Beware of Flight Attendant

by Cactus Moloney

The passengers were shoving one another towards the exit points. Looking out the far window she might have believed adults were having fun at the park, their screams looked like smiles, as they slipped down the giant yellow inflatable slides.

  “We have a dog pile!” An airline worker called back to the line of waiting passengers. “Please wait for the person in front of you to stand up at the bottom of the slide before you take your turn. Next. Cross your arms in front of you. Next.”

  Looking out the window she could see the handsome yuppy from first-class was speaking with law enforcement, before he reluctantly turned around with his arms behind his back, so they could handcuff him.

  A few rows in front of her, a police officer was attempting to coerce a young mother holding a baby to follow him off the plane.

  “I can’t leave him alone,” she wept into the infant’s pink blanket, hugging the small bundle tight to her chest.

  “I’m sorry we need to clear the plane…let’s move lady,” the officer guided her towards the front.

  Barberella listened to the young mother’s sobs becoming louder, as she kept looking back at the pile of dead passengers on the aisle floor. Barberella spotted a tiny foot in a red Converse shoe, and a dimpled miniature hand sticking out from under a red headed man, who was half buried by another man with the gray ponytail.

  “Mam, please stay where you are!” A young police officer surprised her when he addressed her loudly.

  Barberella felt punch-drunk, as she became part of the gruesome nightmare that surrounded her. It was as if she had shown up late for a horror movie.

  “I’m going to assist you, so you don’t corrupt the crime scene. You are right in the middle of it.”

  Barberella grabbed her leather Coach purse and started to reach her hand out to the young officer for assistance.

  “Mam, please leave your belongings on the plane,” he told her.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me?” She said to the officer. “I need my medication.”

  He reluctantly agreed to let her take the purse.

  “I really can’t believe this happened,” the officer said, shaking his head in disbelief, as he stared at the mangled dog. “I have a pit and it's the nicest dog in the world.”

  Barberella was busy digging in her purse for a Xanax.

  “Please use caution when stepping over the bodies mam.”

  Barberella lifted her leg, taking a wide stance, to reach the other side of the large elderly woman. Then she started to sidestep past the deceased male flight attendant—her leather flats squishing in his blood.

  “Mam, please don’t slip,” the officer requested.

  A disheveled flight attendant was standing in the exit row, her head bowed, next to the dead attendant’s body.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” the woman’s unnerved voice addressed Barberella.

  Barberella read her name tag, Carmen.

  “Carmen, I hear you saved the plane...” the bitter middle-aged woman said to the hero flight attendant, “...and you killed the dog.”

  As she waved her arms at the bloody scene, and using her fingers, Barberella counted four dead bodies remaining.

  “It appears the skies weren’t so friendly after all.”

  Barberella slung the dingy Coach purse over her shoulder, and sashayed to the back of the plane, her hips bumping the seats as she passed.

  “Hey Carmen,” Barberella turned her body to face the flight attendant just before taking the plunge. “Welcome to The Dog Killer Club.”

  43 Dee Winn

  The vibrating of Dee’s iPhone buzzed her from a deep sleep. Her hung-over body was torsioned into a cushy chair. The alarm had been set for 1pm in the afternoon. It had been hours since Dee dropped dead asleep on the leather chair in the Starbucks coffee shop. Uncurling her body, she stretched her arms into the air. Her back popped. Her armpits released a pungent odor from her hangover and no shower. She felt crusty, as she picked the boogers from the corners of her eyes. She blew into the crook of her arm to reveal stank breath. Dee still had to wait thirty more minutes for her rescheduled flight to Miami to depart.

  The gate agent guaranteed there would be no dogs on the next flight. The agent hadn’t given her an upgrade for her trouble, as she had hoped, in fact the nasty woman gave her a middle seat. Then she proceeded to tell her that she was lucky she even got on, because it was a full flight.

  Dee looked at her now cold coffee; the cream had coagulated from sitting on the table next to her for nearly four hours. She had fallen asleep before getting to enjoy the caffeine beverage. Maybe the barista would heat it back up for her.

