Island of the Sequined Love Nun

brings the pink Gulfstream jet into SeaTac a little low, tearing off the rear landing gear on a radar antenna a second before impact with the runway, which sends Meadow over the steering yoke to bounce off the windscreen and land unconscious across the instrument panel. The jet's wings flap once-a dying flamingo trying to free itself from a tar pit-and rip off in a shriek of sparks, flame, and black smoke, then spin back into the air before beating themselves to pieces on the runway.
    Tucker, strapped into the pilot's seat, lets loose a prolonged scream that pushes the sound of tearing metal out of his head.
    The wingless Gulfstream slides down the runway like hell's own bobsled, leaving a wake of greasy smoke and aluminum confetti. Firemen and paramedics scramble into their vehicles and pull out onto the runway in pursuit of it. In a moment of analytical detachment, one of the firemen turns to a companion and says, "There's not enough fire. He must have been flying on fumes."
    Tucker sees the end of the runway coming up, an array of antennae, some spiffy blue lights, a chain-link fence, and a grassy open field where what's left of the Gulfstream will fragment into pink shrapnel. He realizes that he's looking at his own death and screams the words "Oh, fuck!", meeting the FAA's official requirement for last words to be retrieved from the charred black box.
    Suddenly, as if someone has hit a cosmic pause button, the cockpit goes quiet. Movement stops. A man's voice says, "Is this how you want to go?"
    Tucker turns toward the voice. A dark man in a gray flight suit sits in the copilot's seat, waiting for an answer. Tuck can't seem to see his face, even though they are facing each other. "Well?"
    "No," Tucker answers.
    "It'll cost you," the pilot says. Then he's gone. The copilot's seat is empty and the roar of tortured metal fills the cabin.
    Before Tucker can form the words "What the hell?" in his mind, the wingless jet crashes through the antenna, the spiffy blue lights, the chain-link fence, and into the field, soggy from thirty consecutive days of Seattle rain. The mud caresses the fuselage, dampens the sparks and flames, clings and cloys and slows the jet to a steaming stop. Tuck hears metal crackle as it settles, sirens, the friendly chime of the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign turning off.
    Welcome to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. The focal time is 2:00 A.M., the outside temperature is 63 degrees, there is a semiconscious hooker gurgling at your feet.
    The cabin fills with black smoke from fried wires and vaporized hydraulic fluid. One breath burns down his windpipe like drain cleaner, telling Tucker that a second breath may kill him. He unfastens the harness and reaches into the dark for Meadow, connecting with her lace camisole, which comes away in shreds in his hands. He stands, bends over, wraps an arm around her waist, and picks her up. She's light, maybe a hundred pounds, but Tucker has forgotten to pull up his pants and Jockey shorts, which cuff his ankles. He teeters and falls backward onto the control console between the pilot seats. Jutting from the console is the flap actuator lever, a foot-long strip of steel topped by a plastic arrowhead-like tip. The tip catches Tuck in the rear of the scrotum. His and Meadow's combined weight drive him down on the lever, which tears through his scrotum, runs up inside the length of his penis, and emerges in a spray of blood.
    There are no words for the pain. No breath, no thought. Just deafening white and red noise. Tucker feels himself passing out and welcomes it. He drops Meadow, but she is conscious enough to hold on to his neck, and as she falls she pulls him off the lever, which reams its way back through him again.
    Without realizing it, he is standing, breathing. His lungs are on fire. He has to get out. He throws an arm around Meadow and drags her three feet to the hatch. He releases the hatch and it swings down, half open. It's designed to function as a stairway to the ground, designed for a plane that is standing on landing gear. Gloved hands reach into the opening and start pulling at it. "We're going to get you out of there," a fireman says.
    The hatch comes open with a shriek. Tuck sees blue and red flashing lights illuminating raindrops against a black sky, making it appear as if it is raining fire. He takes a single breath of fresh air, says, "I've torn off my dick," and falls forward.

3 – And You Lost Your Frequent
    Flyer Miles
    As with most