“Stand back everyone, I’m from Cincinnati!”, I yelled, intelligently, at the frightened masses huddled inside of the aeroplane cabin, their faces ugly with fear. There I stood, alone, amidst the crowd, looking over a rather broken man, who was gasping in pain, clutching at his own hideously twisted form. “Just what does being from Cincinnati have to do with medical emergencies?” huffed she, a rather pointy-faced old lady, who by the tone of her voice, and the sheer stupidity of her question, was obviously from Toledo. “Well,” I said “Cincinnati is 683 feet above sea level, and 31 miles from the ocean, which of course makes me the anti-christ.” “And who better to save the life of this poor man than one with such awesome and incredible powers of deduction as I?”, I added, peering around the innards of the fast-falling machine – looking for makeshift tools to do the job at hand. There was little time remaining; The injured man’s leg was bleeding profusely all over the fine low-pile cobalt-blue carpet, his bones jutting awkwardly outward like the eyes of a strangled Cambodian prostitute. […]
