Our hero persists... and conquers?

Any adventurer will, at one point or another in their career, find themselves turning to philosophy. On some precarious mountain peak or vast barren plane or beat-up dorm mattress, the great mysteries of the human experience beset such people like roving predators.

“Why,” fretted our own intrepid adventurer, “did the airline reschedule our flight to last for fifteen hours, including two four-hour layovers? And that with an hour’s drive after we land! One would have thought that the scarcity caused by this horrific plague would touch even the savage hearts of the airlines and draw forth an iota of pity for their scarce customers. And yet Pharaoh after ten plagues was still unmoved… “

“Honey,” groaned the intrepid adventurer’s mother, “it’s time to get up.”

“Time to get up? But I haven’t even fallen asleep yet!”

“We need to be at the airport in two hours, and we still need to offer up your apartment key at the Temple of the Property Managers and return the sacred Ford Fusion safely to the Priests of Ground Transportation.”

They dressed hurriedly and left their lodgings with equal haste. As the intrepid adventurer scurried to the doors of the Temple of the Property Managers, brandishing her student identification before the One-Eyed Guardian of the Security Door, her mother frantically tried to bridle the Fusion. At last, the adventurer gained entry and performed the proper rites, rushing through the muggy Midwestern barely-not-night to join her mother.

“The Curse is sated!” she cried. “We are saved!”

“Well, you’re saved,” said her mother. “My credit rating is on the line back at the Altar of the Ground Transportation Gods.”

The journey back to the airport was an uneventful one – suspiciously so, as a matter of fact.

“I wonder why the Fusion is giving us so little trouble this time,” muttered the intrepid adventurer. “Surely it couldn’t have been so easy to tame.”

“Stop monologuing and help me find the rental-return parking lot,” her mother said with all the eloquence which accompanies an early hour and little sleep.

“There’s a sign,” the adventurer replied.

But the only parking lot down the darkened road to which the sign pointed was labeled “Restricted Access.”

“Egads!” shouted her mother. “The Ground Transportation Priest has tricked us! We shall never return the Fusion in time to avoid a massive credit-card charge!”

“Let’s keep looking,” the adventurer suggested nervously.

“I am looking, and there’s nothing else!”

“We must have been pointed to this parking lot for a reason,” the adventurer said. “Perhaps – look, there, in the back!”

Behind several rows of employee vehicles, all but hidden, was the emblem of the Ground Transportation Gods hoisted upon a pole

“Oh, those horrible tricksters!” her mother cried out. “But we’ve outsmarted them at last. Good show, dear!”

“Be sure you note the mileage and the gas level,” said our intrepid adventurer, squinting at the row of cuneiform beneath the emblem.

“Oh, good catch. I didn’t see that.”

The formerly bustling metropolis of South Bend International Airport was all but deserted now, the ravages of the plague and the general obscene earliness of the hour being evident. They were greeted by a lone friendly native who by a welcome bit of native magic caused our intrepid adventurer’s obviously-overweight suitcase to weigh in at just under the limit. The same friendly native, who evidently comprised the entirety of the airport’s permanent population, saw them off at the gate and waved the little reflective baton things in front of the airplane while it was taking off.

The first of their layover ordeals took place in Detroit, which is not a bad place to have a four-hour layover given that there’s room to spread out and clocks on most of the walls. After a jaunt to Salt Lake City, they employed all of their wiles to acquire portions of a life-giving but locally taboo beverage from a hidden Starbucks. This was perhaps the only means of enduring four hours of inaccurate legal commentary from the anchor on the news station playing in their gate.

“Of course manslaughter can be intentional!” fumed our intrepid adventurer as their final flight began to descend into Pasco. “In fact, so-called ‘involuntary manslaughter’ is more properly characterized as gross criminal negligence! Of all the thoughtless and irritating things, surely miseducating a wide swath of the public about fundamental legal concepts must be – “

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced the stewardess, “we have now landed in Pasco. For the safety of your fellow passengers, please remain in your seats until the row in front of you has exited.”

Immediately, the rest of the passengers stood up, grabbed their suitcases, and jammed into the aisle, masks hanging down around their necks.

“ – The second worst,” our intrepid adventurer finished.

“Welcome home, kiddo,” said her mother.

THE END.