“Would you like for me to go ahead and drop you off now, sir,” my driver asks me as we reach the location of that god-forsaken cocktail party I have to attend.

“No, Conrad. Go ahead and find a spot to park. I don’t mind walking. Besides, I need to finish this drink before I go in there. I’ll be completely disagreeable if I don’t have some kind of buzz before I go up there,” I let him know.

“Would you like a Valium or perhaps a Halcyon to put you on your way?” my driver asks as he pulls into a space a good half-mile walk to my destination.

“Not tonight, Conrad. I need to stay clear-headed,” I say, reaching into the inside pocket of my tuxedo jacket and feeling the handle of my Remington Golden Saber. I know I will be forced to switch to bourbon when I get to the party, so I top off my glass of Pyrat XO and spend just a few more minutes in the car enjoying my rum.

“Alright, Conrad. I’m off to go do this thing. You know the drill. Stay put until I get back. And for the love of god, try to stay awake. Believe it or not, I may actually need you tonight,” I say as I open the door and start to climb out.

“Yes sir. Of course, sir,” Conrad says as I reach to shut the door. “And sir,” he calls out. I scramble to keep the door from shutting, and lean my head back inside the car.

“Yes Conrad?” I inquire.

“Enjoy the party,” he says, amused at himself.

“Yeah. Fuck you too, buddy,” I say right before I slam the door. Enjoy the party my ass. Nothing good ever comes from these things. I remember when I used to dream about getting to go to one of these things. Rub elbows with the big swinging cocks of the world and watch them get shitfaced. Now that I am one of these big swinging cocks, I have come to find that the idea of the thing is always better than the reality.

On my half mile trek through the city to the residence of Deputy of the Interior Dobbins, I keep noticing a distinct fear crawling up my spine on to the back of my neck. Dirty city has always made me nervous, and all these people walking past are beginning to frighten me. I know I have nothing to worry about. Aside from the Remington in my jacket pocket, I can clearly see that Deputy Dobbins knows my nature by reputation and has laid out the red carpet for me.

One does not rise to the position I have without being powerfully observant. I have seen a member of the Presidential Police Force every hundred yards or so. They have gotten good at blending in, but I have never had a problem picking them out among the civilians. The woman with the stroller almost got me. For Christ’s sake, they even had a real baby with her. But the way she walked past the bum and touched her left ear, I had her marked. The ones dressed like bums are the easiest to pick out. They stand too tall. No self respecting bum would waste energy on good posture. I notice one more on my side of the street, two doors down from directly across the main entrance of the Deputy’s estate and another one halfway down the block on his side of the street. In my own form of gratitude, I cross the street after two armor-plated utility trucks pass by. When I reach the PPF officer, I punch him hard in the stomach and then again in his right eye, knocking him to the ground. While I’m kicking him in the face, the one from across the street comes running to his aid.

I adjust my jacket, and pull out my handkerchief to wipe the splatter of blood from my shoe when the other guy gets close enough to see who I am and adjusts his course away from me. I throw the bloody handkerchief at the feet of the fallen officer and stroll my way to the front door where I am greeted by two members of Deputy Dobbins’ personal security team.

“Welcome Deputy Ross. We heard we would be graced with your presence this evening. It is our honor to welcome you to the home of . . .” they say as eloquently as they can at this point. I have no time for stammering right now. I have a powerful lust for liquor.

“Shut your mouths, take me inside, and show me where you bastards are hiding the bourbon,“ I say, cutting them off.

“Absolutely sir, right this way,” one says while the other enters some kind of security code that opens the door. Dobbins is keeping security tight these days. But aren’t we all?

To my surprise, the first thing I see is a blonde that can be no more than nineteen dressed in a French maid outfit and holding a silver tray with a bottle of Pyrat XO and a tumbler full of ice. A sudden wave of panic sweeps over me as I calculate that my odds of leaving this compound alive are dropping with every passing moment. I accept this, and pour myself a glass of pure liquid gold. As I take my first good sip, I see this short little blond shit in a tuxedo pass behind the girl, and know immediately it’s Dobbins.

“I am so glad to finally get to meet you Deputy Ross. Your reputation and dedication to the Movement are both noted and respected in this home,” is the bullshit he lays on me. ”Come, let me show you around.”

