Choking Victim

There was a businessman reading the newspaper in his second-class seat. Some guy on a football team had scored a home-run in the second period as the ball exploded with blood across the field. It was his third KO with an overall death count of 5 in one game alone.

Another woman sat with earbuds fastened to her cranium, the subtle bass drum in the song moving her body violently.
The businessman’s suit began to glow as they dimmed the overhead lights to indicate take-off. A steward walked by and asked him to, please, turn off all physical devices. It’s an amazing phenomenon when a Big Shot decides to co-mingle with us middle class folk. Their intelligence helps to fuel our misshapen minds.

I was on my way to the museum, where a long lost relative of mine, Serendipitous Farlow, was on display. The second-coming of ‘Life: Those Who Were Found’, an exhibit of bodies exhumed from previous, unsolved murder cases that were televised on local news stations’ renderings of ‘Cold Case’ and ’24 Hours Until The End’. Student’s had a discount; friends and relatives still grieving could present the contract (or photocopies of) for free admission.

Many of the murders in this particular showing were from gruesome bewitchings of the soul. My ancestor, for one, was found with nothing but a stick of gum in her pocket and a tapestry to cover her bones. She had a condition known as noncutis, her skin starting to peel from the age of 1, ending at the age of 5. I think her family loved her just the same for it; you got good benefits that way. The gene didn’t pass on to her children. They were adopted, as I learned from Cold Case.

I could hear the buzz of a needle from a room in the overhead housing for the stewards. Maybe a stick-and-poke match-up was being held on the aircraft out of sheer boredom. Stewards were sort of the bane of every Level’s existence.

Coffee leaked from a fisherman’s IV once the seatbelt sign finally dimmed. The caffeine gave way just enough to stain his clothes and proceed to seep into the pleather chair. Some passengers inhaled the coaxing smell. Glue was not allowed to cross state borders. The smell of phishsticks flowed throughout the cabin, and some women let out moans of pleasure at the thought of soon sinking their teeth into complimentary trough water vermin.

A few days ago I traveled to the Artifact Hall of Fame in Custer, Michigan, where championship rings and Native turquoise could be touched and educated upon. There was to be a lesson on how universities prospered in the 21st century, until they were no longer of use. I got a peek at a coffee cup that was said to have healing, energizing powers within its mold. I could see some grinds at the bottom of the cup, but when touched, I discovered they were simply drawn in. In the gift shop that day, I was so enamored with a book of pure nonsense text that I decided to buy a video tape of old men speaking about the power of country living in the elevated vacation towns of Colorado.

I could hear a woman speaking to her tape, arguing with the transparent man about all-you-can eat food stops, saying they should stay home for the winter so as to not get any viruses from neighboring communities. Some magic they had begun to practice in the home also warned against dehibernation. The Big Shot up ahead scoffed a little. I saw him type a message of sorts into his recorder, probably to be sent to a co-worker about an upcoming charity trip to help the people of Seattle battle the severe sugar drought. Only Big Shots could do charity work like this, while those on other tiers gained little to no reward in their daily workings.

Keep On Dancin’ came on overhead. Most of us middle classers stood up to dance. Suddenly, the plane began to descend, somewhere.

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