Tevun-Krus #26 - Alternative Universe

When Pigs Fly Coach - a Short Story by @krazydiamond

When Pigs Fly Coach

By Krazydiamond

Orwell knew it was going to be a wretched day when the hot slop came hurtling at him over the diner counter.

There was a beat of silence among the diners, wincing in sympathy for the demise of a rather nice trouser and waistcoat to the oozing splotch of greasy food before they returned to their plates and general conversation. Orwell sighed, there wasn't much else he could do about the situation now, not with hot grease seeping into the fine silk weave of his tailored vest. Lucy was appalled, attempting to sop at the mess with her already stained apron.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Speck," she babbled, wobbling on too thin heels around him until he was certain one more turn would send her toppling to the ground.

"It's quite all right dear," he said, trying to keep the grind of his back teeth out of his voice. Lucy had impeccable service and as a rule was genuinely kind to him, it was just his luck today. He missed the first tram of the day, meaning he couldn't stop for the morning paper and breakfast. Food was more important so he'd opted straight for the diner. Barely three bites into his meal and he was dripping. The grease mingled with the morning sweat brought on by the crowded tram, leaving the faint odor of hot garbage.

There was no time to run home and change, not if he was to catch his flight, which meant he would perform his inspection smelling like a landfill.

"At least let me comp you the meal, sir," said Lucy. Perhaps this wouldn't be such a bad day after all.

"Thank, my dear, that would be most helpful," he said, catching sight of the time. The traitorous hands indicated he had barely half an hour to trot to the station. Leaping up with an indignant squeal, he bade Lucy an apologetic farewell and raced off, pattering along the cobblestones at top speed.

He should have stayed in bed, wrapped in his blankets.

The central station was abuzz, passengers packed snout to tail as they made their way through ticketing and customs. Orwell skidded into the express line, fumbling for his official papers in his vest pocket, dismayed by the smear of grease over the city seal. Oh, dear. Mr. Perkins would have a conniption when he saw the state of his paperwork.

He placed them before the porter, apologizing for their condition as he launched into the breakfast fiasco.

"And then the poor girl slipped an a stray peel and--"

"Please place your hand here," said the porter, his expression one of boredom.

"Oh, er..." Orwell placed his hand beneath the scanner, praying Mrs. Tally properly updated his information for the system.

The porter frowned at the screen. "I'm afraid there was a discrepancy in setting up your accommodations Inspector....Speck. In light of that, we unfortunately overbooked first class. We can still place you on the waiting flight, but I am afraid you shall have to take a coach seat."

Truly, it was a wretched day.

A flight attendant in a too small skirt and jacket led him through the ship, giving him a longing glimpse of the roomy seating arrangements and private booths contained in first class. The aisle abruptly narrowed, forcing both of them to squeeze their combined bulk into the trough lined benches. Orwell sneered at the worn bench, the economy seating far below the cleanliness standards of the first class. He heaved himself to the window, because he'd be damned if this already piss poor arrangement forced him to the middle of the bench. Pouting he kept his gaze out the circular window, ignoring the grunts and snorts of the other passengers packing themselves in like fish in a tin. His beady eyes rolled as a gentleman who required the space of the first class rolled himself in next to Orwell, his bulk smooshing the poor inspector's face against the concave bubble of glass. Orwell gave a short squeal of protest.