  The barista was helpful, and with her warmed coffee and a fresh outlook on her day, Dee started towards the gate to catch her flight to Miami. Standing on the moving walkway, sipping her drink, she noticed people were gathering around the television screens running CNN and FOX news. Some people held their hands over their mouths, aghast from the information being fed to them; others released groans, while many of the waiting passengers began to cry and murmur about something. What the fuck was going on? At her gate she looked up at the television screens broadcasting a real-life horror scene.

  “Flight 982 is now being evacuated, having undergone a brutal massacre by an out of control canine during the flight, killing at least four people on board...maybe more. The critically injured are now being taken to Mercy Hospital,” the young male reporter revealed.

  The screens showed live streaming images of ambulances and police cars with lights flashing, medics running about. The flat screens were transmitting the chaos that had taken over the passengers, as they were tended to on the tarmac. The video panning to show the released airplane emergency slides. Dee watched a plump blond, middle-aged woman, awkwardly sliding down the inflated escape, clutching her purse tightly to her chest.

  “This really makes people question if airlines prioritize the safety of passengers,” the reporter opinionated.

  Dee was pretty sure it wasn’t the Pomeranian in the kennel who was responsible for the killings. She shivered thinking of the big service dog’s smiling face. The friendly dog had even waved at her with his white paw.

  The television displayed the image of a flight attendant being escorted by a paramedic to the waiting ambulance; blood was crusted to her broken nose. Then the screen clipped to an African American man, bloodied on a gurney, his mouth open with misery. His young daughter held his hand by his side. Seeing the girl, made her to think about the small freckle faced boy she had returned the toy airplane to. He had told her it was his lucky day. She hoped he was okay.

  “Florida Senator Mike Young was on board the doomed flight. It is being reported that he helped numerous passengers to the safety of the first-class section. Fending off the savage dog with suitcases and quote, “A will to survive.””

  A photo mug shot filled the screen. It showed a dog eerily similar in appearance to the giant silver one she had met earlier on the plane; the photo flashed a nearly identical Pitbull with a white chest, white paws, and cropped ears.

  “We were just informed that the killer dog was of the American Pitbull Terrier breed. As you know these animals have received a lot of grief from the press over the years. I’m sure this won’t help the breed’s plight. In being fair and balanced in my reporting...I will say...I have a Pitbull myself and it is the nicest dog in the world. In addition, in all fairness, I am reporting facts...you are more likely to be bitten by a Chihuahua than a Pitbull.”

  Dee thought about being bit by either animal.

  The woman standing next to her chimed in, “I’d rather be bitten by a Chihuahua any day.”

  The reporter interrupted the woman with more breaking news.

  “We have just learned the dog was a trained Diabetic Alert Service Animal. Um. I imagine the dog trainer will have some explaining to do. In addition, we are being told the out of control animal was euthanized. I’m sorry to say the dog’s owner did not survive the mauling. The names of those who sad
ly perished aboard Flight 982, in this tragedy over Miami, will be released once family members have been notified. Hold on...here...we have someone who was on the flight.”

  “Mam, could you please tell us what happened today?”

  The reporter was addressing a petite woman dressed in blue, holding a blood soaked, shit-covered, semi-fuzzy, yellow Pomeranian.

  “The butcher’s name was Buster,” she flitted off the screen. “The flight attendant saved us all.”

  “Butcher who? Mam?”

  “I was supposed to be on that flight,” Dee crossed her arms in front of her chest, when she spoke to the woman standing next to her.

  “Wow,” the woman looked at her surprised. “Well I guess it’s your lucky day!”

  44 Joker

  Seven months before the Freedom Flight 982 massacre…

  I’m alerted by the sound of knocking at the front door. Anticipating anything to be behind it.

  Knock-knock-knock.

  I’m sitting as still as a cat ready to pounce.

  “Hold up,” my man Carlos calls out to the person behind the door.

