WAVE GOODBYE.

THIS IS A SWINDLE OF GRAND PROPORTIONS.

Inside this winged casket, we're all traveling at an astonishingly high altitude. Sandwiched like sardines while the pressure builds, we barely think to reach out after our prescription lenses as they quietly pop out of their cheap imitation frames and dance down the center aisle. The walls are slathered in a humanly stench. The cockpit is littered with mounds of ground up depressants, growing as tall as the co-pilot's reddened ankles. "Brace yourselves." We stand alert and strike a pose in a veil faultiness. Without a care left in the world, we exude thick, salty blood from a punctured sac tucked deep inside our wrinkled little guts; pouring over and filling up. Marinade for the newly-steamed carpet to soak. Calm as cattle we press our cheeks against the walls that confine us. We slowly move our heads back and forth and every which way and silently examine each bristle from the wall's prickly finish as they massage the fine hairs sprouting from our faces. This is a brief simulation of the comfort we feel we're provided by contact. Gas canisters slide out from beneath our seats on thin metal trays. They're labeled with specific instructions, letters large and bold in print. PLEASE REMOVE YOUR PANTS. INSERT PHALLUS INTO OPENING OF NOZZLE. Roughly a finger's width below, a series of illustrations depicting a man thrusting himself back and forth and gyrating his hips is shown in the following steps. The red lights in the aisle are flashing now so they must mean business. The same red lights I noticed were seemingly tacked above each row of seats a while ago. "I hope you've enjoyed your stay." The redness and the brightness of the lights are brilliant and blindingly so. I kneel down to grab the gas can and pull it to my chest, where I'll hold it. I'm anxiously waiting with my pants around my ankles. Finally, out of my clenched eyelids and through the seemingly endless light I realize that beneath the crude illustrations lies one final step: Smile.