The Deputy of the Interior proceeds to lead me around his Herculean estate, playing nice. I know the only thing on his mind in his younger sister Samantha, who I had the privilege of meeting through work two weeks back. It seems Samantha had made the mistake of getting involved with the wrong man. She was married to one Kyle Chowning. This Chowning Chap had made a name for himself on the streets as a preacher of sorts. He had amassed a congregation large enough for my people on the streets to notice. If he would have been a run-of-the-mill man with a Bible, I simply would have had my men take him in the middle of the night and put him in The Box for a couple days. After a couple days in The Box, they would have executed him in a very public manner on local pay per view, and that would have been the end of it.

But word got to me that he was spreading some of the old Catholic traditions. I hold a special place in my heart for those who practice Catholicism. I wanted to destroy this man. Really make an example of him. So I got involved personally. I had my men take him from his home in Denver to my home at the Penal Colony in North Texas. I also had them bring the missus as well as his entire congregation. By the time he got to me, the fear in his eyes was gone. He knew he was not leaving this room with the ability to breathe.

“Go ahead and get it over with. I know you’re gonna kill me,” he mumbles out of his half-broken face. The security team did a top notch job of just touching him up for me. Sure, he was missing a few teeth, his nose was broken, and his words were gargled from the blood he had to spit out every minute or so. They got him good and ready for the hell I was about to spring on this poor, deluded sack of Catholic shit.

“Soon enough sweetheart, but first you and I are going to get acquainted with one another,” I say as I motion for my guards to give my newfound friend and I a little privacy. When the guards leave, I see his eyes widen ever-so-slightly and his breathing becoming quicker and more shallow. The Fear has him. “So, I hear you represent yourself as a priest. But you are married, no? You are aware by Catholic dogma you are living a life of sin. Your god will punish you appropriately in the afterlife. But my concern is not your disgrace to your false god. My concern is with the treachery you have committed against my country and the Movement.”

“The worst you can do is kill me. My God will take care of me,” Mr. Chowning says with an air of righteousness.

“Oh, my friend, you are mistaken. Killing you is not the worst thing I can do right now,” I tell him as I unsheathe my fourteen-inch hunting knife. I call for the guards to bring out the surprise party for our guest as I carve a cross that goes a half inch deep from the top of his breastbone to his navel and connecting across his nipples. The blade is so sharp, it practically unzips his chest and stomach for me. He screams in agony and has his head down, looking at his pale skin turn bright red, when the door opens and twenty-two of my highest ranking guards come hustling into the room, each with one member of his congregation in tow. All but the youngest are stripped to their underclothes and have their hands and feet shackled. My guards connect the shackles to the poles spaced four feet apart that encircle my newfound friend and I like a rust-colored circus cage. Mr. Chowning looks up just in time to see his wife dragged into the room, stripped to her underclothes like the rest of them, and bleeding from the mouth. I will have to have a talk with Joseph later on. Unless she got well out of line, she should have been scared shitless but in mint condition like the rest of them. There is no excuse in my book for useless brutality to women. Once all the pieces are in place, I send all but my three most trusted officers to go about their daily business.

“Are these faces familiar to you, Mr. Chowning?” I ask. “Of course they are. These are the people you have poisoned against this great nation. You are all guilty of treason, and this is an offense against the Movement punishable by death. Susan!” I call, and one of the guards brings me my quiet piece. I step over to the Davis’ twin daughters who are both fully dressed and blindfolded. I close my eyes and take a deep breath to prepare myself for what comes next.

I point the gun towards what would be Tracie’s forehead and pull the trigger. My head gets tight, and I have to remind myself to stay focused on the task at hand. Her parents scream, and before her body falls limp to the ground, I shoot her sister in the right temple. Guilt clinches my stomach like a dry heave. I had Conrad take down all the mirrors already. On July 14, they would have celebrated their eighth birthdays. Not anymore. I always make sure the children are blindfolded and taken care of quickly in the beginning. No need to make them see this wretched place I call my office. Before the girls ooze too much blood on themselves, I have two female officers of mine come in and take the girls to the oven I use for my fallen guards. Unlike the rest of these lost souls, these girls will be properly cremated. Later tonight, I will fly to Denver to spread their ashes in the stream that runs behind their house. Until then, I cannot afford to let this guilt take over me.