  I watch him rise from the couch, where he had been lounging with his tattooed neck cradled by crossed arms behind his head. He turns to our friends Aaron and Roberto; both chilling in the two recliner chairs, playing video games. I can hear the videogame car engines revving, with rapid gunshots blasting from the television speaker.

  “Watch these guys,” Carlos commands our friends and me. “These vatos have been acting sketchy lately.”

  He cautiously cracks the door to peer out at the visitor. Opening it all the way, letting loose a stream of sunshine into the dark space. A dry hot draft infiltrates the room’s dank air from the running swamp cooler. I see the dust fairies dancing around in the light to form sharp diagonal lines against the dingy room.

  The first man, dressed in black jeans and a white t-shirt, enters the house with a limp. I take several subtle inhales, familiar with the smell of marijuana and burritos, both saturating his clothing and skin. The second man struts in displaying a blue bandana under his white baseball cap. The bandana is just like the one Carlos and I wear. Dark sunglasses cover the man’s eyes, and I get a whiff of cigarettes and stale whiskey.

  “? Hola Carlos…como esta?” The second bandana-wearing stranger asks Carlos how he is.

  The bandana man nearly trips over his sneakers, backing up in surprise when he spots me hidden in the corner.

  “Miereda...shit...no lo veo.”

  He reaches his hands out, telling me to stop, even though I hadn't moved. He is joking by displaying this defensive motion. My mouth twists into a grin. He speaks my language. When he sees my big smile, he reaches down towards me and pats my meaty head. I reach my tongue out to grab a quick taste of his hand.

  “Buen perro,” the first burrito smelling man says, plopping down on a chair near the window, with the shades drawn closed.

  I am a good dog.

  “Don’t touch my dog ese,” Carlos cautioned the bandana-wearing man sternly. “You need my permission—otherwise he might kill you.”

  The bandana man takes off his sunglasses and smiles, squinting his warm friendly eyes, “? El me matara con besos?”

  The others in the room laugh at this comment and they are probably right—I would kill him with kisses.

  “Joker. El transporte.”

  Without hesitation, I stand and proceed directly to the bandana man, aggressively pushing him towards Carlos and the kitchen.

  “Joker. Heel.”

  I immediately stop directing the man and return to Carlos’s side.

  “Joker. Sientate.”

  I sit.

  He rubs my stubby ears and tells me I’m a good dog.

  “Joker is a dog of extreme temperament. See how calm and relaxed he is…when I trigger this dog it turns into a killing machine. It only takes one trigger sound for Joker to rip the throats out of every person in this room—starting with you.”

  “Joker. Place.”

  I return to my bed in the dark corner next to the front door.

  “Let’s do business,” Carlos says, leading the bandana-wearing stranger to the kitchen.

  Our friends Aaron and Roberto stay behind on their recliners, playing the loud video game. The burrito smelling man sits near the window. I am trying to pay attention to Carlos in the other room, but I can hardly hear what he is doing under the game’s roaring engines and gunshots turned to high volume.

  “How much do you want?” I hear Carlos ask the man.

  The clinking and shuffling of items and the wall separating us muffle their voices.

  I hear a faint slur of words and “eight ball.”

  Ball! I love to play with a ball.

  Carlos throws the ball in the dirt-covered backyard. I make dust twisters from running so fast. We visit my best dog friends every week. I have my strong friend Redrum; he is pure muscle with a red nose and does all the same protection exercises as me. We get treats for climbing fences and jumping through car windows. People shoot semi-automatic guns while petting me and telling me how good I am.

  “Look how calm and relaxed he is bro,” Carlos tells his friends, slicking down the raised hackle along my back that formed during the intense exercises.

  The people put bite sleeves on their arms, commanding me to “Grip.” I lunge at them; biting down on the sleeve, with them swinging me around in circles. When I was younger, they would give me the sleeve to bite down and play with as a reward, but nowadays I am man focused—not equipment focused.

