Chapter 143 US Airlines 2 In-flight Meal (Add slashes to avoid slurs)...

The plane had reached cruising altitude, and the light outside the window was dull and milky white.

The flight attendants put on disposable gloves and began pushing the food carts out.

The wheels clattered as they rolled down the aisle. You didn't feel particularly hungry at first, but every tiny bump from the food cart felt like it was stepping on your stomach.

You swallowed hard, gazing longingly at the flight attendants on the other side.

When will it be your turn? — No, that's not right.

This sudden hunger is strange. You immediately become alert, but this only makes the empty feeling in your stomach cramp even more intensely.

The general rule is: maybe you should only eat the right amount of food.

In-flight meals are also served in "quantities"—in theory, even if you ask them for some, they might not have extra meals; moreover, they might refuse.

As long as you eat just the right amount, just eat the portion they give you—that's not impossible, as long as they serve the food quickly, you can just eat your portion properly... No, no, don't eat like a hungry wolf, that's too dangerous!

Your eyes, oblivious to your inner struggle, glare up, somewhat menacingly.

The flight attendant walks up to you and expressionlessly pulls out an unevenly heated silver foil meal box from a stainless steel food tray.

"Dear traveler, this is your specially prepared classic rice lunch: honey mustard chicken breast, seasoned green beans, and tomato risotto. Enjoy your meal."

She sent the same meal to Fopoll, and the two of them, just like you, eagerly accepted it as if they had been starving for days.

When you take the lunchbox, you can feel the uneven temperature of the food just by touching it; some parts are scalding hot, while others feel like they were just taken out of the refrigerator.

Restrain yourself, restrain yourself—how about we take a picture first?

That's the right way to think. Once the idea of ​​taking a photo and posting it on social media popped into my head, the unbearable hunger and craving were instantly suppressed.

You secretly rejoice, raise your phone, adjust the angle to make the chicken look shinier, and manually stack the green beans neatly.

As usual, you included Anbo and the others in the photo because:

"Anbo, can you give me your hotspot? I'm not American, I can't connect to the internet."

"Of course, no problem!"

You've connected to Anbo's network, even a 6G one; perhaps this is a special privilege for Fubo.

6G network is fast. I quickly added a filter and airplane image, selected a tag: "#AnboTakesMeFly #LunchInTheAir #EnergyMomentAt10,000MetersAbove", and sent it out immediately.

You specifically mentioned Anbo's name, which pleased her. The two of you took some more selfies, and your desire for the meal quickly faded.

The number of likes skyrocketed, and the first comment was a repost and reply from Anbo: "Chicken breast is so healthy! This is the energy management we should have on the road!"

You put away your phone and prepare for the meal.

You no longer have that inexplicable craving for it, and a strange, pungent smell of protein hits your nose.

With the filter on your eyes turned off, you finally see the chicken's surface covered in mottled, charred oil stains; when cut open, the meat fibers have an unnatural pinkish-gray hue, resembling overgrown, undercooked wounds. The tomato risotto is pressed into a clump, the sauce between the rice grains like congealed blood plasma, releasing the subtle, rusty, fishy smell of tomatoes in the steam.

You force yourself to suppress your nausea and use your fork to pry open the sticky green beans. Their skins are wrinkled, like the peeling skin of a corpse's fingernails after dehydration.

But you still ate it.

While your stereotypical view of the US might make such waste seem insignificant, you're still worried about the underlying message of that universal rule: it might not allow you to waste food.

You put the chicken breast in your mouth, and a strange, charcoal-like taste mixed with a fishy, ​​sour flavor explodes on your tongue, like eating old rubber. You don't even want to chew it, and just gulp it down with orange juice.

The cool sweetness sent a shiver down your throat, and you finally swallowed the first bite.

Just as you're about to catch your breath, your stomach growls loudly.

You froze.

That wasn't the sound of digestion.

That was—the call of hunger.

Oh no.

Your stomach is instantly ignited, your entire abdominal cavity feels empty, and there's even a subtle sense of "pleasure" coming from between your ribs.

Without thinking, you took another bite, this time faster.

The chicken was too tough to chew, so you simply ignored it and rinsed your mouth quickly with orange juice. You even scooped a large spoonful of the tomato rice into your mouth; the soft, mushy rice slid down with almost no chewing, and you felt like you were swallowing congealed blood and mud, but—

"Gurgle!"

Your stomach is cheering, your tongue is trembling, and you've never found food so tempting.

You look down at the empty plate, your throat moves, your stomach contracts and expands, and you are acutely aware that:

That's not enough.

You want another one. Seriously, I'm so hungry. So hungry. My throat is itchy, and my tongue feels like it's talking on its own:

"Can I... have a little more?"

You don't know when you spoke. But you clearly saw the flight attendant turn around a few rows away and nod with an almost gratified expression.

You see the food truck slowly backing up and then driving towards you again.

You have a bad feeling, but you can't resist it.

Because you are really hungry.

No, no.

You turn to Ambrose, who's wolfing down her food, and slap her on the shoulder. Losing your temper, you just say, "Hey! Let's take a selfie! Take lots of pictures showing off your muscles, and I'll adore you looking at those Alpha Women photos!"

The word "Alpha" worked better than any drug. Anbo immediately looked up from his meal, excitedly began to take off his coat, and picked up a mineral water bottle to make a few small movements in an attempt to increase blood flow.

"Madam, would you like some food?" The flight attendant looked at you and Anbo, who were busy, and patted the seat in front of you with displeasure.

"No need, I'm sorry," you said through gritted teeth.

