Ms F***z

Having avoided the airport security, suspicsious of her bottle shaped hand luggage, and escaped the attention of national police for a series of previous misdemeanours, Ms F***z sassily climbed the 27 steps to her American Airlines flight 5893 to Chicago.

She was unsure what exactly would await her on the other side. She knew the horses and her blood family would be there for her, but her real worries were two-fold. Firstly, who the hell was she gonna hold tight in Illanois, were there going to be ANY guys there that would be bad-ass enough for her to like too? Farm boys occaisonally went behind their bosses backs for a cheeky roll in the hay, but she needed more than that. The men she liked too would roll UP that dam hay, sneak it out the back door and make a profit from it. Where were these types in the Mid-West countryside? She feared she'd left them all behind in her holy triangle of Brazil, Buenos Aires and Argentina's own Wild West.

Almost as disconcerting for her, as she handed her boarding pass to the untruthfully slim Mid-Western air hostess who pointed her to her seat with a shrill 'Haaaave a nice journey!', was the family she'd left behind. In the previous three months they'd been scatterd gunned around Buenos Aires, their Clan had been brought to an unceremonius end, and she feared the consequences had still not been completely lived out. Was it safe to leave now? How would the remaining family members cope without being ordered to drink? would they remember to drink properly or resort to former times, when, almost to a person, they replenished there bodies with dangerous substances- 'water', 'OJ', 'tea', they had called them.

As she sat down in her extra wide seat, made to accomadate residents of her country of birth, she began to imagine how exactly her family might now be spending their time...

Who was in the best shape? Start with that, she mused, calm her fears..

She considered her gypsy. Surely she’ll be all good. Steady home, handsome man, real job…but then she remembered, what were those mutterings she’d been hearing in her last weeks? …look at a building… have to find a place for the French. He needs me… the roof leaks… there’s not enough bathrooms… the land-lady was a frail skinny crack whore. Slowly an image formed in her mind… Her gypsy, sitting on the street in Palermo, surrounded by brochures and leaflets from estate agents, foaming at the mouth, talking about 9000pesos a month….12000 a month…slowly a group of rich  gringos began to gather around… “Are you ok there? Can i get you anything?” the voice seemed so real, so…so close…. With a fright she sat bolt upright. Phew! She realised she’d drifted off, her gypsy couldn´t possibly have became a slobberring rabid, real-estate obsessed zombie in just a few short hours. Could she?

Curtly, she ordered a jaeger bomb and a vodka speed, and sat back, calmer, drinks in hands, and began pondering the well being of other members of her BsAs family.. what of Flaco? miserable bastard hadnt even said goodbye. He claimed it was impossible but she didnt believe him. She never believed him, secretly she considered him a cretinous individual only good for reading newspapers and completing crosswords..but still, she was devasted that she had never had his boney pelvis tight between her thighs…she stayed with this thought for a while, and, it having reached a satisfactory conclusión, her mind began to wonder once more… There he was, rising from his bed at 6:15, face like the fury of a cheated super-bowl sunday sports fan, to spend hours travelling to and from a 1 hour shift, returning to go to bed, waking up for a shift on a reception desk, then going to bed, getting up and doing it all over again. This crazed cycle was wearing him down, down to the depths of a grunting monosyllabic sloth, muttering phrases such as, “i can’t, i have an interview in the morning”. It made him dizzy and sick at regular intervals. Eventually she saw him climbing aboard the number39 bus, looking to take refuge with friends across town at Palermo House…but half way there he’d started demanding to be allowed to climb on to the roof of the bus. He slapped the driver after a period of restraint, and was left just sitting at the back of the bus looking at pictures of pretty girls he once new via facebook…

And he wasn’t the only one who had to get his thrills from the internet. She saw her friend Mr Meat-&-Sugar Sosa. From the choicest of pickings of loose, barely legal ladies behid Clan´s reception, Meat-&-Sugar now had to look to the 30somethings of a new, limyer house, or stick to facebook and bebo. He’d aged 15 years almost overnight, taking genuine pleasure from explaining to walking boot-clad German tourists how to get to Recoletta, and laughing along as clueless Canadians exclaimed how pleased they were that their taxi back from Pamelo(¿!) had only cost them 50$.

These thoughts had repulsed her more. But somehow also made her long to be back with her family. She began to long for the sound of French rap being drowned out by the rapping of a Frenchmen who definately wasn’t a rapper (but was perhaps a rapist), or the smell of Australian culinary delicasies (¿!!?) heating on the stove. At that moment the plane hit some turbulence and her thoughts were jolted out of place. Suddenly she envisaged a ghetto gnome attempting to wrestle  4 pesos from a Swiss backpacker. Apparently he’d owed her money for an empanada for over 13 minutes. No, she couldnt wait, she had to go out and buy more mince meat, didn’t he know she´d been cooking for 72 hours straight and had a small French baby to take care off too?!! In actual fact, the baby was beyond care. Despite numerous visits to the sleep clinic, he hadn’t slept in 6 days and nights. Some thought this the result of hours of video game abuse, others suggested darker forces were at work. But none dared to question him for fear of the Word PUTAN being tatooed onto their foreheads through a mixture of headlocks and flying spittle. This thought chilled Ms F***z to the bone, but almost immediately an even more chilling image flashed through her ever more drunken mind. The baby had risen from its darkened corner in a flash, suddenly it cut its own hair, shaved and put on a crisp, clean shirt.something it was usually averse to. Strolling timidly over to the nearest computer, it logged onto skype and initiated a conversation with the apparently all powerful monster, known only as ‘La Madame’. But what terrifed her most was the child like smile and mannerisms used to address the La Madame…it seemed the baby had grown-up in a matter of seconds…

It was futile, she couldnt do it. She stood up immedietly, screaming “I HAVE TO GET BACK TO MY FAMILY. NOW! LET ME OFF THIS FUCKING PLANE”. The cabin staff were alarmed but calm, “Now now baby doll, you’ll see them soon. Is someone meeting you at the airport? Your parents perhaps?”

“No, no, you dont understand, my OTHER family. They need me!” with this, she hurled a bottle of champagne (having ensured it was completely empty of course) towards the cockpit and pushed past several cabin staff. Those still blocking her path began to cower into the aisles in order to avoid her icy glare, powerful bitch slip, and princes demands. Bursting into the cock-pit she was ready to smash the driver over the head with an empty can of speed when she noticed a strange glint in his eye. Her attention was then caught by something on his upper left arm…was that an Argentian flag tatooed just above the elbow?

“Que liiiiinda” grinned the pilot flashing the remnants of a little Bolo de Lomo in his teeth and a strange dot in his nose in the process… Suddenly she was calmed.. She thought of her Avatar and the words ‘sexy time’ came to mind. The Pilot flicked a switch (…) and the J-money-Millionaire remix of ‘(Bringin') Sexy Back (Home)’ began to play….

    Smiling and stretching out like a cat she began to think of other family members in London and Southern France, and realised there must be life after the family for her, just as there had been for those others. She returned peacefully to her seat, but not before  affording herself one last glance at the tatoo, and inhaling deeply the fernet breath for one last time…