“Blow, look at that… he seems to be coming out.”
The dude in the expensive suit slid out of the aircraft. Once on the ground he stood up and dusted himself.
Jizzer hooted and tried to call out to his countryman, “Sir… Sir… here…”
“Donald Rutherford? … Ok… Jizzer, he is Donald…”
“Rutherford? The owner of LA Lobsters?”
“Not anymore. But yep. That’s our guy.”
Donald Rutherford continued to stand under the fuselage.
“Why isn’t he running away?”
“Guess he is waiting for his fellow survivors, Jizzer… oh wait… what is he doing? Whats that in his right hand? Lenny can you zoom in?”
Rutherford, the former owner of the LA Lobsters took something out of his trousers. It gleamed in the Havana sun.
“That’s a switchblade, Blow,” whispered Jizzer. The former LA Lobsters owner held a switchblade.
Jizzer yelled, “Mr. Rutherford… get away from the aircraft…”
In a violent spasm, Donald Rutherford began hacking away at the inflated slide. The shredded slide deflated in 3 seconds flat.
“Jesus man. Did you see that?” asked Jizzer.
“Yes,” cried Blow Jobbs, “And it’s all live… a cocktail of Super bowl, Christmas, Thanksgiving and the 4th July. … God this is epic…”
Not content with deflating the evac slide, Mr. Rutherford completely severed it from the aircraft.
“Whats the *bleep* is wrong with him? There could be more survivors in there?”
“You might get a Peabody or something for this…” Blow Jobbs was thinking beyond the obvious.
“That maniac is trying to rip off the chute…”
“Me…? I am fine with a simple Emmy… even a daytime Emmy would do…” Blow was lost.
Jizzer continued his astute commentary, “Blow look, there is someone else… at the doorway.”
Sure enough, a spindly guy peeped out.
“I have seen this guy somewhere… shoot… is that the League Commissioner?”
Donald Rutherford hacked off the last strands of fiber connecting the chute to the aircraft. The shredded remains of the evac slide hung five stories off the ground.
“Wait, Rutherford is saying something to the Commissioner…”
“Nope. Just gesturing.”
“Gesturing? Lenny can you zoom in… oh boy… he is giving him the finger.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, Donald Rutherford the deranged former owner of the LA Lobsters just flipped off the Commissioner.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the Commissioner’s main problem right now.”
“Obviously Jizzer. Obviously.”
Done with his gestures and bleeps, Donald Rutherford spun on his heel and started walking away.
“Oh no…”
Donald Rutherford was ten feet away.
…
…
Twenty feet away.
The Commissioner sat down on the aircraft’s floor with his legs dangling.
…
…
Thirty feet.
Forty Feet.
…
…
The thirty banksters reached the aircraft’s rear door. Realizing they were fifty feet up without any options, they began to form a human centipede with the Commissioner on top.
Fifty feet.
Sixty feet.
…
…
Someone slipped. Twenty guys splattered on the tarmac.
Ninety feet.
Donald Rutherford, took out Cuban cigar.
One hundred feet.
He lit the cigar with his lighter.
The pool of jet fuel ended right about there.
Donald Rutherford got into a dirty Nissan pickup and drove away.
A posse of satellites that happened to be whizzing by, caught the whole thing on tape. Technically, the American
Back at his apartment, Jim Borland couldn’t believe his eyes. He was watching the live telecast of the Havana landings. As the old man drove away, the Big Boeing exploded in a massive fireball. Orange. Black. More orange. Then some black. A tinge of grey. More black…
“Lenny, we don’t need Jizzer anymore. Just focus on the burning wreckage ok,” commanded Blow Jobbs. The live feed out of Havana bobbed its consent.
Jim Borland hit a button on his laptop.
“Langley… I swear to god… I don’t know how this happened…” started the voice from Trondheim.
“What the fuck man… I mean I don’t even care about the collision or the explosion, but…”
“We apologize Langley.” said Trondheim.
“Do you know anything about marketing or advertising?”
“Mm probably not… not as much as you do anyway.”
“This was a once in a lifetime… a once in a millennium advertising op.”
“We know.”
“Do you know how many guys it takes to paint a Los Angeles Class sub?”
“A lot?”
“
“Maybe Quiznos paid off the Russians.”
“Child please… how much does the Russian Yasen class weigh?”
“We ran the numbers, a fully fitted Yasen runs at 9000 tons.”
“And how much does the Los Angeles class weigh?”
“7000 tons.”
