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"What did Steve ever do?" they'll say. "What does Steve have to do with a snowstorm or a goat on the runway or whatever the fuck Chicago's problem is?" they'll say. "He's just a dude," they'll say. Make sure it's the last thing they say.
Steve lovers are race traitors, and race traitors will not be tolerated.
Look, accidents happen. Sometimes those archaic, humid "horsey sauce" packets from the airport Arby's just find their way into some arrogant Steve apologist's coffee. Sometimes furious tapeworm infestations just kind of happen.
Make it official. A king is a king only so long as the people believe he is, so cement that symbolism in your followers early. A king is not a man. A king is a throne. A king is a crown. A throne made out of the carry-on baggage of his followers. A crown made out of the seized iPhone chargers of the betrayers.
Death is an inevitability. No man is immortal, no matter what deals he may strike with the great and powerful Newsstand Witches of Terminal 4. A life is a fleeting thing, but a legacy? A legacy may extend for thousands of years. But for a legacy, you need an heir, and for an heir, you need a queen. Your fellow passengers will beg for admittance to your impenetrable baggage fort. They will fall over themselves for the chance to sow your seed, to bathe in the fantastic waters of your luxuriant drinking fountain pools. They will do anything -- everything -- to ensure that their children and their children's children will never go without battery life. You will have your pick of mates.
But do not be swayed by mere beauty and grace. Your legacy will not be secured by lust, but by intelligent maneuvering and the fortification of power. Sure, she looks like the ass end of Yugoslavia boned Herman Munster and somebody hit the baby with a shovel, but that stewardess is your smartest choice for queen. She is always privy to the holy flight information. She is the avatar of the Airport's whims on Earth. Securing her hand will make your rule not just politically sound, but divinely blessed.
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So your flight has finally arrived and started boarding, and you're struggling with the concept of giving up your mighty Gate Kingdom to rejoin the common world as a peon. It can be heartbreaking, I know, but resist the urge to wage violent and bloody war against the rest of the airport. You cannot hold your empire against the modern world. There is a life waiting for you out there. You need to suck it up, put what's left of your pants back on, pull your carry-on from the battlements, tell Gergana it was all pillow talk, and wash Steve's blood off of your face before they start calling for Zone 3. You've probably got about 20 minutes left. But hey, do you know what that's plenty of time for? A slice of wet pizza and a quick "Yugo blitz" behind the people mover -- you know, for old time's sake.
Buy Robert's stunning, transcendental, orgasmic science fiction novel, Rx: A Tale of Electronegativity, right here. Or buy Robert's other (pretty OK) book, Everything Is Going to Kill Everybody: The Terrifyingly Real Ways the World Wants You Dead. Follow him on Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook.