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The Prophet 2.9

Brig occupied a window seat on the right side, towards the front, of the Boeing 767. No one had yet taken the aisle seat next to him, and he remained hopeful that no one would, though they had already announced that the flight was full. Business class on this leg of the trip was not a big deal. A slightly bigger, slightly more comfortable seat, with extra legroom and a lower bathroom-to-passenger ratio.

Brigham Young International owned a 2015 Gulfstream 650, and as the North America Regional Sales Manager, his father occasionally let Brig use it. Now that was traveling in style, Brig reminisced. He was not likely to enjoy that kind of luxury ever again. In fact, this business class transport to Hong Kong would likely be his last taste of extravagance. The thought depressed him.

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Brig looked around to see if anyone was watching him before opening his backpack and fishing out an orange prescription bottle of oxycodone. He had secured a little over two-hundred pills for the road. Before losing his job and his inheritance, getting drugs had never been a problem. He had a long list of sketchy “doctors” and white collar drug dealers that fought amongst themselves to supply him. Brig always paid top dollar, rarely asked for credit, and everyone knew he wasn’t a cop.

He tapped out three pills to help get him through this leg of his long trip to Hong Kong. His tolerance for opioids had grown annoyingly strong, but he estimated three 60mg tablets should do the trick. If he fell asleep, which he hoped he would, the flight attendant would wake him when they reached SFO. He didn’t want to be so out of it that he missed his flight to Hong Kong.

The economy class passengers now started to file onto the airplane, and still nobody had claimed the seat next to him. There were eight business class seats, and only two of them remained unoccupied. Brig leaned against the window and looked out at the men loading the bags onto the airplane. The sound of a newspaper flopping onto the seat next to him, broke his stupor. A large man wearing a cowboy hat was struggling to force his “carry-on” into the overhead compartment above their seats.

Great! Brig thought. John mother-fuckin’ Wayne!

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