“You’ve got to be shitting me with all these delays. I am not in the mood for this shit at all,” was all I could get out of my mouth as I punched the lift button for Terminal 4. Was this really how my day was beginning?
I’m four hours late for my shuttle to the Moon and now I’m delayed another three hours because of these stupid Martian dust storms. You’d think with all the brains at ARCA, the organization with hundreds of the best minds on Earth, one of their genius scientists would have come up with some simple invention to help navigate the launch of a shuttle off this dust-ball even if the wind was kicking up a little bit of sand.
As the lift began traversing to my terminal I felt something annoying on my leg. I looked down to see the gnarled hand of some little old blue lady punching me in the thigh. “Watch your damn mouth boy,” was the best she could mumble as she began coughing violently. These Martians must have been breathing that sand in their lungs, or whatever they had in place of lungs, their whole lives because they all seemed to have that same cough no matter what age they were.
“I’m sorry mam. I didn’t mean to curse like that,” I replied to her, hoping my insincere apology would be enough to cease her incessant pawing of my leg.
“It looks like we’re all stuck here for a bit, doesn’t it?” came from the peanut gallery on the lift. Some geeky looking guy who was rubbing his hand decided to chime in all of a sudden.
I wasn’t in the mood for any further conversation with any of these people so I grunted a dismissive retort and pretend to look for something in my gear bag. How did I know this guy wasn’t going to let that be the end of it though? It was almost like something inside of him was forcing him to start a conversation with me when I had a thousand other things on my mind. I hit the button for Terminal 4 repeatedly, hoping to end this encounter as quickly as possible, but it was too late, he spoke again.
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