2. The Devil’s Doritos

It took five hours- which, because the clock was broken, felt like five years- to work out the misunderstanding; as it turned out, a pocketful of loose change (which had chosen not to make any noise when John had run,) had set off the metal detector. Of course, it took an incredibly awkward strip search to accomplish this, and the sight of a box of latex gloves on a shelf had driven John into a fit of begging and near-sobbing.

Some small measure of mercy had finally been provided, and so no gloves had been used, but John had nonetheless received a stern, very long speech about ensuring the safety of your fellow convict (John had asked what they meant by ‘convict,’ but had been pretty much ignored,) before being given a small box containing the possessions that had been found on his person.

The items were ones John was quite certain he had not possessed at the time of his death; the pocketful of change, which John had stuffed in his pants pocket without counting, the Blackberry, which was missing batteries, a bottle of Advil, and finally a pamphlet, titled; “Moving Forwards, One Innovation At a Time.”

Carefully walking out of the Security Office, the box under his arm, John was understandably more focused on his surroundings, head darting from side to side as if expecting something else to leap out and grab him. Still, once more, the terminal was deserted.

When John passed by a snack machine, he paused, glancing at it; a shining chrome and metal contraption, it was mostly empty, but still had a few chocolate bar and chip selections to choose from.

A snack will probably help settle my nerves… John thought sullenly, shaking his head; Then I can figure out where I am… and, for that matter, why.

Reaching into his pocket for the change, he extracted all of it into one palm and began to silently count the nickels, dimes and pennies as he approached. By the time he reached the machine, he determined he had a dollar and twelve cents. Squinting slightly, he glanced at the remaining chocolate bars, which were amassed along the top two rows.

One dollar and fifteen cents each… damn…

Shaking his trousers and suit jacket in an attempt to force some missed change to reveal itself, he did hear a musical jingle around his left pant pocket. Reaching in, however, he could find nothing; even patting the entire leg turned up no bumps that suggested coins. Worst of all, he was starting to feel hungry.

Irritation turned into mild relief as he saw that the chips, on the bottom rungs of the machines, were only one dollar. Shaking his head and muttering, John straightened and began carefully feeding change into the machine, one coin after another. Once the last coin was in, he keyed in the proper sequence for a bag of regular chips.

Absolutely nothing happened.

After pressing the sequence four more times, John caught sight of the small display just above the keypad.

$.98

“That can’t be right…” Shaking his head, John took a couple of steps back and glances at the floor, seeing if he had maybe dropped any change. He even got on his belly, peeking under the snack machine, but no coins revealed themselves.

After another futile pat-down of his clothing, he finally pressed the change-return slot; he only got eighty five cents back.

When he limped painfully towards the front door (he had given the machine a frustrated kick,) he once more found that he was not alone; standing just inside the door, an impeccably groomed man in a full tux stood, expressionless as he held up a large sign.

On the sign said “John Miler.”

John wandered over, straightening his worn suit jacket self-consciously. He was effectively ignored, even when he stood directly in front of the man with the sign, and it was after a few moments that John cleared his throat loudly.

The well-groomed man turned his head slightly, arching a brow; “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yeah, actually,” nodding, John gestured at the sign; “Think you might be here for me.”

“Are you John Miler?”

A pause, and another clearing of the throat, “Well, actually, no, I’m John Miller.”

“Apologies, sir, but I am looking for a Mister John Miler.”

“…right, well… you sure you don’t just have it misspelled?”

“Sir?”

“The name!” That came out a bit louder than John had intended, and so the rest was virtually a murmur; “I mean, isn’t it possible that you made a small mistake in spelling the name? Which would lead to mistaken pronunciation?”

“Why, sir, are you expecting a car?”

No.

“Yes, yes I am!” John barked, doing his best to look like someone who could order a personal driver on a whim. The fact that he wore clothing which could only have been considered ‘Formal’ or even ‘Presentable’ ten years ago made a considerable dent in this, along with the fact that his entire body was trembling slightly.

Still, after being subjected to a suspicious gaze, the driver finally nodded, stepping back and gesturing to the door.

Nodding briskly, clearing his throat and doing his best to maintain the self-confident façade, John stepped out of the building. He wasn’t terribly surprised to see that nothing outside helped to provide a clue as to where he was; beyond the airport’s deserted runways, there was only a long dirt road and a yellow field that seemed to stretch out for an eternity in all directions.

The car in question was nothing short of a limo, impeccably polished until the black paint job was gleaming in the sunlight. The driver strode to the door and pulled it open, gesturing to the interior and waiting for the passenger to enter.

Climbing into the limo with a small grunt, John dared to hope that maybe things would start looking up.

When the limo door closed, and Miller realized how wrong he was.