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PART III: The Meaning of Life
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The Amazing Travels of
SAMMY
The Jamaican Dead Dog
PART III: The Meaning of Life
Things were not looking good in the least.
Sammy was all frozen up and we were going down faster than the Jamaican Dollar.
"CRIMES ABOVE!!!" I cried as my lunch came rushing out of my mouth and nose and arse.
Meanwhile, four thousand feet below at Margueritaville, all the spring break geeks were too drunk to notice an aircraft plummenting directly towards them:
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"Hick. Belch. Yo, Tammy I ain't coming here tommorow. I just saw some niggers who weren't workin' behind the bar."
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As the cabin began to fill with smoke, I pleaded with Sammy to do something; anything to avert a disaster.
"Please Sammy," I screamed hoarsely, "go with throttle up! Go with throttle up!"
But it was no use. The G-forces were too much now and all Sammy was able to do was to sit there shake violently in his seat as the plane dove faster and faster towards the earth...
"Such a cruel lesson", I thought grimly to myself as I watched the last last moments of my life tick down to nothing. If only Air Jamaica had had the vision to train and hire more dead dogs instead of these spineless foreigners, then perhaps we would not be in this terrible predicament.
"Let this be a lesson to you too Butch Stewart! You racist against Jamaican dead dogs!"
The fumes in the cabin started to fill my lungs so I buried my head between my hands and waited for the inevitable. And then...the unbelievable happened:
"What the bumbarasscloth is going on in here!!!??"
I couldn't believe it! It was the fabulously wealthy BUTCH STEWART, CEO of Air Jamaica and part owner of the Jamaican economy (Chris Blackwell owns the Cultural sector).
At first, he seemed really frightened, but when he turned around and saw Sammy sitting in the pilot's chair...
...any trace of fear was instantly replaced by a profane rage.
I looked over at Sammy. I knew he was hurt, but before I could explain to Butch that this was Sammy's first trip across the island, he grabbed Sammy around the neck, tore him from the pilots chair...
...and hurled his carcass across the cabin.
Well, I didn't appreciate that one bit.
I don't care if Sammy wasn't flying the plane good. That still didn't give Butch any right to throw him across the room like that.
Damn Jamaicans! Always throwing people's shit around!
For the first in a long time I wished Sammy was alive so he could bite him in the nuts. As for me, I was helpless since the G-forces had pinned me to the wall and was making me shit my pants uncontrollably.
Meanwhile, Mr. 'Bully' Stewart had seized control of the plane and was barking orders and pushing buttons frantically.
Suddenly, I felt a violent jolt beneath my feet and was thrown to the floor as the plane rose sharply and then dove again.
"Sweet Mother of Christ!"
...screamed Butch as he pulled on a lever and dumped all the fuel from the faulty engine into the sea where it was instantly swallowed up by a massive surface slick of Cocoa butter with SF30 sunscreen protection.
Unfortunately, some of the fuel landed on top of Margueritaville and ignited on the cigarette of a white girl who was smoking in the sea.
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"...Aaaaaa....Aaaaa...Plane fuel! Plane fuel!"
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It was horrible. Everywhere you looked there was nothing but American and Canadian teenagers running around on fire. There was no escape. Not even for those who tried to drive away in the Margueritaville shuttle bus.
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"Omigod... I am like... so not having fun anymore!"
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But then...just like that. The plane evened out in the air and and the horrible shaking stopped.
Everyone in the cabin breathed a sigh of relief as Butch Stewart handed the controls back over to the pilots once they stopped vommiting on each other.
I ran over to Sammy and picked him up from the floor. Thankfully, he was no worse than he had been before, except for his left front paw which had been broken off (partly due to some rotting before).
I turned to walk out of the cabin and go back to our seats, but much to my surprise, my exit was blocked by Mister Hero.
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"Hey there!",
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...he said as he spat out some loose teeth , "I'm sorry I had to throw your dog like that, but its against regulations and we have a tourist product to maintain here."
Although I felt like punching him in his big fat face, I had to admit that he seemed sincere. He continued:
"Listen, why don't you allow me to make it up to you and your dog. How about a complimentary bottle of our finest Champange and a week at Sandals Negril, inclusive of meals, drinks and water-sports?"
"Fair enough," I replied after looking at the floor for about a minute and shuffling my feet, "but only if you make an announcement that clapping when the plane lands is a butu thing to do."
He agreed.
I buckled Sammy into his chair and after brushing a few maggots from the bloodstained fur on his neck, we were soon sipping champange and popping valiums.
Ahhh dear Sammy, don't you see? Wherever there is life, there is always hope.
~ fin ~
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