HELL

The throttle was fully opened and the equipment roared down the runway, leaving the ground with a shudder. The obligatory 45-degree turn following takeoff was barely cleared and the captain was already announcing the cruising altitude, time of arrival, and weather conditions on the ground in Atlanta – the destination. It looked like the most ordinary, uneventful flight. The three men in the cockpit did not know that they had only four more hours to live. I had a few Bloody Maries under my belt and my tongue had loosened up. I told the fellow sitting next to me at the window that although I was now in the optionsderivatives-futures trade full time, I did real estate finance until August 2007 when the subprime meltdown began. “Ah, those were the times, the mother of all speculative bubbles. Some loot bags, some bonus babies, I tell you. And too bad about those dopes who borrowed at adjustable mortgage rates. My bundle is safe. All those fools! You should have seen their faces when they learned that the 4 percent was only for two years. ‘From now on your payments will be 10 percent.’ ‘Oh, nobody warned us about that!’ Sure, I would have been the one to tell them before they signed just to screw up my own deal.” “They fell for it. I told them in a nice but firm voice that because they were such swell, honest, solid people who reminded me of my own family, I had arranged (sparing no effort) a premium hybrid intermediate-term ARM – especially for them. They were as happy as clams. Much less so when they figured out that they could not afford the monthly payments. Not only that, but their overall loan balance increased. Ha-ha-ha. I simply can’t feel sorry for them. They insisted on granite countertops. They should have stayed in their trailer parks. Ha-ha.” My fellow traveler did not like me or what I said. There was disgust on his face. Hello! This is business class. You should know that “greed is . . . .goood.” Or maybe he disliked the way I poured peanuts in my mouth, chewed them as I talked and smacked the stuff around before washing it all down with my Bloody Mary. He did not suspect that in one hour he would be dead. I changed seats, moving to an unoccupied row. Standing in front of the curtain, facing the cabin, the stewardess was evidently waiting for the cue to announce preparations for landing. She must have overheard how I screwed those super-prime suckers. She seemed angry, turned her head, showing me a tense and preoccupied profile. Her cheekbones moved in nervous self-control as she pretended to be absorbed by the impenetrable milky cloud beyond the cabin window. The picture of a suffering angel. I bet my story upset her and now she was wishing something horrible on me. She did not know that in a few minutes she would be dead too. I am sitting on burning sand, glued there with something viscous. This is not Atlanta. There is a lake of fire in front of me and I smell the pungent, suffocating odor of flaming sulfur. Oh, this brilliant, blinding heat. Everybody on that flight must have died, although just a few seconds ago I heard a voice saying “He choked on a peanut.”