Seat-wise, he does better than most, but envies the privileged class at the front of the plane
We are now on a Thin Air airliner, based on a salvaged Airbus A330-300 (aka “The 333” – not that this is in any way significant), multi-nationally assembled back in the first half of the 1990s, and, for our purposes, recently reimagined as the Thin Air “Destiny Raven”.
Presently, we are generally in the cabin of the vessel, aboard Flight Number THA1, from Kyiv, Ukraine to California, L.A., in the United States of America, and it is this particular plane’s maiden flight under the Thin Air name.
The Date: Friday, February the 23rd, 2018. Kyiv Time: the wee-wee hours of the morning, and therefore still nighttime-dark, which is how it will stay for the near entirety of Zippy Zamazda’s flight.
But neither the Flight, nor the plane, nor Zippy will quite make it.
However, may that be as it may, until we get to it…
He is physically exhausted; psychologically and emotionally drained.
But mentally, confidence has returned to Zippy Zamazda, and that’s the best part, for at this very moment he is reveling in the expansive comfort of his seat, and the extraordinary luck of having no one next to him; nor, for that matter, having that many other passengers surrounding him at all in this small Comfort Zone Class section of the airplane, which is a cut above all the hoi polloi trudging past him to fill up the tight, terrible, and teeming Economy Class behind, which is to say, in the plane’s rear. And that’s what and how Zippy thinks about it.
For there is Zippy Zamazda, and then there are all the rest. Ha!
Yes, for Zippy’s gotten a truly good seat, all the way up front in his section, and with lots of leg room, too. And he can sit in the aisle seat, or the window seat, as there is truly no one next to him! The seats go 2-3-2 across, and there are only a handful of rows.
But back in Economy Class, inarguably tighter is the spacing between the rows, which go 2-4-2 across, and which are practically endless!
‘I mean, there’s no way that even the designated “best” seats back there are anywhere near as good as mine!’ Zippy exuberantly reflects.
Except there is the small matter of the infuriatingly even more exclusive section, obnoxiously and arrogantly named the Premier Luxury Elect Class, just a few short steps beyond Zippy and the range of his formidable will, and cordoned off from him; the elite and privileged forepart of the fuselage, just behind the cockpit, where the true power sits, and the control.
It is a place where he is not, nor can be, and is therefore a place, just out of reach of, and furthermore forbidden to, Zippy; where he cannot wield any influence, or effect any outcome.
There, in Premier Class, the seating is 1-2-1 across, with plenty of room between every seat from all sides, and each seat is like a floating space capsule, and a big, comfy bed rolled into one. For while Zippy will be getting more attention from the flight attendants than anybody back in Economy Class will, every arrogant prick in Premier Class will be getting more, and far more, attention than he.
Getting past the gate and boarding the plane, moving jitterily further back, and self-conscious, in his stinking filthy tux, his Bronx School of Scientists gym bag pressed desperately to his chest, toward his “place” in the order of things, Zippy keenly noted the “types” occupying those very special seats as he passed them.
Now, lowered in his own seat, Zippy’s overworked mind sinks deeper into itself, his eyes lose focus behind his glasses, as his vision dissolves into a non-committal blurry space just beyond the tips of his squarish, pointy shoes.
His curling upper lip begins its familiar automatic twitch, as he recalls the scene of just minutes ago.
In his mind he reviews how a few of those who’d bothered to glance at him as he waddled by dismissively mocked him, he, defeated in spirit and trammeled of will, as though amused by such a dirty animal tottering by. “That’s right, keep going, keep going; to the back, to the back, where you belong – ha-ha!” with their hateful looks they seemed to be saying.
“Out of sight, out of mind!” … smelling, as he did, in some cheap and soiled and utterly bizarre houseboy’s costume and, actually, looking very much like a rejected flunky movie extra; a type of thing each of them was familiar with, being Ukrainian film-industry hotshots – or so they thought.
Ha!
And here they are, flying to L.A., no doubt taking advantage of free perks and special favors distributed to them within the secretive frameworks of “standard” business practices in Ukraine that are part and parcel of the country’s exhaustively corrupt and criminal inter-industry milieu.
And here they are, going to make their sordid and depraved pitches to Hollywood; to try to get in on the truly big time and finally make that really big score; to get the international acclaim and renown they so undeservedly crave…
‘The Ukrainian film industry – pah! Yeah, right!’ thinks Zippy in his undercurrent of mental anguish and fury.
Even Saint Stephan, who is the author of this piece, and whose materials Zippy has appropriated to present to Goldstein in Hollywood as his own, sympathizes and agrees with Zippy on this point.
“Every film they make is stupid and complete shit,” Zippy now says quietly out loud to himself, his head turned that he may make the secretive aside into his blindered window.
“They’re a bunch of scummy, delusional crooks and creeps, who just want to jump on the gravy train!”
Zippy’s tired mind churns aflame in vengeful fire, and he stews on in a boiling rage.
“But they’ll never succeed!”
Zippy keeps talking into the window – his rant must, until it is exhausted, continue; although, you’ll note, he builds the reporter’s style-guide pyramid, remaining, in his manchild’s pique, very much the professional journalist his work in the field has trained him to be…
“They are part of the vast and completely unbridled intellectual property theft racket that runs rampant in this country, and has continued to pose one of the most recalcitrant criminal problems for rights owners of all kinds throughout the entire world. They are a bunch of uncreative, unoriginal, and mediocrity-loving copyright violators, plagiarists, and thieves! End of story!
“But I’ve got the real thing with me! So… we’ll see… yes, that’s right… we’ll see… we’ll see…”
The quiet, private outburst unburdens Zippy and makes him feel better, at least for the time being. It lifts his tired, fallen spirits and comforts him. He now calms down considerably, his upper lip reverses and uncurls… and his bowels gratefully loosen… after all that time. Aaahh…
Yes… all those hours and hours, roiling locked up in their terrified distress – existing in physiological processes unique to Zippy, connected to the peculiar exigencies and workings of his mind, whereby he hadn’t otherwise predictably shat his tuxedo pants from fright.
Which is to say, everything that should have blasted out during the moments of his greatest stress and terror, had, instead, been sucked farther back inside.
Filed by Saint Stephan, May 4, 2025