1. The End

This is the end.

That’s what Jonathan Miller’s first thought had been when he had seen the large truck barreling down on him, driver flipping him the finger as if it were actually his fault that he had attempted to cross the street while the ‘Walk’ sign was on. Most peculiar was that the driver had been a woman; had Jonathan been asked to predict the manner of his own demise, being struck by a crazy male driver would have been near the top of the list (he lived in New York, although he was native to London,) but being struck by a crazy woman driver would have resided substantially lower.

Always thought they were such a level-headed gender… the poor victim thought as the car’s grill caught him just above the kneecaps, flipping him end-over-end across first the windshield, and then the roof. Death was instantaneous, which was actually fortunate, considering the amount of blinding pain he would have been in had he survived for even a few moments.

For the longest time, John’s consciousness floated in a void without substance or texture, and through his mind perpetually ran the same thought; Women were supposed to be nice drivers. In the absence of any physical reality, he was finding some small degree of comfort in focusing with an almost obsessive zeal on this conflict to his normal worldview.

In the small eternity that seemed to comprise his non-existence, he began to wonder if maybe this woman who had killed him had had a bad day; maybe her husband had cheated on her, and she was upset about it. Maybe she had no husband, or boyfriend, and she was upset about that. Maybe she was going through her period.

So focused was he on delving into the psychological reasons he was smeared across a woman’s windshield, he began to forget why he was floating in nothingness to begin with, and he also failed to notice that slowly, subtly, substance was beginning to manifest. Like silt settling at the bottom of a lake, gravity and texture were gradually restoring themselves. John didn’t notice he had knees until he felt them starting to cramp out, and it was only when he opened his eyelids that he realized he suddenly had eyes. That, and there was something to see.

It was an airport. An empty airport, at that.

Looking down at himself, John realized that he was now dressed in a sweat-stained dress shirt, wrung and worn suit jacket and slacks that, for reasons he’d rather not have thought about, seemed particularly worn out in the crotch area. At his side, a large duffle bag lay, zipper open; a quick inspection of the contents revealed more clothes, some paper, pens, and a Blackberry.

“What…?” he croaked, immediately starting to cough; his mouth and throat felt as dry as cotton, and it took him several moments of swallowing and grunting to get some moisture to form.

Not interested in looking over the Blackberry at the moment, John instead picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder, striding in the direction of airport security; he was a frequent flier, and so he could feel the slightly comforting routine of departure settling in; he was fully expecting to pass through security unmolested (since picking on those leaving an airport seemed to be overkill, even in these hyper-cautious times,) so he was more than a little surprised when he was stopped by two burly security guards.

“Sir, can we please see the bag?” One of them asked, even as the second one yanked the duffel bag from John’s shoulder, nearly taking his right arm with it.

As the accosted (and much smaller) John belatedly mumbled; “Yes, yes, go ahead,” the second guard strode to a nearby table and dropped the bag onto it. Opening up, the bruiser rooted around, soon emerging with a small silver object. Striding over to John, he held it up; “Mind telling me what this is, sir?”

“Um… a nail clipper?”

“And this?” A small attachment was rotated until it protruded from the clipper.

“A nail file, I guess… I’ve never used one…”

“Sir, do you realize that this could potentially be used as a dangerous weapon?”

“I’m trying to leave the airport… look, could you tell me where I am, I seem to be a bit lo-”

Cut off by a sharp snap as the guard broke the nail file in two, John could only jump slightly and yelp as his tormentor stomped back over to the bag, turning it upside-down and dumping the entire contents onto the table.

Socks, shirts, and the Blackberry hurled in all directions, the last item actually tossed gently to John as opposed to flung violently from one end of the terminal to the other. The next object that the man held up was, of all things, a bra.

“Sir, is this yours?”

“No! I mean, none of it is mine, but that certainly is not mine at all!” Oddly, even though the terminal had been virtually empty since John’s arrival, a second glance beyond the metal detectors revealed that a sizable crowd had suddenly, inexplicably materialized there, every single one of them glancing between John and the offending brassiere. “I have no idea how that got there. I mean, for that matter, I have no idea how I got here either-!”

“Sir this brassiere has an underwire.” The first guard interjected, the second one nodding solemnly.

“-and I… wait, what?”

“An underwire. Are you aware, sir, that a bra’s underwire could be used as a potentially deadly weapon?”

“Wait, what would I do with that, whip someone to death? Or wrap it around their neck and suffocate them over the course of five minutes?”

“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, sir,” the second guard noted suspiciously.

“I haven’t given it a great deal of thought, you dumb son of a-“

“Insulting a security personnel could be construed as a declaration of hostilities, sir.”

“I believe we should give him the full search,” the first guard added, glancing at the second.

“That would be the prudent course of action.” Came the agreement.

“Wait!” John interjected, waving his hands in front of him; “Look, fine, fine, if you think that the stuff is dangerous, then keep it, keep it! Keep the goddamned bag, too! I just want to get out of here and get my bearings, all right?”

There was a long pause, both guards glancing between John and each other, an apparently complex code of lifted eyebrows, shrugs and grunts passing between the two of them, and a less complex code of glares and scowls directed at John. Finally, they seemed to come to some form of arrangement.

“Very well, sir,” the first guard agreed sullenly; “We’ll keep the bag and most of its contents. You may keep your electronic device. This is your first and only warning, however.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Swiveling on heel, mostly interested in getting the Hell out of there so he could find out where the Hell he was, John all but dashed across the terminal, failing to notice the metal detector before he stepped through it.

Naturally, it went off.

John didn’t even have time for a comforting swear or two before he was viciously tackled from behind, the combined bulk of both security guards driving him to the ground and nearly knocking him out.