QPC Taking the plane by the horns

An explosion of your lungs is bound to occur, your face clenched in a twisted mess of fear. Unwilling to breath, you pray that the take-off will be over soon. The short length of belt is little comfort in comparison to the shaking, rattling seat that threatens to toss you off  like a ferocious bull in a rodeo. The only difference to the feeling of a thrashing beast and this, is the urban jungle that rests hundreds of meters below you. Being bucked off now – will result in certain death. An unpleasant thought, the same one that plagues you every time you fly. Take offs and landings are always the worst.

The sense of vertigo slowly dissipates as the plane levels but the fear still pierces you, the bull now ramming its hefty horn into your stomach. Impaled, you will have to bear the pain until the air hostess arrives. Hopefully, they will be by soon.

"Hello sir, would you like anything?" The air hostess is rather easy on your eye, or as easy as one caked in make-up could be anyway.
Holding up a handful of cash, you demand your remedy "Scotch! Lots of scotch!"

The ice clinks within the plastic cup, as the fire water pours satisfyingly down the back of your throat. The warm bitter taste refreshes your squirming tongue, while the alcoholic heat burns the piercing horn to small specks of ignorable ash within your gut. With your body numb, you lean back in the lumpy chair and gaze out the small window. Filled with liquid confidence you watch the cities pass underneath like tiny crawling ants. The distant scenery has a passive beauty to it. Until descent when the ants will turn into the rearing bulls once more.