Free Las Vegas for Vegans by A. S. Patric

duty-free cigarettes and can’t remember ever having smoked. The thought makes his throat tighten until he can barely breathe. He looks at the diary in his hands again and has no recollection of even going to see a Doctor Fassbinder, let alone barking like a little dog.
    Keith unbuckles and staggers toward the back, where he can see an emergency light that he will be able to use to read more of his girlfriend’s journal. The flight attendant who denied him alcohol doesn’t admonish him or tell him to go back to his seat because she’s sitting with a Bible in her hands and her lips are moving in avid prayer. Her eyes open to register his presence, then close again as she continues.
    â€˜Where’s the vodka?’ Keith asks. ‘I don’t want to disturb you but I really need a drink.’
    â€˜Fuck off, arsehole. I’m trying to pray.’
    â€˜I … What? Why? I don’t think you’re supposed to do that. Praying can cause hysteria—if passengers see a flight attendant doing it. Don’t they train you for this?’
    â€˜They can’t train you to die.’
    â€˜It’s just turbulence.’ Keith was barely holding onto a shelving unit fixed into the wall, from which packets of food were dropping to the floor. It was still a bit much to already be talking about death.
    â€˜Just turbulence? Have you noticed the engines dying outside? Or noticed the way the plane has begun leaning to the side and the constant drop in altitude? Not to mention shit falling to the floor all around you.’
    â€˜Well, yeah. That’s called turbulence. Planes go through turbulence all the time. It’s 2012—not 1912. Even when planes crash, there are all kinds of safety procedures in place, you know, to stop people from actually dying.’
    â€˜Get the fuck away from me, you gormless joker.’
    She closes her eyes again. Keith contemplates slapping or lifting her and shaking her by the shoulders. Amid the sudden drops and upheavals of the plane, the sickening slides left and right, the wild movements every few moments, she would barely feel it. It gives him an idea as he watches the large-breasted flight attendant pray.
    When the plane sways again he falls on her. It takes a few moments before she realises it isn’t an accident and by then Keith has wrestled her breasts from her shirt and bra. He has a mouthful of nipple by the time she decides to ditch her Bible in favour of a fuck. She reaches down to release Keith’s penis from his pants, yet fucking mid-air is never easy, and amid the turbulence it’s almost impossible.
    â€˜The toilet. Stop, you stupid motherfucker. Stop. The toilet over there. Let’s get into that cubicle. It’s the only place this is possible.’ It takes Keith a few long moments to understand that the flight attendant’s protestations are not angry refusals. That they are forceful directions for how they might proceed to a shared goal.
    â€˜What about a blow job?’ Keith asks when they enter the cubicle.
    â€˜Selfish dumbshit bastard.’ She lifts her skirt and yanks down her stockings and underwear. ‘I want to fuck. Get your dick out.’
    Keith feels like asking the flight attendant to moderate her language, or to at least point out that there is, in fact, an emotional element to sex even for men, however eager to fuck. Getting a proper hard-on during this kind of turbulence would challenge a porn star. Flying into the mouth of this type of abuse, so to speak, makes it still less inviting. Dropping trou, he is surprised by the enormity of his erection. He hadn’t been surprised that Julia mentioned his problems in her journal and the current proud state of his penis is a testament to Doctor Fassbinder’s medical proficiency.
    The flight attendant pulls Keith towards her with a good grip of his penis and scooches onto the small sink in the cubicle. When Keith establishes some kind of