I watched the first-round American Idol contestants board a private jet for Hollywood.  The last singer slipped onboard as the over-wing door shut and the hurried plane already started to roll.

This was no ordinary jet.  It looked like an artist’s rendition of a futuristic plane, able to enter outer space and return back to earth.  Its wings were rounded, and it had an enormous round engine exhaust like a rocket.

The owner of the plane, also its pilot, was known to be a hot-head and a show-off.  A different plane would have better suited this flight, but with all the hoopla, attention, and for show, HE was taking the new jet.

Upon takeoff, the engine roared.  My chest reverberated in its power.  It was propelled steeply by thrust that trailed a long yellow flame.  Yet the pilot pulled up and up again, too much.  Obviously it was too steep because the ship decelerated to the point it stopped climbing and began to descend flatly toward earth.  I was angry, angry he was showing off at the passenger’s expense.  By his greatness and might, he would maneuver the plane to make them feel weightless, frighten the singers to death, then with amazing skill, he’d save them.  Asshole.  He did recover from the aerodynamic stall, scared onlookers as well, then proceeded to roll the plane upside down then up again.  I was filled with hatred for this pilot.

Once again, he pulled up, and up again; except now, altitude was lower than before.  No time to recover, the plane plummeted without control to the ground.  A column of smoke and flame rebounded upward where the fancy jet and all its life disappeared from view.  With the shock of disbelief and loss came a dead wuamff-sound of impact.