The Hazards of Flying

The airport security officer gave me a sideways glance as he rifled through my duffel bag. His paws were oversized and meaty, like bricks of spam with fingernails jammed in. I couldn't help but imagine they were probably covered in the residue of something - mustard, maybe, or vaseline. Picturing his greasy meat-fingers leaving a trail across all of my belongings made me want to puke blood. I resolved to dump the entire contents of the bag into a fire as soon as I reached my destination, and never look back. I would abandon the life they had represented, and realize my dream of becoming a swami firefighter.

I stopped to think if there might be anything I needed. Family photos: no, no longer meaningful. My only family now was the kiss of fire on my cheek, a love for danger, and the lotus position. My identification papers and passport? Forget it. I would be adopting a new, self-styled name, just like all men who answered the call of the fireman - Flex Fireaxe. My forearms would be the size of cannons.

No, there was nothing in there, nothing whatsoe-

"Sir, can you please explain this to me?"

What?
Oh.
The security officer.

I looked up. The officer had switched from sideways to full-on glancing maneuvers. From his finger, hanging with ironic delicacy, was what was unconcealably the dried skin of a Taiwanese hooker. My face turned white, then red. Behind me I could hear coughs and murmurs of disapproval. My lips parted and the corners of my mouth dragged them across my face into a liar's grin. It was time for my famous charm to get me out of the situation. I raised a finger, coughed *ahem* and began.

"Fuck."

"Sir?"

Fuck!

So much for first impressions. I was up Shit River without a paddle. The only way out now was to lean in and use my hands.

I stopped to analyze the situation. First: the problem. This was simple enough. The establishment's faux-cop had discovered the dried epidermis of a dead Taiwanese prostitute in my duffel bag. I would not be able to burn it, as it was now evidence, and I would probably go to jail.

I stared into the eyes of my accuser. What are your weaknesses, little man? How can I destroy you? I placed him at about five-ten, two hundred pounds. Irish-Italian with a hint of Portuguese, with an accent suggesting a Hawaiian upbringing and education at one of this country's famous Ivy Leagues. His nose had the tell-tale indentations of spectacles, suggesting that I could evade him by standing either very close or very far away. And, in his eyes, I could detect the glint of a broken heart. I took my chances and struck!

"Sir," I said, moving to within a few inches of his face, "do not let your crushing loneliness and feelings of inadequacy bias you in this matter. A learned man with such a rich culture of luaus and pizzerias such as yourself should be able to see the truth: that this is no hooker skin at all. No," I said, backing away as far as possible, "that would be illegal. What you hold in your hands is merely faux hooker skin - an incredible simulation! It is a gift for my fiancee, who loves me more than you could ever imagine...or experience."

I could tell I had pierced his heart. He hid it well, though, and kept a stiff upper lip as he called over a military man armed with an automatic rifle. I quickly assessed him as a ophidophobian clubfoot with epilepsy. Bingo. Hissing like a snake and spitting wildly, I waved my flashlight at the man as I made a break for the baggage conveyor. I curled into the perfect shape of a box and made my exit through the curtain - stage flight. Hahaha!

Suddenly I found myself face-to-face with a short Indian man in a beige jumpsuit who I placed as a secret cultist of Bael with an addiction to frozen snack foods. Clearly, he was confused by my situation. Undaunted, I sat up straight and raised a finger. "Please, sir," I said, my mind snapping into action once more, "things are not as they seem..." I closed my eyes, and dreamed of dalmatians.