I regroup and ask Moyer to go grab Lucille. He quickly returns with my .44. These people will not receive the same compassion as the girls. No silencer. No shot to the head. I walk down the line, shooting everyone either in the gut or the kneecap. Both areas create excruciating pain, and the high caliber gun ensures severe blood loss. Mr. Martin goes into shock, and the weight of his body falling pops his shoulders out of socket. The sound this creates even makes me grit my teeth. It takes me the better part of five minutes to make my way around the room, because I have to reload three times. I make sure I leave Samantha well alone for now. I don’t want to make the rest of the congregation see what I am saving for Mr. Chowning. After I listen to them scream and cry for fifteen minutes, I get jaded, and decide to let them out the easy way. I walk down the line and give them each a point blank shot to the face. I send Joseph to get a few more men to help us drag the bodies to the incinerator. When all the bodies are in place and barbeque smell of Texas mesquite and burning flesh fills the room, I have them leave. I put the gun back in its place and grab my hunting knife.

“Do you ever listen to K-Billy’s Super Swinging Sounds of the Seventies?” I ask, knowing full well this will only confuse Mr. Chowning. I turn on my sound system, and “Stuck in the Middle With You” comes on. I do my best Michael Madsen as Mr. Blond dance on my way to Mrs. Chowning and proceed to slice off what is left of her clothing, making sure to cut a little flesh along with it. Blood is pouring from a gash in her chest, right between a respectable set of breasts, and another stretching from just under each hip to her love handles. Twenty-two pools of blood are starting to trickle their way to the drain in the center of the circus cage forming clay colored spokes. This makes me think of bicycles, makes me think of the girls. I am unsure whether it is the guilt or the smell of burning bodies, but my stomach is in knots and it is all I can do to keep its contents where they belong.

I am about to get Lucille and finish her off quickly when Chowning starts screaming all the usual: “Why are you doing this to her?”; “I’m the one you’re after. Kill me.”; and “No!” Spare me. When I look at him, the blood around the wound is coagulated and starting to turn black. He sees me and spits a mouthful of blood in my direction. Guilt and nausea are replaced by anger and hatred, and I forget about the girls. I turn around and slice off Samantha’s nipples along with a third of each breast. The sound her flesh makes as it splashes in the blood below reminds me of standing in line for the slop in the mess hall. Finally, he screams my three favorite words.

“You sick fuck!” he gurgles at me through tear-stained eyes. I see his eyes move from me, to the knife, to the chunks on the floor, to his wife, naked and covered in her own blood. Then I see him vomit, and I think about Linda Blair.

“Sick fuck? So you think that’s as far as I will go?” I ask as I wipe some of the blood from my knife on my right pant leg. I remove Mrs. Chowning’s shackles from her post and throw her to the ground which is covered in blood a half inch deep.

With Mr. Chowning left useless, I proceed to mount his wife and sodomize her with fourteen inches of razor sharp surgical stainless steel. This brings the struggle out of Mr. Chowning, and he tries to fight his way through the shackles. This aggravates the cross-shaped wound on his torso, and he lets out a cry of agony which puts a smile on my face. I turn to see how my guest is enjoying the show as a warm spurt of blood hits my cheek and runs down cold to my chin.

She is practically dead at this point, so I put on my best Patrick Bateman, slit her throat, and reinsert my steel handle deep. I give it a good twist as I say to her husband, “And you thought me killing you was the worst I could do.” I laugh at the absurdity of the whole thing. I do have to give the son of a bitch some credit, though. Throughout this whole ordeal, he never passed out, and he managed to strip his wrists to the bone trying to save his wife. It was touching. Really.

After witnessing such atrocities, this man deserves a quick, clean death. This is a luxury I choose to deny him. I instead pull out my cat-o-nine and do him something nasty. I close my eyes hoping this numbness will disappear, and when I open them I am facing myself. I give me twenty-two lashes: one for each life I took tonight. With each lash, I pull back chunks of flesh, and the pool of blood in the Workshop swells. I close my eyes, but when I open them this time it is Chowning again. I spit in his face and leave the room.

