[Editor’s Note: This is Part 1 of a short story I’m working on…]
Drink, drink, drink, drink… this was a familiar sound he thought. Just hours before his red eye back to Chicago, Blake Kaz was on his tenth round of what his newly-found airport buddies called numb. Aptly named, the point of the game was to drink until you could no longer feel your extremities.
Blake had what some poorly-educated passengers called “flight fright” or as he would call it… an inability to understand why anyone would want to strap themselves onto a 500-mile-an-hour metal tube that carries more diseases per square inch than the infirmary. To him, flying was a big con of his job, a job that had always been a detesting part of his life. Of course, pushing drugs for big pharma was a necessary evil, and luckily, it provided a justifiable cover for his real gig.
Until more recently, the long flights, lack of sleep and binge drinking to ease his nausea was just part of the job. Now, he found himself taking more flights, getting less sleep and pounding fifths of Jack even if he wasn’t flying. This pattern was getting to him. Had he lost his sanity? Was there anyway back from the depths that he had drank himself to? The answers were about to be made clear, whether he wanted them to or not.