The Mile High Bully

It’s not often that someone wakes up to find themselves falling through the sky and have no clue as to why.

Even as it’s happening, you can’t believe your eyes. As every piece of your being is pulled and tugged at by cold, whipping air, you don’t care though, because you’re concentrating solely on the ground rushing up to meet you.

Screaming doesn’t make a difference, and honestly, you can only blow your vocal cords out for so long until you’re physically forced to stop.

Once you reach a certain point, your attention is finally taken up by your only companion, the chilled rushing wind, which is doing its darndest to scrape at your body, face and lungs. Somehow the regularity of air flapping your clothing lulls you into a surreal acceptance of what’s about to happen.

Then, just when you’ve acknowledged your oncoming death, one of the most senseless thoughts grows like a flickering flame of absurdity blossoming like wildfire in your addled mind. ‘I’m not dead yet; maybe I’ll survive!’ Hope eternal? The will to live? Or maybe it’s just the effects of asphyxia!

As I fell, laughing appeared to be the only logical choice for an emotional reaction. Never in my wildest moment would I have thought this would be the way I’d die! Then again, I don’t believe this method would be high on many non-skydivers lists!

Acceptance brought clarity and peace in a terrifying situation; it allowed me to close my eyes, spread my arms wide and embrace my fate.

Except that’s not what happened.

My newly found clarity disappeared instantaneously when hit with the realisation that my arms and legs were tied to a chair.

At this very moment, my brain finally kicked into overdrive, and I screamed, “What the fu….?” As fate would have it, before I was able to fully express the expletive, my descent stopped. Brains slammed inside my skull as my head violently wrenched forwards whilst my body was yanked backwards.

Is this what dying feels like?

The patchwork quilt of farmland below began to retreat into blurred and muted colours before darkness engulfed me.

*

Pounding blood hammered at the inner sides of my skull. I was sure Heaven did not look like the inside of a cargo carrier, especially since the cargo bay door was open wide with white fluffy clouds and blue sky as a backdrop.

“Hello, Todd.” A male voice filled with evil delight echoed around the grey metallic hull from a box speaker to one side of my feet

“What the fuck!”

“Aww, Todd, that’s the wrong answer, you potty-mouthed moronic simpleton!”

The metallic chair to which I was tied moved forwards on a stripped-back conveyor belt’s chain. Looking frantically around for anything to stop the forward motion, I was severely disappointed as the heels of my boots skimmed across the grey metal.

Falling a second time was just as brain-scrambling and terrifying as the first. Maybe a bit worse because I saw it coming. The quilt of Earth came into clear view as my old familiar friend, the wind, sliced away at my lungs. A baseball bat to the back of the head, followed by my spine being pulled out of my body. The fall this time hadn’t been as long, but its ending had been just as painful. Thankfully darkness greeted me once more as the reeling in began.

*

“Todd. Toddy Woddy. Toddy Woddy Do Do. Are you awake, Toddykins?”

I hate that whining little voice.

Part of my vision in my right eye remained blurry no matter how many times I blinked. Attempting to focus on something other than the open door, blue sky, clouds, or conveyor chain didn’t leave me with many options, so I just looked up at the plane's roof.

The blaring hum from the enormous engines filled the cavernous interior, acting like an internal jackhammer. My stomach vibrated with every thrum, threatening to unload a forgotten meal. I wanted to cry, wake up or die, just as long as some relief was found.

“Hello, Todd.”

It was burning on my lips to give this unknown maniac a piece of my mind, but I did that last time, and I’m not stupid enough to make the same mistake twice.

A quiet “Hello.” Was all I could muster.

“How are you, Todd?”

“To be honest, I’ve been better.”

He manically laughed before insincerely enquiring, “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

I could hear his smarmy little smile coming through every joy-filled stupid word.

I won’t break and scream.

Listen to the wind.

Listen to the engines.

Look at the plane’s frame.

Deep breath, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Aww, Todd, another wrong answer.”

The conveyor chain began moving forwards, dragging me closer to the open cargo bay doors. I bellowed, “No, no, no, no, no!” Digging the heels of my boots on the grey metal made absolutely no difference to my outcome. “You mother fu…” was all I managed to get out before I went over the edge.

I didn’t scream the third time. Gritting my teeth helped a lot as I tried to slowly breathe the freezing air and then brace for the lurch backwards. It hurt just as bad as the first two times, making me long for the bliss of passing out.

*

“Hello, Todd.”

Saliva drooled out of my bubbling mouth as I whimpered, “I can’t take much more.”

“Pretty party dress Todd; pink really suits you.”

