From my mental diary, Kyiv airport, customs line:
No one around me knows that I am now an assassin. This is my 15th flight in five weeks and my thoughts have now turned homicidal. The dehumanizing crush of yet another Kafkaesque parade of exSoviet inefficiency, my grey craniumpudding has been stripped of boundaries. Having only one hour of sleep, and that only en route from Odessa, I am now a killing machine behind this calm exterior of dumbass grinning. In my sights, I feel an itchy trigger:
The bowbacked Russkie with the pitstained dishwater yellow euroshirt, with man-nipples protuding. Strangled.
The Ukrainian man with the horseteeth, whose baggage has touched the back of my shoes once too many. Decapitated.
The musky babushka with the horizontal elbows and the eight cantaloupes. Skullcracked with hammer.
The plum-colored prunebaby, wailing at 100dB, spraying spit onto my arms. Dropkicked through security.
The Gucci-clad brunetka with the black skirtlet and impossibly high heels. Spared for now, but you are on notice.
Mr. Crewcut in the navy tracksuit yelling Russian into cell phone. Limbs torn asunder.
The person who keeps beerburping behind me. One bullet, bisecting your monobrow.
Mr Weaselface trying to weasel in front of me with his weasily cart of taped up bags. Fed to weasels.
--
I am now in Frankfurt, Germanz and will board the 12 hour flight to San Francisco early tomorrow morning. Not sure how much of an epilog I have in me, it all depends on the degree of snappage this trip.
