Airline Food

Airline Food

By R. Michael McLellan

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. Looks like we’ve picked a pretty good day for flying. We have a little turbulence over the Texas/Arkansas border, otherwise it looks like clear sailing all the way to Baltimore/Washington airport. Skies are clear, and we’ll be cruising at an altitude of 29,500 feet..."

James Bell turned his eyes out the window and tuned the rest of the Captain’s speech out. He watched the ground continue to fall away; the buildings far below already resembled miniature boxes all laid out randomly on a patchwork of farmland, forest, and grimy lakes. He reflected that airline flight was very revealing of mankind’s excesses. There was no hiding the ugliness that he brought to the earth below when seen from several thousand feet in the air. His ears popped, and he frowned, losing the train of thought.

The DC-9 continued to climb. It was an odd plane, really no more than a large bus with wings. Its seating arrangements weren’t even properly proportioned, with only two seats on the left side and three on the right, instead of the usual three-three arrangement that larger planes had.

He turned to the fellow sitting in the aisle seat and nudged him. "No hard feelings, huh kid? I can’t stand aisle seats."

The young man shrugged and Jim thought, well fuckya, then.

He’d seen it as soon as he began walking down the aisle towards his assigned seat; some weasel-faced little punk had just placed his carry-on luggage in the overhead compartment and relaxed into the window-seat.

Of all the Christly things...

Bell didn’t take no shit from niggers, women, or punks. His daddy had taught him that, and it was just about the only thing his daddy had tried to instill in him that had had any effect.

"I want the window seat," he announced. "Move your ass, punk."

The kid was so shocked by this blunt comment that he could only stare up at the man in his expensive business suit in mute surprise. Jim felt a moment of annoyance. He reached out and tugged the kid’s arm. "I said move it."

The kid had moved aside and proceeded to try to meld his gaze with the forward door that led to the cockpit. Jim wasn’t quite willing to let him go on and do that, so he’d fumbled out this pseudo-apology.

His ears popped again as the boy mumbled an acceptance and returned to contemplating the forward door.

Jim shrugged. Fuckya he thought again, and returned his attention to the land rolling by down below. He thought maybe the plane was beginning to level out. This was confirmed by a soft chime and the disappearance of the Seat-belt lights positioned on the ceiling directly above him. The captain’s voice spoke on the intercom some more, something about how even though the seatbelt lights were off, sometimes injuries could occur from unexpected turbulence, so it was recommended that seat belts be worn when seated.

I get injured, you get sued. Buncha Goddamn niggers running the airline anyway, Bell thought, unbuckling his seatbelt. And I don’t take no shit from no niggers. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He’d just come back from listening to a bunch of old farts discussing the possibility that NFL recruitment might be in his, Bell’s very own future. It had taken several months of busting his balls for an unappreciative coach before he’d been noticed by the right people. It had been that critical play against the Pitt Panthers running back

Give me that fucking ball, or your wife sees the pictures-
last month that had finally done it. Mover and shaker, that’s me. Fucking Dallas. Why the hell did they have to hold the luncheon all the way out in fucking Dallas? He was on his way to a much deserved break.

He eventually drifted into a fitful doze.

Look at those fuckin’ pants. I don’t think anybody but a fuckin’ queer would wear pants like those. Four children, gathered around a hapless fifth, taunting the fifth, tormenting him until the child was near tears. Leading those four was Our Boy Jim Bell himself. He’d always been a
Mover and shaker
leader of any group he was in. Even in childhood, when he’d pick on the fucking nerds and the queers from the Smartboys class up the hall, the other kids participating in the taunting always deferred to his superiority.
God, life was going to be GREAT...
He snapped awake abruptly. The drone of the DC-9’s jet engines and the cramped surroundings served to completely disorient him momentarily. Eventually he remembered where he was. He glanced out the window, but there was a cloud cover now, and it completely obscured the ground far below. Around him people conversed in hushed tones; their voices curiously muted in the small cabin. He shifted uncomfortably in the seat and realized that he had to take a serious piss.

He gave the kid next to him a solid jab in the thigh to awaken him. "Gotta use the facilities," he explained cheerfully. The young punk wordlessly let him out and sat back down. Bell moved casually down the aisle to the First Class lavatories. Upon reaching them, he frowned. There was a fellow waiting for one of the lavatories, and the other was out of order.

Of all the Christly things.....

