Worst. Person. Ever. Read Online Free PDF

it?”
    “Yes, sir.” I might add here that Jenelle is a gruesome creature, her sullen jaws most likely sore from chugging her wedding-averse boyfriend’s knob for ten long years. “What other seat shall I be seated in?”
    “Let me check … you’re in 67E, Mr. Gunt.”
    “
67E?
”
    “Yes.”
    “An E seat—is that an aisle?”
    “No, sir. I believe an E seat on that aircraft is the second seat in a row of four.”
    “
Jenelle
, you do understand that I am in business class.”
    “Yes, Mr. Gunt.”
    “Do you have a seat map here at the desk?”
    “Yes, sir.” Jenelle handed me the map.
    “Let me look here. Ah—67E.” I pointed to 67E, a centre seat sandwiched between two lavatories.
    “It’s a full flight, sir. No other seats are available.”
    Suddenly, from behind me in the coach class international check-in, there came a series of childish screams so horrifying and so loud that even the most sinister baby-hating citizen would worry about the health and sanity of the child, as well as its parents. Jenelle looked up with a smile. I stared at her. “How can you possibly be smiling?”
    “Those children, sir. It’s heart-warming. They’re off to Los Angeles to undergo a new surgical procedure that could save their lives.”
    I turned around and across the hall saw a telethon’s worth of … 
atypical
-looking children. Okay, tards, actually. Fifteen, maybe twenty of them.
    “Jenelle, can you tell me more about these, um, children?”
    “They have Buñuel’s syndrome.”
    “Oh?”
    “Children with Buñuel’s syndrome have no ability to control their emotions. Unfortunately, almost everythingthey experience is perceived by their brain as a threat, yet the ensuing fear isn’t funnelled through the checks and barriers we normal—I’m sorry,
statistically average
—people use to keep a scrim between society and us. So they basically live in a state of perpetual agitation and their voices inform the world of this.”
    “I see. Might they be on my flight?” I asked.
    Jenelle tapped away at her keyboard. “What a coincidence, sir—the Buñuel Children for a New Start party is seated in rows 65, 66 and 67. I can only imagine how thrilled they’ll be to have someone as compassionate as you near them in what can only be a long and terrifying flight—possibly the most frightening event most of them have had to endure during their most likely short and sad little lives.”
    “Yes.”
Okay.
“Jenelle, do you have some sort of supervisor or something?”
    “That’d be Tracey, sir. Would you like me to page her?”
    “Please, yes, let’s do that.”
    A band of Buñuel syndromers and their minders shimmied into
my
business class check-in area like over-entitled cockroaches. Fucking hell, just drug the bastards and show them a
Finding Nemo
DVD for eleven hours or until their bug-eaten frontal cortices cause them to pass out from understimulation.
    Across the hall, I noticed Neal’s head above the crowd at check-in. Light bulb: whatever seat Neal landed would be mine, and he could sit with the Buñuel children. Thank fucking Christ. Hold on, it was Neal who was drawing a crowd. To wild applause, he began performing some sort of poor people’s jig. Oh my dear God, it was the “Come On Eileen” dance from that video by Dexys MidnightRunners. Words failed me. And then the check-in agents joined in—like a flash mob.
    “Mr.
Gunt.
” Supervisor Tracey appeared in front of me. “Can I help you, sir?” She resembled a small version of those otherworldly beings that trashed Manhattan in the film
Cloverfield.
    “Tracey, yes, hello. I’m Raymond Gunt.”
    “How can I help you, Mr. Gunt?”
    “I—”
    At that moment, Neal came running across the great class divide and threw his arms around me, his breath still reeking of unwashed arses. He backed off and slapped me in the chest, momentarily stunning me. “America beckons and we are going to make the most of it, bro!” He hoisted my bag