“Go let him down. Let him bleed to death with his wife’s corpse,” I tell the two guards waiting on the outside. Much to my bewilderment, I later discovered Mr. Chowning lasted another thirty-five agonizing minutes. Despite his lack of mental capacity, I have to respect his will. Three days later, I was invited to this cocktail party. Two days after that, I come to find that Mrs. Kyle Chowning used to go by Ms. Samantha Dobbins, as in Deputy of the Interior Dobbins. Rest assured, I did not want to come, but he is my boss of sorts, and turning down the invitation would have been detrimental to my career. Besides, Big Man likes me to the point where I should be untouchable. But the fact that Dobbins had a bottle of my favorite hooch waiting on me raised a few red flags. I am almost certain he will avoid killing me directly, but there is a certain uneasiness in the air.

“Is everything alright Deputy? You seem a might bit anxious,” Dobbins says, bringing me out of my daydream. I just hope he does not notice the tear running down my right cheek.

“This sort of thing is not exactly my glass of rum, if you catch my drift,” I respond. He continues to lead me through one extravagant room after another. We have been weaving through a sea of government officials, their wives and bodyguards for the better part of an hour, and we still have yet to see the entire first floor. Dobbins keeps stopping to make small talk with various members of Congress. I find it humorous that everyone merely tolerates him and becomes excited when they recognize me.

“Why Nicholas, you failed to tell me Deputy Ross would be here this evening. How exciting! Deputy Ross, you are a man who commands respect for your contributions to the Movement. I am honored to meet you in person,” some mid-level chump in the Interior Department says while reaching out to shake my hand. Running into people like him is what makes me loath these godforsaken cocktail parties.

“I am sure it is,” I say, ignoring the hand extended toward me. “Dobbins, what do I have to do to get another glass of rum in this shithole?” He motions to an eastern European looking broad in a French maid outfit.

“Bianca, go and fetch the Deputy his bottle of rum,” he says to her while slapping her on the ass.

“I do have to say I am impressed at your taste in both women and booze. I usually have to drink bourbon at these things. Who told you what I drink?” I ask, genuinely curious.

When the bastard just smiles and says, “I know quite a bit more than I lead on sometimes,” I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know full well that he cannot kill me here, now. Killing someone like me takes a lot of time and approval. I should know, I had to go through this process before I did away with Dobbins’ predecessor.

Bianca returns with the rum, and for a moment I forget about Dobbins and his plot to do away with me. I pour myself another big glass of rum on the rocks.

“So what is this I here about a fountain?” I ask Dobbins.

“We are almost there. It is a sight to behold,” he assures me. Twenty yards down the hall, I see a wide-open room radiating with bright light. As we approach the spot where the ceiling stops, I can hear rushing water.

“I am rather proud of this,” he lets me know right before I see it. And it is everything I thought it would be and more. As we walk out of the hall, we enter a great room. It must be one hundred by eighty feet, and there is nothing between the floor and the glass ceiling of the third floor. There is a grand split staircase that leads to a second floor balcony. The staircase frames one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. A giant marble circle that must be twenty feet in diameter and three feet tall with twenty-one marble replicas of M16s shooting water at a fifteen foot statue of Big Man in the center. A tinge of jealousy floods over me until I realize the expense that must have gone into building this great structure and this stately home. The Movement should not stand for such things, but I am not in control. My opinion is heeded about as well as I heed a cry for mercy. A bit of relief washes over me as I realize Dobbins will not make it much past his thirty-fifth birthday if he keeps this sort of thing up.

This feeling quickly dissipates when I look to the railing overlooking the fountain and see her. At first, I was not so sure that it was Katherine. After all, it has been five years since I last saw her, and people change. Especially in the times we are living. When I caught a glimpse of her profile, I knew it was her. The way she held her martini glass gave her away. The fact that she is here gave away Dobbins. She still has not seen me, so she has a chance. But if we get alone together, I know she will not make it out of this place alive. I have no idea when or even if I will see her again, but I know I must avoid her tonight if I want to.

“It’s breathtaking, really. What an amazing piece of art. Did I see Admiral Teaff earlier? I would really like to talk to him. It’s been a dog’s age since last we spoke,” I say, trying to make a clean getaway before Katherine sees me.

“Yes, I believe he is out on the balcony having a smoke. Let me show you to him,” Dobbins responds, giving himself away to me. I swallow the last half of my rum in one big gulp.

“Maybe in a few minutes. I need another drink,” I say, hoping the rum is inside.