Looking down, a garish pink material wrapped my bare legs in its satin embrace. Just great; I’m being tortured by a fetish freak. Can my day get any worse?

“I thought you’d find it funny, Todd.”

“Why?” My quiet sobs were wrenched out of the cargo bay as the wind drowned out the thrumming engines. I just didn’t care any longer. One more ejection should probably do it; then, this horror would be over.

“Todd, I’m just following your lead. Fly be free, my little minion!”

The cruel wind took issues with my apparel. Little pink party frocks don’t protect your nether regions as well as pants do. That and the metal chair rapidly cooling to almost freezing bit at every piece of my exposed skin. Dreading the lurch backwards, I prayed it would break my neck, ensuring this ridiculous but extremely painful form of torture would come to a final end. The lurch hit like a brick.

*

Taylor sat quietly, drumming his fingers on the arm of his cockpit chair, watching his boss squeal with delight. This ridiculousness was getting out of hand, and so to his own surprise, the for-hire mercenary was compelled to comment.

“Mr Harrington, I think this has gone far enough. You’ve proved your point; time to stop now, mate.”

Harrington jiggled on his chair like a kid at Christmas as he watched his victim be ejected from the cargo bay once more.

The co-pilot looked at Taylor and mouthed a couple of swear words.

What could the hitman do other than shrug to signify he had little control over his rich moron employer?

The pilot then indicated, by placing a small black handgun onto his lap, that if Taylor didn’t do something, he and the co-pilot would take matters into their own hands.

Prompted by his battered conscience… and the gun, Taylor once again voiced the general concern of the crew. “Mr Harrington, I really don’t think he can take much more.”

No reaction, just a fixated insane grin on Harrington’s face as the poor beggar in the cargo bay was reeled back in.

Now Taylor and the crew would have to wait until the poor guy woke up, which meant there’d be some new weird request for them to do. It didn’t look good when Taylor mentally rattled off his own crime sheet. Abduction, assault, kidnapping, deprivation and finally, just to top it off, really expensive and weird torture.

“Look at him; he’s actually turned purple this time! Toddy’s face colour totally matches his little pink dress. Haa ha, this is so, SO funny!”

To Taylor's mind, Mr Harrington was so high he was off his tits. Pupils dilated, skin glassy with sweat, cheeks flushed, red eyes full of manic orgasm. Taylor pondered quietly, 'Why didn’t I stay in London?'

“Taylor, how long before he wakes up again?”

“Well, Boss… I guess if you want to be done for murder, then you could just launch him out again whilst he’s still passed out. But if you don’t want to end up an inmate’s little soft pony princess, then I guess you’d better back off and let him wake up in his own time.” The last was shouted.

“Taylor, where’s the fun in that?” Harrington swivelled his skinny frame in the secondary co-pilot's chair, pulling his attention painfully from the cargo hold's doorway.

“Look, Mr Harrington,” The co-pilot caught Taylor's attention, looked down at his gun, and then wiggled his eyebrows at the hitman before the now thoughtful hired gun continued. “Mr Harrington. Can you do us all a favour and just let that poor sod’s brains stop spinning and continue your payback plan without throwing him out of the plane. Not all of us want to go back to Brixton prison.”

“Taylor, you’ve never spoken to me like this before! Frankly, I’m shocked and disappointed at your negative attitude.”

“Mr Harrington, I’ve never had to speak to you like this before because you’ve never lost your bloody marbles like this before.”

Taylor… I love your English accent; you know that’s half the reason I hired you; it adds a bit of class to the whole dirty little affair. But Todd is my archenemy! He deserves absolutely no sympathy at all. He is simply getting exactly what he deserves.”

“Well, that’s perfectly fine, Mr Harrington, and I’m sure the police will completely understand when they shove you in the back of their paddy wagon. But I don’t want to be charged with murder. So, I am putting a stop to it.”

Harrington, a skinny little bantam chicken, who was dressed in one of the most lurid green tracksuits Taylor had ever had the displeasure of laying his eyes on, pointed his pale little finger at his employee as he gathered up his dander. “Oh really! Oh REALLY! How do you think you’re going to put a stop to my payback plan? Hey? Taylor? I pay your wages. You’re medical. Your insurances. You would be nothing without…”

Swiftly the condottiere grabbed his boss's finger, snapped it, and then as Harrington was busy squealing like a little piggy, introduced his boss to a strong right hook. Admittedly the hitman didn’t pull the punch, which must have felt good.

As Mr Harrington’s head slid down the cockpit's side panel, Taylor took a deep and relaxing breath. The pilots, who were all smiles now, gave the happy hitman the thumbs up as they closed the cargo doors whilst he unbuckled himself for the umpteenth time.

