Foreign People

"Whatcha writing?" the blonde with a provocative shirt leaned over my shoulder. Damn, she smelled amazing, a fruity blend of citrus and angel tears. She could have easily lived up to one of my nerd fantasies. She had all the right equipment. This little tease that chomped her minty gum, flirting with all the waiters finally recognized the one penis she hadn't manipulated... who had been sitting in the same train passenger car as her the whole time. Not that any of this would surprise me. Girls like her usually don't go for the husky, sweaty type.

"I'm a journalist and I'm writing about the conflict in Shangri-la," I did my best to sound heartfelt and still appear interesting to talk to. It's very rare a level 8 girl would talk to me. I'm desperate, yes, but I am human.

She scooted back in a slump, bored manner. Sorry, honey, this is all I have to offer. My forehead broke out into a sweat and I admitted defeat.

"Is that why you are on the train, you're headed there?" her face made a perfect disgusted look.

"Yes."

"Well, I hope you write about all the messed up shit those goat killers do."

She referenced a news story two weeks back, a clan of Shangs, killed goats for one of their religious holidays. The news slanted everything, making it sound like the whole city had lost their mind in a killing frenzy. Goat blood poured in the streets. What people don't realize is that the Shangs, consume more goat meat per capita. It's a part of their daily diet.

"I'm not sure what angle my article will take, but as a culture I find them lovely."

The blonde, bottle blonde upon closer inspection... had hazel eyes, I moved my left arm automatically to cover a grease stain on my shirt from a pizza I had earlier.

"I don't know how anyone can find them lovely. I guess, if you're into killing, barbarically. They don't value life. They aren't human. How can anyone kill a cute goat?"

"Samantha," I had heard her name plenty of times as she giggled and played with all her delightful male toys, "Is there ever a reason to kill a goat?"

A charming smile crossed Samantha's face upon hearing her name, "I guess if you're like starving to death."

I turned my attention back to my laptop. This conversation wasn't gonna get me laid and intellectually, Samantha and I are worlds apart. "Just don't lose sight of what's important."

Samantha coiled a long strand of hair around her fingers, "And what's important?"

"That people who are different," I paused, I hadn't thought through my intended goal for my Shang article, and found it hard to answer. "Everyone is different."

"Yeah, and they are pieces of shit," she quipped.

###

The train to Shangri-La is old and forgotten. The slow onward journey to a land and people who have been hated for something they know very little about. The world changed, not them.

Sitting in the dinning cart, I typed mechanically, in between sips of my five tablespoons of sugar coffee, its battery acid, but sugary acid nonetheless. A pile of empty sugar packets decorated the table, my laptop had trace amounts of the little crystal darlings. Sweet fingers make for the best writing. Whether it was the lack of assorted pastries and doughnut options, but my article was missing something critical. Stretching out my arms, airing the pits, my eyes observed an interesting party that had kept me amused for most of the morning.