“Not to worry, Deputy. I have a fully stocked bar on the balcony. Besides, it looks like you could use a little outside air,” he says while leading me to the staircase. My stomach churns in knots, and my heart sinks with every step we take toward the summit. I make sure I put Dobbins between myself and where Katherine is standing, but I know it will do no good. I am a good six inches taller than he, and I know she will be looking for me. It has been five years since we last saw each other, and almost that long since we have spoken.

When we reach the top of the stairs, I take a hard right and move straight for the bar. Upon my approach, the barkeep starts pouring me a glass of rum on the rocks. She has not seen me. Maybe, if I get out of this quickly enough, she will live to see me another five years down the line.

“Look who I found for you,” I hear Dobbins say from behind me. I turn around to see two familiar faces from my youth: Admiral Jay Teaff and General Nathaniel Coleman.

“Holy shit, my brothers! It has been years since I have laid eyes on you bastards!” I scream as I wrap my arms around them.

“Allen, damn. It’s been what, almost ten years?” the General asks, his breath reeking of Jack Daniels and Marlboro Lights.

“No, Nathan. It’s been twelve long years. Chicago 2023. We took out those fucking yuppies, remember?” the Admiral answers for me.

“Oh yeah. We did a number on those motherfuckers,” Nathan recalls.

“I won’t impose on you gentlemen,” Dobbins says. “I have a party to host, and it
sounds like you have some catching up to do.” He shakes our hands, and bids us farewell. As soon as he is out of earshot, I turn to my good friends and tell them about the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“He is after me. There is no doubt in my mind that he has something nasty brewing for me,” I tell them.

“That little pig-fucker doesn’t have the stones to come at you like that. He knows who you are,” Nathan says before taking a huge gulp out of his glass of Jack Daniels. It comforts me to see that his rank has not changed his character in the least. He is still that hard drinking Neanderthal I met nearly thirty years ago.

“I ran into his sister a couple weeks back,” I tell them.

“Big fucking deal, so you laid the meat to her. He isn’t going to come at you for that. It will never get approved by the higher-ups,” Jay says matter-of-factly.

“At work you asshole. I ran into his sister and her husband at work,” I clarify. “Need I remind you of my job description?”

The jovial looks on their faces immediately turn sour as the gravity of the situation hits them.

“What the fuck did you do?” they ask in unison.

“You know I am not a fan of giving the details of my work. Let’s just say that her husband was running a Catholic church out of their home in Denver,” I tell them, knowing they will understand. “I know he cannot come at me directly, but I have this nagging feeling that something terrible is going to happen tonight.”

“The worst thing that is going to happen tonight is the bar running out of Jack Daniels. You worry too much Allen. You’ve always worried too much. What you need is a shot and a smoke,” Nathan says. A shot and a smoke has been Nathan’s answer to everything for the past thirty years. “I’ll be right back,” he says en route to the bar. Jay and I watch from the distance as Nathan berates the barkeep.

“He hasn’t changed a bit,” I remark as Jay and I see Nathan pounding his fist aggressively on the counter.

“He’s still the same crazy bastard he always was. He just happens to be top brass now,” Jays says as Nathan returns with three shot glasses and a tumbler full of Jack Daniels.

“Can you believe that cunt took so long to pour these? Had to use my power of coercion to get these fucking shots,” he says as he hands Jay and I our shot glasses. “To the Movement,” he says, raising his glass.

“To old friends making new enemies,” I say, raising mine.

“To cheap bourbon whiskey,” Jay chimes in. We clack glasses and shoot the horrible stuff. In old form, we throw our glasses over the crowd of fifty or so people between us and the end of the balcony. The noise from the crowd is loud enough that we cannot hear them crash on the streets of New York.

“I am so glad I ran into you two. Such a relief seeing familiar faces. How have things been on the military front?” I ask.

“The same,” Nathan says. “How have things been on your end?”

“The same,” I say. We quickly change the subject from work to our personal lives, and we drink heavily and chat for the better part of an hour. For a while I actually forget about Katherine and the Dobbins situation. Then a voice from behind me snaps me back into reality.

“Allen? Is that really you?” I need not turn around to know who is standing there. I turn around and pretend to be pleasantly surprised.

“Katherine. It has been too long since I have seen your face,” I say. She sees right through my bad acting.

