Fog Bastards 1 Intention by Bill Robinson

manager doing an extended walk around. It appears that, indeed, no damage had been done. I still need to burp, but I don't consider that important enough damage to report.
     
     
Ken and Captain Amos had been talking and walking the plane by themselves. They come back around to where I'm standing, and Captain Amos whispers in my ear, "How did you know?"
     
     
I shake my head and make the palms up, arms out, shoulders squishy move that relays my lack of knowledge. The captain pats me on the back, and signals his first officer to get on board. Ken and I turn toward the gate. There are 188 passengers staring at all the activity around the aircraft they are about to board. Should make for a fun trip for the flight attendants.
     
     
We get to the Royal Kona as the flight attendants are gathering at the bar. They grab our bags to prevent us from going upstairs, and make us tell them what really went on. Ken plays up the "we would be dead if Simon wasn't a psychic" angle, which is likely not true, we would have just had a quicker descent and more injuries in the back.
     
     
Our food arrives, and we eat as, one by one, they all show off their bruises and we debate whose is biggest, baddest, and ugliest. Laughter is the best medicine. The flight attendants have a tough job, they couldn't control the plane, they didn't know exactly what was going on, they were outnumbered 40 to one by the passengers, and yet they kept everything together, under control, and running smoothly, despite the bruises.
     
     
Finally, I get to go upstairs. I change into my running clothes, get to the beach, and run for an hour. In the sun and humidity, it's more than enough, especially since I still have not been able to burp. I get the shower going as hot as I can, get naked and get in. Then the burp hits, loudly enough that I think the whole hotel heard it.
     
     
I get clean, though I'm feeling bothered again, same as on the flight, but it's not a Gulfstream on attack vector. I go back into my room, still naked, grab my e-reader, finish the morning papers, work on a sleazy novel I've been reading a page at a time for months, and scratch my balls occasionally. The clock says it's eight, after sundown. I need to pee, so I go take care of it.
     
     
Then it hits me. I never turned the light on in the front room, or bathroom, which does not have a window, yet I can see as plain as day. It should be dark in here, really dark. It occurs to me, in the way that things have been occurring to me lately, that I burped light. I say that to myself again: I burped light. Could be worse. It could have been a magic fart.
     
     
I walk back into the room itself. The curtains are closed, the lights are off, but it's bright in here. I peek back at the bathroom, and it's dark in there. Just call me Brother Love, I am a traveling salvation light show. I sit down on the bed, in what should be a dark room, cross my legs, and close my eyes. I learned meditation techniques in college, but running always did the same thing and gave me a cute ass at the same time. Momentarily I wonder if sitting naked on the bedspread in a hotel room is wise, then decide getting the DNA of 40 men on me isn't my biggest worry right now.
     
     
I work to breathe in rhythm, relax and calm myself. The room is dark, except my eyes, even shut, are telling me there's light out there. Makes it harder to focus, but not impossible. I don't know how long I sit quietly, but later I'll figure out that is was a couple hours.
     
     
At some point, the light must mistake my meditation for acceptance, because it dims, and then sure as heck I know how to reach inside myself. I hold the light in my hand (virtual, not actually my hand), and feeling extremely stupid, whisper "Shazam," not knowing if I actually have intention.
     
     
Nothing happens, except it goes dark. I open my eyes, not sensing any difference other than I am no longer a human flashlight. I stretch my legs out, slide to the end of the bed