You kick at the surprisingly hearty plastic door again and again, only to rebound uselessly off of it.

Ron mistakes your pathetic blows for polite knocking, and informs you in a choking voice that it is occupado. After several minutes of begging, pleading, apologizing, and ultimately dropping to your knees and singing two verses of Journeys Open Arms for him while the rest of the cabin laughs at you, he relents. He emerges from the bathroom oddly composed, pats you on the head, and seamlessly trots off to offer drinks to the other passengers. With no time to spare, you shove a finger down your throat and bring the drug bags up. You frantically rip into each bag, downing their contents as fast you can. After a foul feast of prophylactic-and-vomit flavored mystery drugs, you once again take your seat next to the ratty conspirator.


Did you flush it all? He asks.


The hatred you feel for yourself at this moment actually borders on the hilarious. You stifle a giggle. A giggle which is impossible to stifle, because the shaking of your own ribs tickles you, which makes you giggle more, and this ridiculous situation is pretty funny, which makes you giggle more, which makes your ribs tickle again, and all of this is irrelevant now because the time vortex has opened up, and the entire front half of the plane is being swallowed by the pastel swirling of the Underverse.

If you embrace these sudden, unexplainable cosmic events with the simple-minded fervor of a child, turn to page 5.If you scream until your ocular pressure spikes and your eyeballs explode inside your skull, turn to page 4.

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