Stuck at Schönefeld with an Airport Fly

And here I am, locked in the humiliation and ostentatious luxury of purchasing a beer for €3.25 whilst the overlords of the aviation inferno smirk on for my predictable avarice and sloppy living. “Yes, go towards the pilsner, you wretched tart, go and bathe yourself in our wheaty piss water, heh heh heh, and you’ve got toilet paper stuck to your shoe. Did you know? Course you didn’t, you fucking lush.”

The general mood is one of lethargy and arid existing, with a sheen of sweat, much like a saucy currywurst. The only animation comes from an intensely annoying British couple who look like they’ve wandered out of a B-list perfume advert and are looking for the nearest poppy field to resume their pasty, whimpering, lovemaking. They exuberantly sweep around in silken shirts which I presume are the same sort Daisy Buchanan was wailing about. Damn, I’ve made myself angry again. Fucking hated that paisley bitch.

The voice of this poorly manufactured buttplug of an airport announces they are very sorry for my flight’s delay. They don’t sound sorry. There is no sincerity. No, not in a place like this. I wearily watch a large bluebottle fly rest on a desperate ham (it is.) and mozzarella (it fucking isn’t.) sandwich and realize it is truly the only sincere one of us all.
I observe it for some minutes. Time drags on.

I wonder if an orgy would possibly penetrate the sheer monotony in which we airport hogs all currently reside in. No, no. Obscene. But maybe… no, god. Hm… possibly? But nah. Impractical. Logistics. Difficult.

Mind drifts. Ham, fly, fuck that’s a big hat, shit, that’s loud Spanish, big spoon, keyrings, pineapple, people smiling… the fuck is wrong with you, beer backwash, heat, tits, his tits, airport, me, flux, delay, death, ashes.

The fly, giddy with elation and bloated with his rusk, essence of ham, and Frankenstein cheese meal buzzes off to the countertop and appears to take a breather, clearly overwhelmed by his feast. He pauses, I like to think he is reveling in the fact that this is the best interlude of his brief time on this hapless planet. He is full, warm, content. A second.

The almighty plastic swatter descends from the meaty fist of the shop assistant. He is crushed, a smattering, fly pudding. She thrums with victory. His remains are hastily removed with a napkin and dumped unceremoniously into a nearby bin. The equilibrium is restored. We are all winners. We are all losers. No one is getting out of here alive. We’re in the belly of the beast and either shitting or regurgitation are the only means to salvation.



I’m off for a piss now.

Fuck this airport.

…ooh, pretzels!


Text: Felicity Edwards

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