“I know you saw me earlier. Are you too good to come talk to me these days?” she asks in that tone of voice she gets only with me. Jay and Nathan know the score, so they politely excuse themselves and leave the two of us alone. I give her a good once-over before we embrace. Five years disappears in ten seconds.

“So, what ever happened to that no-good husband of yours?” I ask, unable to contain a smirk of satisfaction.

“Don’t give me that shit. You know full and well what happened better than I do,” she says. Her late husband was a brute as well as Dobbins’ predecessor. “I have to admit I’m still a little irritated with you over that. I could have taken care of him myself.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Come on, Allen. I found him propped up on my perfectly made bed with his dick in his mouth. It was obviously you. I’m not dumb. No one but you could have gotten away with doing that to a Deputy of the Interior,” she says, making a valid point.

“I normally try not to mix business with pleasure, but sometimes even I have to have a little fun.” We both chuckle and look down to find empty drinks. We turn to head to the bar, and I put my left hand on the small of her back and guide her through the crowd. When we reach the bar, she orders for us.

“I’ll take a vodka martini - extra dry, and he will have a rum on the rocks,” she leans over to tell the barkeep. The dress she is wearing makes my mind wander twenty years back and three thousand miles southwest.

“Remember that time in San Francisco? We smoked a joint and watched the sun set on the Golden Gate?” I ask her.

“Allen, you always remember the worst times. Yes, I remember. How could I forget?” she responds with a smile.

“That was before you graduated to drinking chilled vodka. You had been making yourself those damn raspberry martinis all day. By the time we got to the bridge, I was afraid you were going to fall over the edge,” I say all but laughing.

“That joint didn’t help things much,” she interjected.

“At least you puked over the edge,” I say. In the heat of the moment, I forget all about Dobbins. Katherine hands me my glass of rum and points to a secluded corner of the balcony.

“I need a cigarette,” she says, and I follow her to the spot she had pointed out. “It’s good to see you again. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too. We need to not wait another five years before we see each other again,” I tell her.

“I know. Hold this for a second, honey,” she says while handing me her martini glass. She removes a metal cigarette case from her purse and pulls out a cigarette for each of us. She lights hers, then puts mine in my mouth for me before she lights it and then grabs her martini.

“Thank you sweetheart,” I say, genuinely appreciative. “You know, Katherine, I haven’t seen you looking this beautiful since the night before your wedding.”

“Allen, you’re so sweet.” The familiar words roll off her tongue. She gives me a peck on the cheek for the first time in as long as I can remember. “There is so much we have to talk about. But all in due time,” she says before turning around to face the street. She takes a sip out of the martini in her left hand before taking a long drag of the cigarette in her right. As she exhales, the corners of her mouth start to curl up to form a smile. She turns her head to say something to me when the stemware in her left hand drops to the ground. She is collapsing backward, and I drop my rum and my smoke to catch her. Before I see the blood seeping through the black fabric of her dress, I know what happened. At least it was a clean kill. She deserved that much.

Panic and righteous anger rise through me like heat waves, and I turn around to see that little blond pig-fucker Dobbins staring right at me. I run straight for him, and in one smooth motion I pull my Golden Saber out of my jacket pocket and bring down the handle on his face, breaking his nose. I start to pick him up to throw him over the stair railing and into that fountain of his, but his private guards are on me, restraining me.

“Let me go you assholes! You know who I am!” I command them. Dobbins motions to them to listen to me. “You are a fucking grease stain Dobbins! A fucking grease stain!” I say before returning to Katherine’s lifeless body. I tuck my gun back in my jacket, and lift her off the ground. I carry her as quickly as I can through the mess of people. It is amazing how fast a path is cleared for a man covered in blood and carrying a dead woman. When I see Conrad waiting with the car running and the back door open, I knew how high this went.

“Sir, I have already made arrangements for an airplane to take you home. I also took the liberty of telling Coons that Daddy is coming home and will be ready to play,” he tells me in an attempt to calm me down.

“All I want right now is for you to shut your fucking mouth and get me back to Texas,” I say, no longer fighting back tears. I gently settle Katherine into the backseat and sit next to her. Conrad shuts the door behind me, gets in the car, and starts driving. I wrap my arms around Katherine and weep my way to the plane that is waiting an hour and a half away.