Art: Lonely Jet Seat

Art: Lonely Jet Seat

Sometimes you wanna go where everybody owns a plane…

“Federal Socialists Hotline, Randall Sinclair speaking. How may I direct your call?”

“This is an emergency,” declared self-made billionaire Paul Singer. “I have an empty seat on my jet, and I need someone badly.”

“One moment,” Sinclair said. “I’ll transfer you to the lonely jet emergency companion line.”

Singer wiped the sweat from his brow with a crisp $100 bill. “It’s going to be okay,” he told himself. “They’ll come through. Federal Socialists always do.”

A few hours later, the justice, still in robes and wearing a pair of rollerskates with little flame decals on the sides and a snakeskin crash helmet, came shuffling up to the tarmac gate at high speed. “I came as fast as I could. Where do you need me?!” he called to the security guard. The guard pointed out over the plain, to a jet waiting on the runway.

The justice wasted no time, rolling himself with long steps and hard pushes against the concrete ground, over to the lowered stairway even as he heard the engines begin to twirl, heard the pitch rising to a roar.

“You Singer?” he yelled above the engines as he ran chest-first into the stairrail, where Paul Singer was sitting, head down, fretting.

“Oh, thank you Federal Socialists! The day is saved! The trip is saved!” Singer cried out, standing up and sticking out a stiff hand to shake the justice’s. “Welcome aboard. Would you like some wine?”

The justice’s eyes squinted. “How much does a bottle of it cost?” he asked as the stairs closed behind him.



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