THE DETHRONEMENT of Paul I. Ticians -- Chapter 1 - UNFINISHEDUpdated: 2014-03-07 22:13:22
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Paul I. Ticians
By J.G. Kyker
THE DETHRONEMENT of Paul I. Ticians
Copyright 2013 by James Kyker AKA J.G. Kyker
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form whatsoever. For information, address J.G. Kyker in the comments below.
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ALL CHARACTERS ARE A CREATION OF MY IMAGINATION AND DO NOT REPRESENT REAL-WORLD PEOPLE. IF BY ANY CHANCE, A CHARACTER RESEMBLES SOMEONE IN REAL LIFE, IT IS UNINTENTIONAL. IN OTHER WORDS, YOU FANCY FOOLISHNESS IF YOU THINK THIS BOOK IS ABOUT YOU.
For Will Ted Morals
- oOoOoOoOo oOoOoOoOo –
Chicago, one of the most dreaded airports in America
- oOoOoOoOo -
The gate seat felt uncomfortable, plastic. It emphasized gravity’s unkindliness: its ambivalence toward humanity’s warmness, feeling. Uncaringly, gravity and chair fought to feebly crush and silently compress. No matter how Dan shifted, relief hung out of reach, floated away. He lost his train of thought and tried to picture the dry, air-conditioned swirls of artificial wind dancing above his head.
Dan fought for focus, fought against the annoyances submerging him. He stretched his legs and eyed the gate screen for his flight update and then returned to his book: fiction about adventure and long lost heroes.
He paused and pondered, “Heroes. Adventure. Do we have heroes? Is adventure only fiction?”
The answer partially emerged within deeper thoughts, “Demagogy. Everywhere. Hungry, advertising psychologists; polarizing, political parties; distracting, overhyped news stories; ensnaring, heartless corporate cultures? There is no more romance. No more heroes. No more adventure.”
“Was there ever?”
Frowning over the book's unrealistic romance, he looked up, and dreamed of his own great story, one that would never come. He lulled. Imagination swept him away into a deadpan reverie.
“Why? WHY? WHY!!!!?!?!?!?!”
A few seats over, Dan spied an overgrown weasel. As his eyes shifted into focus, the weasel shifted as well, rolling all over the floor. It sparkled; melted; merged into the crumb-riddled, colorless floor; and became a little girl, 5 years old, squirming, kicking, and screaming: something about a lack of ice cream. Aghast, the crowded gate’s concentration dissolved and sucked toward the rampage.
“Strange?” They all thought at once.
And realizing the situation, “Typical,” they thought and returned to their business.
Dan regained his mind, feeling somewhat accosted, as the little weasel’s tantrum continued.
The matron rolled up a newspaper, smacked the weasel upside the head, and sneered through her gnashing teeth, "Shut up!"
Veins cleanly popped out of her neck before she regained composure, as if nothing had ever happened.
She smiled to her onlookers and blushed, signifying, “Parenthood: I am free of your judgment!”
Dan curled his lip and proffered a cold stare.
“Dorothy!” She exclaimed and then breathed a heavy sigh.
The matron stated flatly at a loss, “Fine. Let’s go,” and rushed off to fill the child’s stomach with more sugar.
Shaken, Dan regained focus as the two scampered away. He eyeballed the pen marks scarring the seatback near him: the words GANGSTA and BEAUTY cut in wild, chicken-scratches. Between them, a purple inked shape seemed to beat like a miniature heart as he shifted his weight. No peace existed in the battle between Earth and gate seat.
His silvery headphones hummed melodies into his ears. The treble itched a little loudly, occasionally pinpricking his eardrums. He kept the volume low enough to tune into the most bizarre show in all of history: the maddening circus all around him. Big-screens blared babble about terrorists; a person sat and another stood; neon fast-food signs shined and blinked; crowds of people poured out of gates and ran away; monitors flashed flight information; jaws flapped, announced, and ate microphones; and fear thickly swam in the air. Fear.
He sensed the fear: those afraid to fly, those afraid of rare disasters. Death: it obviously occupied minds these days more than ever, buzzing around heads like boisterous bumblebees. The nervousness played across faces, exposed the sheepishness.
“Demagogy. Everywhere…” he briefly lost himself in thought.
“Concentrate!” He told himself.
“Forget and READ!”
A man clad in bright, obscene yellow stumbled around his own legs. He wore a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt, buttoned wrong. A straw hat ejected itself from his balding head, and he reached to catch it. It bounced and evaded his grasp, and he fell. Flat upon his face he landed among spectators’ gasps of shock. His red-shot eyes spun to Dan as he pushed-up. The physical exertion hurt him and blood rushed into his face.
“Dah… graze!” He confusedly mumbled.
“DAH grace of a drunken octopus!” Dan laughingly remarked just a little too loudly.
The bald man stood, walked away, and sporadically tripped around the main walkway. Quite a commotion ensued as he entangled the rushing crowd. Vehemently, security emerged and hauled him away until he disappeared into the terminal’s far end, where the black abyss of shadows engulfed everything in sight.
In a game show voice, Dan sarcastically sang in his head, “You just won one fabulous vacation to lo-o-ovely GAUNTANEMO BAY!” And the theme to a popular program, The Price is Inflated, played while he danced his head to and fro.