Bell muttered something about First Class and what it meant to the niggers running the airline and returned to his seat. Something in him took pity on the punk there and he told him he’d sit in the aisle until the bathroom was free.

He shook his head, wondering. He hadn’t dreamed of his childhood in years. Those had been heady times, when he’d always been on top. A fierce wave of nostalgia overtook him and he turned to say something derogatory to the punk when he saw the fellow who’d been waiting for the lavatory step inside and shut the door.


He stood to go wait for the lavatory. He paused briefly and turned to the kid. "I’ll want that seat when I get back. Hear me?"

The kid didn’t say anything.

"Do. You. Hear. Me."

The kid turned and glared at him. Good. Good. Let’s play. But the kid merely nodded and turned back to the window.

Punk. Pussy.

He moved down the aisle to the lavatory. As he did, a stooped over old man stood directly in his path and entered the lav, pulling the door shut behind him.

"You goddamned...." Bell stopped. This was not the place to vent his anger. He returned to his seat took a deep breath and waited for the annoyance to pass.

"Fucking people. No consideration, none."

The punk muttered something under his breath.

"What’s that, kid?"

"I said, you’ve got a lot of room to talk."

Bell laughed out loud (LOL as they say in the chat rooms, what a bunch of fucking ‘net geeks) and shook his head. He had a boyish smirk which he used alternatively to charm the ladies and deride the simpletons in his life. He turned this smirk to the latter effect upon the punk sitting here.

"Do you think I’ve made it this far in life by letting the peons walk all over me?" It was the punk’s turn to laugh. "Boy, you’re something. You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?"

Bell considered a moment. "Yea. Yes, I do." As the punk opened his mouth to speak, Bell waved at his clearly skeptical expression. "No, really. I do. Listen. Do you like the aisle seat? You'd rather look out the window, right?"

The punk shrugged. "Yea. So?"

"Then why’d you move? And don’t say that it was out of consideration for my feelings. I told you to move, and you moved. You gave something up because the better man demanded it. You let me step on you, on your wishes."

The punk looked thoughtful. Bell noted that the status window on the lavatory now read "Unoccupied. He pressed on, standing as he did so. "I wouldn’t have moved, and therefore I would be sitting where I wanted to be. It’s little things like that that let you show people who really runs your life. Now you think about that while I go piss."

"I want you to think about something, too."

Jim stopped, looking irritated. "What?"

"Not everybody would’ve moved." The punk was feeling smug. Bell was sure of it.

"Then I would’ve made him move."

"Sooner or later, someone who’s just a little too big for you, a little too tough for you, or just plain smart for you is going to come along. It’s karma. Justice always happens in the end, and when your life is in the toilet, I want you to remember that."

Jim laughed. "My life will never be in the toilet.

Bell walked up the aisle, still chuckling.

"Fucking Karma," he snickered out loud.


His step faltered at the sound of the lavatory door latching shut. His chuckles trailed off.

The status window now read "Occupied."

"Christ," he said; louder than he’d intended. A little old lady glanced up, her expression first startled, then disapproving.

Someone at the airline will be hearing from me, and they sure won’t like what I have to say. His bladder felt near to bursting again as he slowly walked back and sat down. He was determined not to stand in line like some beggar. When the time came, he was going to get up, walk directly down that aisle, and shut the door behind him, and he was fucking by god going to piss. And it wasn’t going to be in no coach lavatory, either.

"They’re walking on you now," the kid said as Bell sat down. The kid’s expression told Bell that the kid... the punk regretted speaking almost as soon as the words were out.

Bell gave him a smoldering look and said nothing. His need to urinate was a dull, throbbing ache in his gut, and he had to squeeze tightly to keep from going in his pants. He almost didn’t do this in time, and he felt a small trickle inject itself into his underwear.

The thought appeared in his head, unintrusively at first, then with growing insistence.

No one came out of that bathroom before the next person went in.

He almost laughed out loud at this ludicrous thought; forcing out another trickle of urine. He clenched shut on it painfully and sat back in his chair, waiting. That old man got in ahead of you. What happened to the person who was in the bathroom? What happened to the person that was waiting in line before the old man SNUCK ahead of you into that bathroom?

Of all the Christly things....

He stood and walked briskly to the lavatory door. The tiny little window there still read "Occupied." He rapped sharply on the door. "Hey, buddy. What’s going on in there?"

An irritable woman’s voice replied, "I’ll be out in a minute."

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped. It was the senior flight attendant. Nigger. "Is there a problem, Mr. Bell?" she asked.

