Member-only story
From ‘Ghost Queen’
Ice Creamer
A bizarre short story about travelling to Iran, or perhaps not
Something very special about air travel: the way it bleeds fear into your soul. The tightening of the stomach. The queasiness. The hands around the throat. The screaming. The dementia. The flailing of arms, we’re all going to fucking die ! Mayday ! Mayday ! Jesus, fuck !
Terrible. Yes.
Yet, if you think about it, all of human life probably began in the air; and after all, the planet we live on is floating in air of sorts — intergalactic-space-air; and women often give birth to twins or sextuplets on planes; and don’t forget all those mile-highers fucking one another, again and again, in cramped airline toilets, or jerking off during uncensored in-flight porno movies, or flirting with hostesses in bum-tight serge miniskirts, or shooting lick-snatch films in tight galleys awash with listeria-ridden packaged food; or passing semen-encrusted copies of beaver magazines to-and-fro across the aisles.
Air travel is getting to be quite disgusting.
This has not been a happy year for me: my assignment, courtesy of the publicity wing of Advance Iran International, I think they’re called (who cares ?) was to travel to the Islamic Republic, and report favourably in the popular…
