That Which is Unexpected Read online

  Chapter 5: At least be professional about it!

  I must have dozed off because my eyes are closed and I’m stretched out when I hear the gunshot, followed by the screams.

  “Everyone stay seated or this pretty stewardess’s pretty brains are going to paint the pretty walls! Now here’s what’s going to happen” blah blah blah I’m a stupid, politically incorrect terrorist. They’re called flight attendants, you jackass! …wait a second, why am I not more concerned by this? I crack my eyes open the same way Tia taught me to and survey the situation. Mr. Terrorist walks by, dragging the flight attendant towards the front of the cabin. When he is about six feet from the cockpit door, he stops.

  “Actually, a passenger will make a better hostage. SIT DOWN!” He screams at the flight attendant while tossing her into an empty seat as she yelps. He looks at one of the passengers and starts walking toward them without breaking eye contact.

  Teenage female, 5’5”, blonde, blue eyes, body type: slim, Seat position: 3 back 1 right.

  Huh? Okay, that was strange. How did I know that?

  Mr. Terrorist is twenty feet away from me, walking towards his target with a nonchalance that does in no way suggest that he is holding a gun, or that he is spinning said gun around his right index finger. It certainly doesn’t suggest that he had threatened to blow open a flight attendant’s head with said gun less than a minute ago, and he is likely to threaten the girl behind me in the same way. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? If you are going to threaten people with a gun, take hostages, and attempt to hijack a plane, at least be professional about it, asshole!

  …No, wait. That’s not the issue here.

  It is a testament to how fucked in the head I am that I’m more angry about Mr. Terrorist’s nonchalance than about his attempted hijacking.

  I somehow feel that the girl knows that he is headed for her now. All of a sudden, I see myself lifting Mr. Terrorist off of the ground with my left hand and squeezing his face as his eyes explode and goo runs down my hand.

  No.

  This isn’t happening again.

  Not here.

  Then it’s over and Mr. Terrorist is fifteen feet away. I formulate a quick plan, noting the slow and steady rotation of the gun around the index finger of his hand that is closest to me. When he is five feet away, I execute.

  Playing the part of the sleeping passenger, I fake a muscle spasm and sprawl my right leg out into the aisle way, effectively tripping him. I follow up by flailing my right arm out with a groan, grabbing the back of his head and slamming it into the arm rest thrice. I go back to pretending to be unconscious, sort of like Mr. Terrorist, who is currently in the aisle with blood gushing from his head.

  I hear the passengers start to cheer as I continue to feign being asleep. The passenger on my left pats my left shoulder and I, as limp as a sack of potatoes, fall into the aisle onto the bleeding guy as everyone falls quiet. I stay on him for about two seconds before jolting awake and quickly standing.

  “Huh? Wait, what’s going on?” I ask the stunned passengers.

  “Whoa what happened to this guy? Somebody should help him, he seems to be bleeding a lot and—WHOA WHERE DID HE GET A GUN!?” I shout to the passengers, who are still completely stupefied by my little act.

  “Hello?” I ask turning towards the former hostage target, and I hear her gasp in response.

  “What?” I inquire.

  The girl simply points at my stomach and covers her mouth with her other hand as a concerned look plagues itself across her face. I look down to see a red ink blot expanding under my plain white t-shirt. I replay the events in my mind and realize that I had completely missed the second gun shot.

  When I was twelve I read a book of famous last words and that day I promised myself that my last words were going to be book worthy, or at least amusing to put on my headstone, because who doesn’t need a good laugh if they’re in a cemetery?

  “Oh… Shit… Well, somebody tell Hanes that they can’t check off bulletproof on the list of features for their new t-shirts.”

  I was only vaguely aware of my body hitting the floor, thankfully away from the possibly dead terrorist guy. I really didn’t want the last image of me that the passengers were going to see, the image that would be burned into their minds, to be of something that appears to be a cross between necrophilia and prison rape, to a third party.

  Small miracles, right?

  ****