pan: /private Colonelonic Heh. That part was true, actually. I'll tell you
the rest, maybe, someday. Not today, though. I gotta go to London.

Art's vision throbbed with his pulse as he jammed his clothes back into his
backpack with one hand while he booked a ticket to London on his comm with the
other. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he ordered the taxi while scribbling a
note to Gran on the smart-surface of her fridge.

He was verging on berserk by the time he hit airport security. The guard played
the ultrasound flashlight over him and looked him up and down with his goggles,
then had him walk through the chromatograph twice. Art tried to breathe calmly,
but it wasn't happening. He'd take two deep breaths, think about how he was yup,
calming down, pretty good, especially since he was going to London to confront
Fede about the fact that his friend had screwed him stabbed him in the back
using his girlfriend to distract him and meanwhile she was in Los Angeles
sleeping with her fucking ex who was going to steal his idea and sell it as his
own that fucking prick boning his girl right then almost certainly laughing
about poor old Art, dumbfuck stuck in Toronto with his thumb up his ass, oh Fede
was going to pay, that's right, he was -- and then he'd be huffing down his
nose, hyperventilating, really losing his shit right there.

The security guard finally asked him if he needed a doctor.

"No," Art said. "That's fine. I'm just upset. A friend of mine died suddenly and
I'm flying to London for the funeral." The guard seemed satisfied with this
explanation and let him pass, finally.

He fought the urge to get plastered on the flight and vibrated in his seat
instead, jiggling his leg until his seatmate -- an elderly businessman who'd
spent the flight thus far wrinkling his brow at a series of spreadsheets on his
comm -- actually put a hand on Art's knee and said, "Switch off the motor, son.
You're gonna burn it out if you idle it that high all the way to Gatwick."

Art nearly leapt out of his seat when the flight attendant wheeled up the
duty-free cart, bristling with novelty beakers of fantastically old whiskey
shaped like jigging Scotchmen and drunken leprechauns swinging from lampposts.

By the time he hit UK customs he was supersonic, ready to hammer an entire
packet of Player's filterless into his face and light them with a blowtorch. It
wasn't even 0600h GMT, and the Sikh working the booth looked three-quarters
asl