Double Hamster on The Rocks

The Cyclone was built in 1927, long before the codes and regulations that govern modern roller coaster design. The car does not always stay entirely on the track, for example, and the guard bars inside rattle and shake through the drops. At some point, the coaster merged spirit with the rusted out Ferris wheel next to it and the two became an unquestionable duo of terror. I’m not kidding. Gangsters in little Russia are required to ride both without crying before they are allowed to join the old school mafia. The new Russian mafia has given up on it. It’s too depressing to see grown men rolling on the ground and blubbering like a five year old with a busted Huffy.

Anyway, the airplane ride was like this. We taxied in the plane queue for twenty minutes and I could hear the pilots fidgeting up front. They were blasting bluegrass music in the cabin and I could hear a Yeeehaw cut into the radio when they were finally allowed to assume lane. “Air Force One” on inflight. The safety instructions were printed directly onto the vomit bags. Flight attendants wore float vests and handed out Dramamine shooters instead of soft drinks.

Anyway, now that I’ve landed, I feel that I can represent. I’m getting some brass knuckles with PHL-BOS printed on the front. I’m also getting a sixth finger so I can wear it. That’s how serious I am. I’ve lowered my ride by removing the wheels. Now I push the car everywhere. If anyone tries to front, I threaten them by whipping the back of the car around, showering everyone in a 100 meter radius with sparks. I almost wish that I lived in New York and that Spider Man was alive. I’d set him straight. He’d end up shuddering in a corner, turning out crochet socks for the rest of his life.

Everyone else on the plane agrees. They’ve all formed a new chapter of the Guardian Angels. Presently, they are prowling Logan Airport, waiting for the US Airways flight to La Guardia. They’ll be riding the roller coaster tomorrow.