Chronicles of an Air Traveler

I know I haven't been keeping up on the daily, so here is a long piece to make up for it. This is a rough rough rough draft of the beginning of story I've been working on since August. It is a fictional biography, so please, read it as such. I wont do any more introducing, so please enjoy-

Chronicles of an Air Traveler
-Zac Mallard



Airports- a modern warehouse transcended upon by humans with a hope to arrive at another hanger by a specific ETA. Lives are made and broken in airports. It's 5:00 PM, Eastern Standard Time. The Germans beside me are loud. Scratch that they are "authentic". We all sit inside concourse D of the Charlotte Douglas International Airport in North Carolina. Gate D-10. My flight to London Gatwick is set to depart in one and one half hours. That plane will touch British soil around 1:00 AM EST.
At the gate, a weary and serious, yet still cute and young, adolescent girl sits with her family. Her younger sister is two seats to my left. Questions, unending, come from her. Her jacket reads "GREENBAY DANCER!" with an embroidered Wisconsin around the title. These are the kinds of people you meet in airports.
7:00 AM, London time. I get off the plane and take the Gatwick Express train to Glouster Road. That was almost two days ago, and at current in a pub where you can imagine hooligans gathering before a "Right proper messing", I sit, tired and hungry. My arrival was smooth and I met my host, the lovely O'Hagan Blades, outside her dormitory on the day of my arrival around 9:15AM, wee hours of the morning back home. I had hopes of a hot shower and bed, but those early morning daydreams are dash as she explains her dorms "No Overnight Guest" policy, as she whisks my bags upstairs and sends me about my way in foggy ol' London. This continued for the week. But I digress.
I sit in the pub with fear that if I talk too loud I'll have my teeth bashed out. My burger is rare rare, not kinda rare, a little rare, medium rare, no no, RARE RARE. It makes me feel like an animal.
I wake up in Charlotte Douglas, trip over, account drained. "Yeah, I've been to London" is the only souvenir I return with. The only other effect that surfaced after the trip is an ever pressing urge to listen to and produce electronic music. Upon my return to Charleston I fell into the burdensome habit of smoking buds all day, everyday. My nerves have become a bit frayed, and I sleep lightly and rarely. All of this is causing me to grow thin, much to my enjoyment. My rifle sits beside my bed, creating an odd contrast beside the two turntables upon my desk. School work has taken a back burner to any other option of things to fill my days with. You see, I have the impending fear a revolution will surface soon as America, the last great frontier, falls daily to the humble masses. A constant chorus is echoing through my head. Some people must be destroyed.


I lace up my white Nikes tight around y tired feet. Ahead of them a three mile shuffle, an attempt to aid my self-abused lungs. If your not busy living, your busy dying, right? I set off and my mind begins to clear. While my body works my brain thinks of ways to move me faster. I feel my feet lift and hit. Every step calculated and important. Lift. Hit. Lift. Hit. There is no finish line when you run for fun, just the ever still, ever screaming blackness of the asphalt. After a long enough time, you can confuse exhaustion for enlightenment. As of late I have been curious as to how my body would feel after consuming another humans meat. Of course the person would have to be of superior health, as they'd have to be eaten raw, in keeping with the natural order of the Earth. This creates my dilemma.
Where does one find a person worth eating that is also deserving of death? Of course, again in keeping with the natural order, I would have to kill the person I would eat. Now, it is important that I clearify here that I am not crazy. I dont want to chop the body up into bits and store it under my floor boards, make it up and have sex with the corpse, I dont want to do anything unjust. Just kill someone who should be killed and eat their quadrecepts. I want to experience what being an animal is before death, as birth and death are the only two times in a humans life when we can relate to our animal co-inhabitants, and I've forgot my birth entirely.

I sit in Marion Square, a park in the heart of historic Charleston, South Carolina, the once heart of slave trading America. Its classic, the statue of John C. Calhoun, a well to do, and more than likely slave owning, white male that presides 3 stories above the streets of his beloved city. I would eat Calhoun.
Girls in bikinis lay along the yellowed summer grass, absorbing the last of the summer son as more tall white males parade around, showcasing their abdominals. This is what you are supposed to look like. This is beauty. This is manhood. I smile as I think of crushing one of the barefoot frisbee players with my fists. My stomach growls.