You try to confuse the
angry official by demanding that he do the talking. You shake your index
finger at his face and yell, "no, YOU talk you sonnuva bitch!" It does
little aside from making the vein in his forehead swell. For a few
precious moments, he continues to wring your shirt with his
tapioca-scented hands. Finally, he drops you and walks around to the
other side of the table. He takes a sit and continues glaring at you.
You briefly consider asking him what's up, but that would be
compromising your position on the "no, you talk" initiative. Perhaps a
staring contest in is order. You close your eyes for a moment to gather
up as much moisture as possible, and then, at an unspoken command, you
open your eyes to begin the tournament!
The official has his head down. Which means that you've won! Hooray!
Things are finally looking up for you. Before you can do a victory jig,
he takes your earlier advice and begins talking. "Alright," he says,
"you want me to talk? I'll talk." Ha ha, another victory! You're riding
an unstoppable victory train, and it's only a matter of time before you
pull into the station… of success!
The sweaty official takes a long draw off of his cigar and exhales
slowly before he begins. "When I was just a young lad, my father took me
aside and said, ‘son, you've got your whole life ahead of you, and you
really ought to consider the field of airport security.' I said, ‘dad,
I'm only ten years old,' but he said to me, ‘boy, you are never too
young to start thinking about your future.' I think that's why I started
thinking about putting money away in the bank at an early age. Of
course, a piggy bank didn't get you much interest, and you did need to
smash it open to get your money. Now that I think about it, the piggy
bank was a really bad idea. I mean, you've got to buy it, and that costs
more of the money you're trying to hold on to, and when you're a kid,
you've got jack for money. When I first went to college, I thought that
I had jack for money, but it was a helluva lot more than I had then.
Luckily, it was Clown College, so I only needed a little. That's a joke,
buddy. Not laughing, eh? I guess you had to be there. Anyway, I'm
getting off topic. The bottom line is that I needed all the money I
could to..."
The cigar he's smoking
doesn't appear to be diminishing his lung capacity. His long, rambling
speech continues on for hours and hours, and whenever you start to nod
off, he jabs you in the shoulder until you wake up. At hour number nine,
his voice starts to fail, but a quick swig from a mysterious flask
renews it. Eventually, the sleep deprivation and intense boredom gets
the best of you, and you agree to sign a confession, and do whatever
else it will take to get him to shut the hell up. A security hauls you
off the prison, the official waves goodbye and compliments you on being
a good listener.
