This is an admittedly strange story – but this is written more or less on a dare by The Cutter. I was challenged to use Transformers, Guns ‘N Roses, the plight of a Philadelphia sports fan and Mr. Eko from Lost in a post, and I DO love a challenge. Please don’t judge me on this roller coaster of imagination!
Guns ‘N Roses blasted in the background as Mr. Eko sat, head in his hands, wondering where it all went horribly wrong. The acrid stench of smoke still permeated his sense of smell even though the fuselage, that was once meant for a much bigger purpose, had ceased burning long ago. In retrospect, he realized he was much safer on the island. The billions of dollars he had illegally transferred to fund his project had gone up in smoke when Oceanic Airlines Flight 815 met with its unanticipated fate and crashed into the deserted island on which he now found himself trapped.
The project had seemed light years beyond the technology that was available at the time. He had painstakingly sought funding, pilfered money from unsuspecting institutions and watched his idea grow from infancy to maturity. It was brilliant. Science fiction and action movies had created this phenomenon on the big screen but he was helping to make it a reality.
The design, on paper and in computer software, was flawless. Moving parts were masked to create the facade of a passenger airliner but, underneath, the pretense of modern aviation was enhanced by robotics. This plane would make history and alter the way humanity viewed modern travel. Access to remote areas would become simple, mundane, and no piece of the Earth would remain untouched. There would be no more need for extended runways and no exotic destination would be impervious to human persuasion. Planes would become Transformers. Spheres of rubber would never again touch the Earth’s surface. Instead, wings would become arms, and legs would propel from metal making the plane land in an upright position on a small square of land. Pure genius.
But, like any Philadelphia sports fan, his dream was marred with disappointment. His Hail Mary had been thrown. Hundreds of people had watched as the glistening ball of metal was thrown from the opponent’s thirty-yard line and failed to meet its destiny. The plane soared through the sky, showing the promise of scoring the winning touchdown and dropped a yard short of its intended receiver. The game was over, the robotics had failed, the plane was destroyed and he was trapped on a secluded piece of earth surrounded by an immeasurable ocean.
(image credit: tumblr.com)
As the lyrics of Sweet Child of Mine played incessantly in the background, he finally realized the irony of the only soundtrack that remained intact after the crash. That idea was his baby, his lineage. And as he blatantly ignored the encroachment of his impending death, he welcomed the final release that would come when the Smoke Monster finally found him.