[Onto the plane lumbers a lean man dressed in a suit and tie, for the most part, with the suit pants replaced with a pair of blue jeans for some ungodly reason. He glances around the plane with a scowl before pulling a bottle of pills from his pocket. He dry swallows two before lumbering over to the technical difficulties sign, a hand over one of his temples.]

Shoulda gotten someone else to do this shit for me.

[He grabs the sign up and places it under one of his arms. The man wavers on his feet for a moment before standing up straight and yelling as loud as he can, so at least one person can hear him.]

Hey! This fucking place is fixed. Sorry for, you know, you people having to deal with more of you popping up. Someone was trying to figure out how the damn selecting people device works. And by figure out, and by someone, I mean I was hitting it with a wrench to see if I could make you all stop showing up. Fat lot of good that did.

So, yeah. It's fixed now, you can go back to being sickening without worrying this place is gonna collapse on itself.


[Raymond Keys: supreme charmer. He's about to leave when he stops, a confused and annoyed expression on his face, and pulls paper out of his pocket. He glances over it, glares, crumples it up and tosses it on the floor.

Then he wordlessly stands there, with all the expression of someone who wants to leave, but isn't allowed to yet.]