Jim was a good man. Always did what people asked, never let them down. Jim was also a pilot. He flew everywhere; all over the country, even nearby continents. One day, Jim was asked to do a favor for his friend, Kenny.
"Jim, could you fly to my home, Bermuda, and retrieve my suitcase? It holds the last of my things. You'll find it at my mother's house," Kenny told Jim.
"Sure thing, Kenny!" Jim replied.
So Jim went to the airport and found his little cargo plane, filled up the gas tank, and set his GPS for Bermuda.
Not long after takeoff, Jim spotted some storm clouds. He looked at his radar, but didn't see any sign of storms. Jim scowled. That's weird, he thought. His map said he was in the Bermuda Triangle, but Jim never believed those silly myths. He looked down at his GPS to make sure he was still going the right way, but it was all mixed up, saying he was in Australia. His compass was messed up, too. It was pointing south.
"What in the world?" Jim muttered. His gas level was almost to "E" for empty, even though Jim had personally filled it about an hour prior.
"What the--"
Suddenly, the plane pitched forward, nearly throwing Jim through the dashboard window. Jim grabbed the throttle and pulled back as the plane committed a steep nosedive. The plane continued to drop, quickly gaining momentum. Jim jerked in an upward motion with renewed strength. The plane ascended slightly, bringing Jim to a position mere feet above the choppy sea. Jim wiped some perspiration from his brow and sighed in relief, but that moment of liberation was short-lived. In a flash of lightning, Jim found himself taking his last breaths before sinking with his plane below the surface of the once again victorious Bermuda Triangle.