Mr Harrington needed to do some personal growth and face his bully.

*

“No, Charmain, don’t use the olive oil; use the really expensive stuff I stole from the spa at the golf club. Yes, that’s right, heat it up with the little candles.”

I watched this skinny, sallow-skinned guy in a lime green tracksuit with the most expensive runners I’ve ever seen up close dribble nonsense out of a fat lip. His whole get-up made him look like a radioactive tapeworm.

“I asked Barbara for the cookie dough, but noooo she won’t let me use it, considering what happened last time. The ER Doctors are soooo judgemental.”

Suddenly, the tapeworm sat up like someone had run an electric shock through his system.

“Where am I?”

“On a cargo plane.”

“Really? Why?”

“I guess ‘cause you’ve been having fun throwing me out of it!”

“Who are you?” His eyes seemed to be rolling around in his skull before he shook his head.

“Todd Clinton.”

“Who?”

“I’m Todd Clinton. I’m the poor sucker you’ve been ejecting out of your plane for the last couple of hours.”

The tapeworm screamed a high-pitched wail at the top of his lungs. “Taylor, you IDIOT!”

The skinny guy then stomped his feet in a temper tantrum, which considering his hands were tied just like mine, was the only form of physical self-expression possible. “Taylor, you stupid British ninny, come down here this goddamn instant, you great big muscled blithering buffoon!”

“What?” called out a guy from the pilot's metal cabin doorway. He had grey hair cut into a military short back and side, piercing blue eyes, and more menacing muscles than one human should possibly own.

“This is Todd Clinton!” the skinny oily-haired tapeworm called out, all full of thunder and bluster, ignorant of the vulnerable situation he was in.

“Yes.” Replied the X-gen killer.

“I, Taylor, do not know anyone by the name of Todd Clinton!”

I was impressed that the pint-size cretin had enough gumption in him to stand whilst tied to a metal chair.

“In fact, Taylor, the instruction was kidnap Todd CLISTON, sedate and tie him to a chair so I can chuck him out of a plane. Todd Cliston. CLISTON, Taylor, not CLINTON!”

“Oh.” The killer seemed to become slightly deflated in his realisation.

“Yes, Oh! Taylor. It was Todd Cliston who tortured me throughout my high school years. It was Todd Cliston who threw me off the high diving board tied to a bungee cord so he and his football teammates could haul me back up and throw me off again. It was Todd Cliston who, on prom night, stole my date by arriving at her house first and then taking her to the very expensive hotel room that I’d worked all summer long to afford. All whilst I remained dressed in a lurid pink short foo-foo dress tied to the flagpole outside of said very expensive hotel, knowing Todd Cliston, not Todd Clinton, was inside de-flowering the love of my youth, Taylor. Todd CLISTON!” Micro-man’s yelling echoed around the cargo hold and rattled my brain.

“Well. That’s a major balls-up, isn’t it!” Taylor’s mouth squirmed as he stalked out of the pilot's cabin to stand before his boss, pointing a gnarled and calloused finger at the little green goblin. “But, should I remind you, Mr Harrington, your handwriting is bloody atrocious! And so, if you want me to sneak into mid-western America into some shitty little town and kidnap the bully of your youth…” Taylor held Harrington’s face between some gnarly fingers. “Write the bloody name in capital letters so I can bloody read it!”

Harrington’s muscle man turned his attention to me. “Awfully sorry for this, mate. The bindings around one wrist were cut with a knife bigger than my arm. “I’m sure we can patch you up and give you a nice strong coffee.”

He stopped, paused and raised a grey, questioning eyebrow. “Maybe you’d like the Swiss Chocolate gift bag I bought from the duty-free shop? I’m sure I saw some very nice toiletries in the plane’s loo, too! I could fix you up with them.” The other arm was cut free from its plastic bindings.

Looking into those cold icy blue eyes, I chose my words carefully. “I am more than most happy to keep this between us on one condition.”

Taylor stood up, his eyebrow-raising dangerously as he ran his thumb over the knife's edge. “Yes….” He drawled in his private school accent.

“Tie that skinny bastard to this chair, so I can eject him out of this plane and give him a taste of his own medicine.”

One side of Taylor’s mouth rose in an evil grin as he turned to face his boss.

“Don’t you damn well even think about it, Taylor! I own you. You do as I say, or you’ll damn well regret it, you blue-eyed ancient walnut!” Harrington’s eyes bludged out from under his slicked-back, greasy quaff.

“Ahhh! Well, Mr Clinton,” Taylor lent forwards and cut my leg straps, smiling like the devil’s right-hand man, “It seems our mile-high bully might be needing that pretty pink dress of yours!”