He releases gas and makes an enemy. He demands special treatment and steals a sandwich
And now, after such a long, long time of being all backed up inside, the relief finally comes, and Zippy farts.
“Thhhprrrprr-prr-prr-prr-prr…”
And he does it again and again.
[Sorry, Folks; this is just one of those moments when the yen for gratuitous and intentionally offensive foulness quite overpowers the usual call for measured decency – Saint Stephan, the author of this frame.]
Farts? Yes, yes indeed – farts thick, plentiful and smelly; and though, in all fairness to Zippy, this sudden and spontaneous popping, crackling, and release of the grumbling-rumbling bubbles and balls of methane gas for so long trapped deep inside his guts – which he is now firing into the steady stream of carefully calibrated air being constantly filtered and circulated by state-of-the-art technology throughout the entire plane – is hard to control once he is in the cushy embrace of his Thin Air Comfort Zone seat, and finally relaxes.
But what is unfair on his part is the attitude with which he does it, for it is clear to us that he farts without a hint or pretense of shame, but is actually joyfully rolling in the revolting gaseous mess storming out his ass, sans worry, concern, or guilt – no! He is enjoying it. Moreover, he farts with contempt, he farts with disdain. As the poor folk keep filing by to get to their low-class Economy seats, it’s like he’s shitting on them as they move along in their backward-tramping village way.
Zippy thinks, ‘What the hell are they going to L.A. for? What can they possibly want there? What the FUCK are they trying to prove?!’
He is aware of his sour stench, and of the strange picture he must present to… well, to everyone on that plane, in his stained and soiled rented tux – but, he doesn’t care! Ha-ha, he doesn’t care!!!
‘In your faces, assholes – uh-uh-uh…’
Zippy stretches in his seat, using all the tremendous elbow-space and legroom he’d been so deservingly afforded.
‘And what the FUCK can any one of you fucking proletarian peons, you village blockheads and numbskulls, you fucking idiots and losers do to me?!’
He actually dares sneer at people as they pass by, and even dares stare them down as he lets loose the last barrage of his disgusting farts.
Fart-emptied, Zippy’s stomach begins to growl with hunger pangs. And while this annoys him and makes him angry, he is inside one of his favorite feelings – of smugness and self-satisfaction. He smiles as he stretches, and half-closes his eyes: ‘I can’t WAIT for this stupid plane to take off, so I can finally EAT!’
But there’s this one guy, on his way to the very rear of the plane who, accurately guessing what Zippy’s been doing, looks more than willing to meet Zippy’s haughty challenge and wipe that shit-eating grin right off his fucking face.
“What’s so funny, psuko, blyat,” the man asks directly of Zippy in raspy Russian as he staggers by in fitful increments, all the while keeping his baleful eyes right on Zippy.
Well into middle age, Igor is on the bald side, with a wide face hammered by time into a bulldog’s intolerant, almost vehement, visage.
He is short, but taller than Zippy. He’s in a brand-new pair of stiff, deep-blue jeans, “Third-World for Big Men”. The pants are pinched tight with a black semi-military snap-buckle canvas belt below his bulging waist. A thick, olive-green safari jacket, “For Tough Guys”, is flapped open about his big belly, revealing a kind of faggy getup of aquamarine blue V-neck sweater stretched over a cheap and too-tight knockoff of a Ralph Lauren casual button-up pink cotton shirt, which is mostly polyester.
In short, everything Igor’s wearing looks too tight on him in a cheap way; as if he’d been dressed for this trip intentionally in this manner by an emasculating wife, who’d told him how handsome and sexy he looked, while impatiently pushing him out the door, so that she could finally get her secret plans for that weekend underway; plans, no doubt, involving sexual liaison at her employer’s cozy dacha.
As Igor moves past Zippy, struggling awkwardly with his two pieces of luggage down the damnably long aisle, he actually appears to be in some pain.
Notwithstanding his discomfort, Igor keeps his head turned toward Zippy as he continues to move farther back, as if to say: “I’m coming for you later…”
Zippy returns the stare, but is too scared to verbally respond to Igor’s menacing jab. It is only when it is no longer physically practicable for the man to continue staring and glaring at Zippy, as he moves out of Zippy’s section, that the nerve-wracking encounter ends.
Alas, Zippy does not know just how morbidly unhealthy Igor actually is.
xxx
The “Destiny Raven” is now aloft.
Sure, the generous mutton chops in spicy Georgian gravy served in the uncommonly large heat-up tray were good; but the creamy Potatoes au Gratin, together with the side of steamed vegetables were, Zippy thought, only so-so, and not quite what he’d expected, although he’d eaten it all.
This had been followed by a dessert brownie, as well as a square of tiramisu, which he technically was not allowed to have, being merely Comfort Zone Class.
But he’d made sure to get a sneak peek at what was being served in Premier Class with a quick and furtive drawing back of the dividing curtain, and then the flight attendant, somewhat irked by Zippy’s brazen and untoward pushiness, pitied the short, pathetic pudge-ball with his pleading and mournful expression. And with Zippy in that strange, ghoulish, and demented, dirty, stinky tux, she finally concluded he had some kind of mental problem, or medical condition they’d not been informed about, and in her compassion decided to finally bring him the additional unpaid-for treat.
xxx
It is a mystery exactly how he does it; how he pulls it off.
But with everyone asleep, and no one seeing him, except for one angry and doglike pair of eyes, Zippy is back in his seat with a chicken-breast sandwich he’d managed to swipe from the food galley all the way at the back of Economy Class. For You see, as he passed through Premier Class when boarding, he saw crew loading the sandwiches there, into that section’s food galley bins, and this made Zippy mad. Anything that was good enough for Premier Class was good enough for him.
‘Even if they serve these later,’ Zippy thinks, as he greedily devours the sandwich, ‘I want to get an extra one for me. I’m actually still really hungry. It doesn’t matter to them – they always end up with leftovers at the end of the flight no matter how many passengers they feed…’
He pulls his fedora out of his Bronx School of Scientists gym bag and puts it on his head, for security, believing it will help him sleep.
Meanwhile, back in Economy Class, the doglike pair of eyes are Igor’s; and at that moment he neither raises a fuss, nor does he get out of his seat to pursue Zippy, for he does not want to wake the many other passengers sleeping all around him.
“I will get you later, blyat, yob tvoyu mat…”
Filed by Saint Stephan, May 6, 2025