Bell sighed harshly and did not answer. He turned and walked with the same brisk pace back to his seat.

The punk was smirking.

"You want to wear that smirk into your coffin, punk?"

The punk turned back to the window, but not before Bell saw the smirk widen. He turned back to see a young boy of about eleven walk into the lavatory and pull the door shut behind him.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

He could see the senior flight attendant (NIGGER! Senior flight NIGGER!) speaking urgently to one of the other attendants. He saw her point at him (break that finger for you, bitch), saw the man she was speaking to nod.

He was near to bursting now. He was forced to physically clutch his crotch with his hand to keep from squirting all over himself. He could hear other passengers snickering at his predicament. He glared at the status window of the lavatory four seats up from him. It was because he was glaring at it that he saw the little "Occupied" sign slide slowly (slyly) to "Unoccupied." He waited for a long moment for the door to open, but it never did.

What the hell?

This time it was an enormously overweight woman who was walking towards the lavatory. He watched, fascinated, as she opened the door and wedged herself inside. She managed to push the door shut and after a moment, the sign slid over to "Occupied" again.

What the Christly hell? What the great gibbering fuck? screamed a little voice in his head.

He watched for a long time; slowly becoming aware again of the throbbing of his tortured bladder.

Snick. "Unoccupied." He never realized he’d spoken aloud. The punk gave him a strange look and returned to gazing out the window.

The door never opened.

Now or never, Jimmy-boy. You’re about to gush right into your shorts if you don’t go take care of business.

And he was. The urge to urinate had become insistent, demanding. There would be no more waiting. He stood and quickly made the short walk to the door, glaring at another passenger who was also moving towards the door. The other passenger shrugged and sat down to wait.

As he reached out and turned the knob, the thought came to him that maybe the woman had become stuck in the tiny little lavatory. She was, after all, enormous. As he pushed the door shut behind him, the thought brough an evil chuckle out of him; making him appear to be a mocking parody of those old Bugs Bunny cartoons where the evil Dracula would make the same sinister laugh as he shut the door behind him.

He had his pants down and was urinating in the toilet inside of two seconds. He’d forgotten that the obese woman had just disappeared almost before his eyes. He felt the weight of the world lifting away from him as he urinated. Never in his life had he felt such bliss. It was like the first time you notice that the trees have leaves in the spring, when the air becomes clear and wonderful as the world wakes up around you.

There was a hand sticking out of the toilet.

He shrieked and lost control of himself. Urine splashed all over the wall, his shoes, his slacks.

He got his squirting penis under control and gazed in awe at the stubby fat woman’s fingers as they slowly contorted in agony. His mind simply refused to comprehend that her enormous bulk had somehow been squeezed through that tiny opening. As he watched, a shiny red tendril, itself penis-like, curled up around the hand from the hole beneath. It clutched, twisted, and finally forced the hand the rest of the way through the hole.

Bell backed up against the door, whimpering.

Of all the....

"Christly.... Jesus Christly," he whimpered. Then the tendril was back. With lightning speed, it curled around his wrist and yanked him forward. He opened his mouth to scream, and a second tendril forced its way between his teeth. It undulated obscenely. Dimly, he realized his head was now in the toilet, and the first tendril was making the same clutching, twisting motions he’d seen with the fat woman’s hand.


The tendril squeezed, and with the force of that squeeze, Bell suddenly understood how that tendril had forced the obese woman through that tiny little hole; how he was about to be forced, squeezed through that tiny little hole. Then there was a horrible popping noise, a wet, pulpy sound, and Bell knew no more.

Sam Watt, or "The Punk" as Bell had known him, sat gazing out the window and waiting for the great football star to return.

Damn, what a loser, he thought. Where the hell IS he?

He realized he had to urinate. It was a distant ache, really, not urgent at all. Watt decided he could probably wait until they landed and use the airport’s restroom.

Shouldn’t be problem at all, he decided.

Copyright 1998 by R. Michael McLellan

About the writer in his own words:
"I live in Altoona PA, where I work in a local manufacturer of Hazmat absorbent materials. On my off time, I spend entirely too much time reading, writing, and web surfing. My first published short story runs more along the lines of horror with a good dose of black comedy thrown in for good measure. In spite of this, my true love is science fiction and fantasy, and I can be seen hanging out at the various Star Trek conventions in and around Baltimore and Washington, DC. "

By the way, the "R" stands for "Robert."

Michael can be e-mailed at:

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