But what the hell. Here we go. Random bit of free-writing straight from my brain. This is a pretty obvious metaphor for why I should not be allowed to get bored:
by Stewart Wilson
It's three o'clock on a Sunday morning in Frankfurt airport and I've just come to the realisation that I want to shoot someone. I'm sat in the waiting lounge of the departure gate waiting for a connection that looks like it will never come. In front of me is an espresso that's four times too fucking small, and the guy behind the counter gives me an evil look every time I light a cigarette. I make sure the blow the smoke in his face every time, just because.
Unlike everywhere else in Frankfurt at two in the morning, the post-checkin area of the airport — where they shuffle us so we don't need security checking again — has no beer. Not a single drop of the stuff. Ten minutes out of the main doors and along the train line and I could be in the city centre. Hell, ten minutes on foot and I'd get to some random farmer's place and I could probably get a beer. It's impossible not to get a beer in Germany in the early hours of Sunday morning. Yet here I am without a beer, with a small fucking coffee and one gross of cigarettes left that I fully intend to smoke my way through while trying to kill the slimy bastard serving at the coffee bar who thinks he's so great because he gets to chat up all the fucking pretty girls. The twat.
Delayed another hour, another hour in this sterile sinkhole. If I wanted to go for a piss I'd be found dead on the floor of a totally sterile toilet where the water washes it's hands both before and after carrying my stinking foreign urine away. Killed by sterility, dead when the last vestiges of caffeine and nicotine and the cheap speed some wanker in a pub told me he had to get rid off are leeched from my system. So I sit here and I smoke and I drink the coffee and I wonder just how bad things would be if I were to kill that fucking pair of young parents who have been watching their children run screaming around the whole fucking area for the last half an hour with nothing more than a doting glance. They'd probably complain and I'd get stuck in a holding cell until people realised that no, it really was justifiable homicide as I'd had to sit next to the father on the flight from Manchester. 'The little shites were asking for it,' they'd say. 'Our lad done good.' Or they would if anyone gave a toss about why I was out here.
I stretch my legs to the pitiful excuse for an international press. Chrome and glass stare back at me, a local who, like me, would much rather be out in the city drinking beer until he collapsed in some tart's lap stares back sullenly. I browse the paperbacks, they're all shite. Not a single good word among all of them, all engineered to make people think that they want to read the stupid things. I buy another lighter and a chocolate bar and head back.
I should be doing something. I should be doing dangerous, exciting things in the name of truth and justice and humanity, even if I don't believe in two out of the three. Exposing the torture in diamond mines outside Kiribati, smashing occult conspiracies in the Egyptian government, digging up the dirty stories buried beneath the White House and Downing Street. Instead I'm shitting my life away in this airport lounge with only a cigarette and a coffee and no connection and no excitement and nothing fucking interesting, just the dull tedium of waiting for the pilot to lay a metal tube on the ground in a way that doesn't kill anyone and hopefully means we can use it to get the fuck out of here.
Impotence. I've been stuck searching for the fucking word, that's not right. Impotence. Not in the what-a-dickhead-can't-get-it-up way, just in the powerless way. I can't do anything in the current situation when I'm trapped with screaming kids who think a trenchcoat is the perfect place to hide and a cigarette isn't hot and the long-haired lunatic in the hat who is smoking that cigarette is not really a lunatic but is really a friendly and nice young man who wants to play with you. And now that twat with his hair so full of gel that it looks like it's been given an extra layer of gloss paint and his spray-on tan, now this utter cunt has brought out the beers for the girls he's been chatting up despite me offering to pay three times the price to get some alcohol...
Some days, you're the bug. I try not to think of life like that, though being a natural pessimist it's hard. Some days you're the big that gets through the windscreen and lands in the driver's eye, blinding him and causing him to crash, leaving a ten-car pile-up along the M6 as it runs through Stoke, smashed and burning cars leaking volatile chemicals, broken bodies on the ground.
I'm getting really carried away here. But frankly I don't care. Time to make some fucking entertainment of my own. Keep the cig with me as I go to get a real drink. The tosser, whom I have discovered is Italian, comes to stop me. I punch him in the jaw and kick him in the niagras. Beat him about the face a bit, the kind of hits that really hurt, especially with the roll of tuppences I've slipped into my fist. Fucker won't be looking so good once I've done for his face. I glass him to make sure, and stub my cig out on his eye. My only regret is that he closed it.
I stood up, lit another cigarette, and waited for the police. Thank fuck I didn't have more than my hand-luggage.