"Yes?"
"I'm
sorry to bother you, sir, but you're eligible for a complementary
upgrade." I raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"I'm
in First
Class Premier Premium Plus
already."
"I
understand that, sir. However, Squib-Co
stock went up two points today. You're now a billionaire."
I nodded coolly. I wasn't surprised by this. I'd know early on that
investing in that social networking sight linking well-to-do
pedophiles with children in need of school supplies was win-win-win
(boy, do those NAMBLA guys click on ads for 'Nick Jr!') What I
was
surprised at was her knowing my personal worth.
"You
would know that how?"
I was worried for a moment ex-Mrs. Squib number three was
trying to serve me with papers again. She can have alimony when she
returns one of those implants I paid for. She gets half of
mine, I'll get half of hers.
"We
track the life progress of all of our First
Class Premier Premium Plus
members, Mr. Squib."
"What
sort of upgrade?" She had my attention. Upgrades are important.
"Mr.
Squib, you're now eligible to fly in 'Genuine
Class.'
If you'd follow me, please?" I returned the SkyMall to the
seat-back pocket and followed her to the front of the cabin, making a
mental note to purchase those solid gold shoehorns I'd been looking
at (if you haven't used a gold shoehorn before, you're basically
putting your shoes on like a serf; I highly
recommend
them.) She led me to the cockpit door. The rest of the
passengers stared in obvious envy. They were right to notice me.
Still, the cockpit?
"Oh...
no, thank you. I'd rather not sit in the cockpit," I
said. I wasn't in the mood for practical jokes, not with so many
shoehorns left unpurchased.
"Sir,
we haven't had pilots since the
Regan Administration.
The cockpit is just a hologram to make the lower class feel more
comfortable.
"So
who's flying the plane?"
"We
pay South Korean kids a dollar an hour to fly our jets remotely."
"No
unions.... no
benefits...."
I
was impressed.
"Only
guilds, but they tend to fight with themselves more than us. Also,
they're easily mollified by anyone with a vagina."
I
smiled.
"You
know, you're all right... for a flight attendant."
"Mr.
Squib, in Genuine Class, I'm a stewardess."
She took my hand and led me through the hologram. There was a sudden
gust of wind that blew my just-enough-gray-to-look-distinguished hair
back.
"Temporal
distortion," she said with a smile, "don't mind it."
The cockpit expanded into a larger room. It was decorated with
antique wood, floor to ceiling book cases, and a bar filled with
scotch and bourbon. The heads of various endangered species covered
one wall- my
first time seeing a Sasquatch or a unicorn actually, apart from the
Illuminati's Zoo Sixteen. (You've never heard of it; you
have to be worth at least five-hundred million even to see one of
their 'Sky-Max'
nature films.) Leather high-backed airline chairs as large as a mall
Santa's chair were spaced comfortably around a roaring fire.
The
flight attendant's (-no, "stewardess'") uniform had
grown more form fitting and low cut, and her name tag had changed
from "Tracy" to "Trixy."
"If
I can do anything for you Mr. Squib, don't hesitate to ask," she
whispered throatily.
"Scotch."
"And
a cigar?" She touched my wrist suggestively.
"You
can smoke
in
here?!"
"Yes,
in this room. California billionaires go to a different room."
"Then
yes, a cigar would be quite nice."
"Cuban?"
"But
what about the embargo?"
"The
Federal government has no jurisdiction in Genuine
Class,
Mr. Squib." I smiled at that thought, pushing the recline
button. To my pleasant surprise it reclined all the way back, and I
was looking up at a kindly old bearded man in a crisp apron. He knew
better than to make direct eye contact, which I appreciated.
"Shave,
sir?" He asked.
"And
a trim. Not too-"
"'Short
on the sides, and mind the part.'"
The old man said.
I
was impressed again.
He
went to work, shaving me carefully as Sean Hannity's velvet voice
crooned softly from the Bose Prestige Quantum Stereo. Two
malnourished Haitian boys crawled into the room on their hands and
knees to go to work on my shoes with shine-rags.
Trixie
returned, lighting the cigar between her own pouty lips
like an unspoken double entendre, before putting it into between
mine. She gave me my scotch (rocks; I like my scotch like I
like my women:, bitter, wet, and at least sixteen years old) and
then proceeded to fellate me expertly as I was shaved and trimmed by
the kindly old gentleman. He hummed a jaunty little Rodgers
and Hammerstein tune
as I blew careful smoke rings; rolling my tumbler of scotch in
my hand and studying the ice cubes. I was appropriately,
nonchalantly bored.
And
as I finished both my shave and the other at exactly the same
instant, I had a moment of perfect clarity.
"I
deserve this," I thought to myself.
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