TRAVELERS TO AVOID

Fun & Games with Reptile Flying with Oxygen

Young, seemingly disabled prehistoric traveling with a cannula

“Pssssssst. Hey Handsome, wanna hear a story about my last flight?” The intense shimmering thing winked.

Brian Boomerang Holiday liked the mutant lizard girl’s look, but the nose hose was a turnoff. The CEO of Cyber Punks Neverlimited figured he could use some virtue points after his last signals were stamped “Return to Sender,” so he didn’t run.

Lizzie Lizard Brain began her story in her unnaturally dark sultry voice.

My neck sustained an avulsion fracture when I was rear-ended at 21. A foolish human Seattlite plowed her truck into my car as drivers slid down an icy hill.

I should have just slithered to work.

Hospitals strip the liberties of mutant lizard girls and keep them confined. Still able to walk, talk, and hiss at the horrible human driver, I made it to my office on time. Those accounting clients weren’t going to be triple-charged for flowers sent to their mom’s funeral without me.

It wasn’t long before I started to feel like a stupid toad — the kind that turns their necks into balloons. I called Grotesque Group Health and a doctor called me back.

“Go to the ER,” the not-a-wizard commanded.

“Can’t. I’m busy,” I croaked.

“Where are you? I’ll send an ambulance.”

A month later, I made an appointment.

Six weeks later I learned avulsion fractures happen when whiplash occurs with such great force the serpentine tendons and muscles ruthlessly snap off pieces of your vertebrae.

Damned human skeletons — very poor engineering.

Hissing and trying to catch flies and Congressmen with an immobilizing neckbrace is frustrating. Congressmen scream when they lose a leg.

Later, I met with an attorney who reminded me of One-eyed Snake Snivelling to get the car fixed and medical bills paid.

“You can take that off in here.” He pointed at the collar.

Our eyes locked, and I couldn’t resist.

I took off the collar and collapsed, unconscious.

Ten years later, I was having trouble walking. An MRI showed severe you’re-about-to-be-paralyzed-if-you-sneeze nerve impingement in 3 places near my heart. Scripps, UCLA, and all the other Southern California doctors in Gamblers Anonymous passed, mumbling about malpractice insurance rates.

I’ve been terrorizing them in their dreams ever since.

I could have gone with Doctor I_almost_got_my_Chiropractor’s_license who worked a strip mall in Compton . Instead I chose a fancy Beverly Hills dweeb wearing my Cousin Larry’s lizard skin on his boots.

Ketamine is a lovely anesthesia.

“You’re alive!” isn’t the best way for a surgeon to describe surgical success.

About a month later I had to fly to Tuscon for my brother Cabbage’s Bat Mitzva. Slithering serpents don’t do well dragging oxygen concentrators through airports.

The nose cannula interferes with proper fang flicks while slurping tea.

I showed fellow passengers how I keep Air Force One in the air.

TSA agents talked loud and s-l-o-w-l-y to anyone appearing the slightest disabled or different from those who don’t rank an 8 or higher on their “I’d nail ’em” scale.

Pointing at the oxygen concentrator, a neanderthal government employee asked if I could turn it off so he could check for explosives.

“Sure I can. Are you okay with killing me? If I had explosives, I’d have swallowed them. Can I have a drink?”

He looked pissed and held up the spare battery in my carry-on like a triumphant explorer who’d discovered a head on a stake.

“What’s this?” he demanded.

I didn’t clap but gave him the same pitiful look Grandpa Samuel Snidely Serpent probably gave gullible Eve in the Garden of Eden.

“Those squiggles on the battery are words. They match the ones on the concentrator,” I hissed.

Six hours later I found a seat in First Class next to an unsuspecting woman with her nose buried in a book — always a sign someone wants to play.

“Pardons me,” I coaxed in my best relatable lizard lisp. “I’m new to this oxygen thing. Can you tell me when the machine starts setting off alarms if I don’t hear it? I need to see when I get close to passing out — I think it’s around 80 on this pulse oximeter.”

She didn’t look eager to be my research assistant. Probably a programmer.

“Don’t worry, I have these breathing exercises to help me prepare.”

I warmed up my voice, breathing from my diaphragm like my 7th Grade Chorus teacher taught us.

The woman smiled as I sustained a C-note for 6/66ths of a second.

She gave me a thumbs up and I grinned.

The unsuspecting victim thought we were finished. Silly girl, I thought.

I channeled some of the most disturbing chants my ancient ancestors heard before biting off the heads of the devout.

My traveling companion looked a little worried. I calmed her by offering advice on the best small, private airports near John Wayne where demon-possessed clients keep their private planes.

“There are some great guys you can probably catch a ride with next time.” Nobody recognized Jeffrey Epstein’s name then.

Brian Boomerang Holiday began trying to peek at Lizzie’s ticket. Please don’t let this crazy thing on my flight.

Lizzie continued her story.

The silly woman was still sane so I upped the ante.

When I stood in the aisle she became a little nervous.

I warmed up with the usual ballet positions and stretches.

She looked amused.

With a groan, I lifted my left foot so it pointed straight up with my knee trouching my ear.

Still not good enough a response.

My grin stretched to my ears as I spun and my previously hidden tale hit the overhead bin.

The woman picked her book back up, blinking fast like she wasn’t sure if she was imagining things.

“Hold this,” I ordered, handing her a red scarf.

I held my fingers over my head like a bull’s horns and began huffing. My steely gaze seemed to disturb her.

I pawed at the carpet and prepared to charge.

Finally alarmed, my unwilling assistant hit the call button.

When the flight attendant arrived, I fumbled like the disabled, distraught normal human most people expect from the otherly-abled.

“I’m sorry, I was just looking for something to take my medication with,” I explained all aflutter. “Can I please have a ginger ale and a snack?”

Taking my seat again, I offered the freaked-out woman the bag I’d snagged.

“Nuts? Anxiety medication?” An assortment of pills fell from my pockets.

She’s wearing the red scarf, Brian Boomerang Holiday nervously thought.

Noting the ageless she/he/it’s pulsating green, then blue, then orange eyes, Brian decided this might be the one chick who crossed his shifting lines. Kinky is one thing, but he wasn’t experienced with shapeshifters and wanted to ease into it slowly.

“Wow. You sound really cool. Too bad I’m headed for a spiritual retreat in Siberia for 6 months. With my husbands. And 14 bratty kids. I’m poor.”

Brian headed for the Vino Volo wine lounge, wondering if he could find tequila and Xanax.

Thanks for reading. Clap 50 times, read everything else I’ve written, and share with your hostages. I’ll keep your name off my relative's visit list.

I’m still thinking of starting a publication/express identity theft ring.

I butchered images for Halloween. Few words, more pictures.

Declaration of Independence.