  Some days I get to see my little friend Tank, they say she is a Chihuahua. I love her and take naps with her, and let her climb on me, and boss me around; she even steals bones out from under me. I love her sneakiness.

  My very favorite days are when Carlos’s two kids come to visit. They are as tall as me, one smells sugary and the other tastes salty. I take care of them. They ride me like a cabella, after I lick them clean, because they taste as good as they smell.

  “Joker you’re in charge,” Carlos will tell me while laughing. “You’re the niños’ nanny dog.”

  I would never let anything happen to them. I know bad things happen. I have dealt with bad men before.

  I see my friends are smoking the glass pipe with burrito man. The room gets cloudy with the sweet chemical smell. I want to sneeze. I rub my nose into my armpit to stop it. Burrito man peeks through the blinds, squinting into the light, and then lets the slats snap shut. Carlos and the bandana stranger emerge from the kitchen. I watch the burrito man rise from his seat, near the front window, preparing to leave with his companion. The bandana man struts over to the front door, opening it wide. Blinded by the light, everything happens so fast.

  Two more men are standing outside the door; they are wearing our same blue bandanas and welding guns. They push past burrito man into the living room. I hear the loud popping of bullets from a gun. I smell the gunpowder. I see Aaron’s chest explode, darkening with the sweet metallic smell; he is gagging on the sticky liquid. Roberto’s mouth is hanging open in a muted, never-ending scream.

  Whewwwwww!

  Carlos lets out one long whistle before being shot in the head.

  I watch my friend fall directly back. His body slams to the floor from the bullet’s impact.

  I am already striking, my one hundred and fifty pounds of muscle slamming into the man holding the gun. Disable. My mouth clamps onto his arm, forcing him to drop the gun. I’m not letting go. I start shaking his appendage. He is screaming in agony. I can see burrito man reaching for the abandoned gun, now lying on the carpet. I release the man’s arm from my mouth, turning to attack burrito man, aiming my bite for his throat. I only get one small nip out of him as he jerks away, running out the front door, holding his oozing neck with his hands.

  I give chase, racing through the open front door, into the hot screaming sun of the Albuquerque suburb, to tackle him from behind. He drops onto the dirt yard, with me on top of him, smoth
ering him in the sand. I hear another bullet zoom past. Turning around to face the aggressor, my attention is now aimed at the first bandana man now holding a gun. He is standing in the front doorway of my house. Running towards him, I zigzag to avoid the raining bullets. I count three bullets missing me, minus the earlier shots. I hear the click of the empty weapon. Kill. I latch onto his arm with every ounce of strength I have in me. The bandana man is hollering in pain. Crunch. His arm breaks in my mouth, my fangs digging deep into his flesh, releasing a gush of blood into my mouth from the mauling. I see his partner, burrito man, being helped along with the other injured man. They get into the dark blue low-rider parked in front. The bandana man is punching me in the face with his good arm; I clamp down with my jaws squeezing even harder, feeling the popping of blood vessels like candy pop rocks in my mouth. He is pulling me, attached to his oozing broken arm, towards the waiting car. Another man steps out of the slow-moving vehicle and begins kicking me. I hear the gun cock.

  Bang!

  I feel a stinging pain on my hind leg, causing me to loosen the grip. Bandana man pulls out from my bite as he is dragged into the vehicle by his fellow gang members. The engine revs and the car screeches off. I am running after the men. Lunging at the car trunk, attempting to grip the metal with my claws, before tumbling off and hitting my head—hard.

  Knocking me out.

  My eyes flutter open to find my body stretched across the two yellow lines that run down the center of the road. I shake my beaten skull. Jumping up to take off after the car. I think I see it far off in the distance; dancing in the waves of the desert heat. I sprint as fast as I can, my toenails clicking against the asphalt, my breath on fire. The car keeps moving further away, until it disappears around a corner. I no longer know where I am.

  Looking around at the tan suburban stucco houses, each one looks the same, with rocky yards and cactus plants in zero water landscaping. The burning concrete sidewalk pains my feet and I’m so thirsty.