ Baghdad. That pale bitch would be burnt and blistered in ten minutes. But don’t forget about Zeb. That fake country gash wouldn’t know “gee golly wut ter du if he didn’t has hims fishin’ stick.”
I must have fallen asleep, cause we’ve just landed. My in flight meal still sits in front of me on my tray…I never even saw this shitstick Chicken Cordon Bleu that looks so vile, Max Kael is literally turning over in his grave.
I gather my shit, exit the plane and head out of the airport. I head out front and hail down a taxi; cause fuck uber. The cabbie takes me across town and drops me off right in front of some hole in the wall. I don’t even bother looking at the name on the sign; I’ll never be back here. I used to be the shit hole bar guy, but that’s the man I used to be. Not the man I am now. Byrd had reached out to me before I left Chicago to see if I had time to plot and scheme about how we can take these two shitbags out on Saturday. So, here I am.
A thick layer of smoke hovers three inches below my neck. The light from the shot out windows gives it a cool effect, but I’d rather not breathe in smoke these days. I’ve got issues…I don’t want this to trigger them. But that’s really beside the point right now. I look to the corner and see Clay Byrd sitting alone in a booth; a glass of whiskey in his right hand and the cowboy hat tilted forward, covering his eyes. I order a brew at the bar and tell the bartender to send it over to the booth when it’s ready. She nods and reaches under the bar for the bottled beer. I don’t stick around for the pour and head to the table.
“Ready ta break some necks?” Clay asked me confidently in a REAL country accent. Nothing like that bitch Zeb Martin, fakin’ the funk more than Milli Vanilli. That’s an 80s joke fuckers, get over it.
“Always ready to break necks, buddy.”
“Besides hurtin’ them we need ta talk ‘bout how we’re gonna take care of these two chucklefucks. I want it ta be painful, I want ta make an example of them,” he sees between gritted teeth.The barmaid appears shook by the look on his face as she slams a frosty mug of ale right down in front of me and hustles back to the bar.
“I don’t think it’s going to be that much of an issue, Clay. These fuckin’ guys don’t know what’s coming there way. We can talk hip tosses and headlocks, or we can drink these drinks, find us some strippers and get this night started!”
“Steve, these kids are all fired up. Momma Troy has them drinkin’ the kool-aid, spittin’ fire, has them ready fer battle.” Of course, he brought that bitch up. He’s trying to get me fired up and truth be told, it’s working.
“They don’t have a clue what’s comin’ fer ‘em, that’s fer damn sure. But, I didn’t realize the two idiots were comin’ fer my skull with a chair either. I just wanna make sure were on the same page in there,” I pound the rest of my beer and slam the mug down on the table and quickly hail down the barmaid for another.
“God damnit, Clay. You just know how to get me all riled the fuck up, don’t ya? Hip tosses and headlocks it is…asshole.” We both laugh it off and get right down to business.
The scene fades.