"Alright then." She rolled her eyes dramatically and swayed away with the food cart.

Before you could feel relieved for long, you noticed that Anbo's arm holding the bottle of mineral water was trembling.

No, not only that. Her arms, which normally appear as firm flesh clinging to the bones, are visibly thinning and shrinking.

“Anbo, you…” you stammered, pointing at her.

"Ah! All those muscles I worked so hard to build!" Anbo cried out in despair after discovering the changes in his body.

Looking at her, a chill ran through you. Anbo is like this, then…

You looked down at your hands. Your skin was thinning.

Your skin has become much paler after your few days in the mental hospital.

So much so that you can clearly see the blood vessels under the skin collapse as if they have been drained of water, the joints become sharp, and the bones almost bulge out of the skin.

Like Anbo, you are "thin," and not just ordinary thin, but as if you have been "drained and your muscles have been stripped away from your bones."

How could this happen! Didn't you say you didn't eat too much food? You only ate one serving of rice!

Or is there something wrong with the meal itself?

"Anbo, does your ticket not include meals? Or do you have to pre-order your meals for United Airlines?" you asked anxiously, grabbing Anbo.

As if jolted awake, Anbo's eyes widened, revealing her husky-like blue eyes. "I completely forgot," she exclaimed in annoyance, "this is a domestic flight, there are no meals in economy class!"

Oh, I see. You always thought "eating just the right amount of food" meant—don't be greedy, don't eat too much.

Now you understand, "just right" doesn't just refer to quantity, it also refers to ownership.

This food wasn't prepared for you; it was "extra." You're eating something that "doesn't belong to you." The entire economy class is eating meals that aren't meant for you—of course, you didn't expect that even first-class airplane meals would be so meager, otherwise you would have questioned it!

hateful!

You begin to feel even your own shadow fading. Even though the light source around you hasn't changed, your shadow looks like a wisp of light gray, as if it could be blown away at any moment.

You want to stop this trend and control yourself. But your stomach is shrinking inward, your small intestine is curling up like a whip, your liver is starting to feel cold, and you even suspect that the next second your whole body will be "whooshed" into a dry, flat piece like a plastic bag.

You try to look up, forcing yourself to remain calm.

There will always be a turning point... This airplane meal was indeed a trap, but it came on far too aggressively. The more dramatic the event, the easier the solution often is.

You struggled to take out your phone and searched for "Mi Lian Hang" on your beloved little green book.

Amidst a plethora of complaints, you quickly glean United Airlines' stance on the unresolved incident: no apology, but maintaining stability.

You bite your tongue to stay awake.

With a swipe of your finger, the screen interface jumps to the Pink Camera.

You continued to tag several official accounts of United Airlines and posted the following content:

"#UA000Flight#StrangeMeals"

The flight attendant just gave me a lunch I hadn't ordered, and I ate it out of trust. Now I'm experiencing an acute physiological reaction; I have an upset stomach. I don't want to cause trouble for United Airlines, but this isn't what I wanted either. Sigh, I'm a big fan of United Airlines; it's a symbol of the rapidly developing beacon of the United States! I will continue to monitor my condition and remain cooperative.

The accompanying photo shows you taking a selfie while biting a fork, with a dreamy look and a slightly tanned face—very artistic.

Your rhetoric contained no blame, only "self-sacrifice for the sake of stability." You guessed right!

Your body slowly begins to recover: your blood vessels return to normal, your joints no longer feel jerky, and you can feel yourself "becoming a complete and vibrant human being again."

Feeling a lingering fear, you take a deep breath and, with trembling hands, send another message:

“I love the country I live in because even if there are minor bugs in the in-flight service, it still allows me to handle them with kindness and spread positive energy. I understand that flight attendants also get tired, so I will not report it.”

#Trust #Tolerance #BeAnOpenMindedPerson

You lean back in your seat, your back soaked with sweat.

As the flight attendant approaches you, your hair stands on end again, only to be greeted by a warm smile as she hands you small nuts, a treat reserved for economy class passengers.

"Have a pleasant voyage!" she said.

"Thank you!" you said. Your cheerful and generous nature made even the air you breathed in seem sweeter.

Having regained your safety, you also helped Anbo and another agent remove their negative statuses. The three of you, munching on nuts, looked like a row of happy squirrels.

"Wow, you're really amazing. Hey, say it again, on which platform did you find this solution?" Anbo put her arm around your shoulder. In just a few tens of minutes, she had gone from being an agent and a person under surveillance to being good friends with you.

"The little green book is a lifesaver!" you laughed. "You can download it too. It seems like a lot of Americans are going to play on the little green book now. You can share your happiness every day here."

"Wow, really!" With that, Anbo quickly downloaded Little Green Book using her 6G network and started surfing the web.

You smile at Anbo, then slump into your seat, exhausted and hungry—don't get me wrong, this time it's really just physical hunger. After all, you're only able to avoid low blood sugar thanks to the nuts and orange juice after that adrenaline rush.

The crisis struck like a landslide, but thankfully, you survived.

But in this cabin, not all the other passengers, whether locals or outsiders, are as shrewd as you.

Conversely, some people—especially those who accepted the meal boxes and ate with relish without even considering the struggle against hunger or the irrationality of the food—are now trapped in an inescapable illusion of hunger.

You hear a sharp shout behind you:

"Hey! Miss! I need more food! Can I get a second serving? Hey! I saw that guy from the Flower Country over there got a second serving! You better not discriminate against me!"

You frowned and turned around.

He was a middle-aged white male, wearing a hoodie that read "Family is everything," his face flushed, his fingers raised high, and he looked excited.

He was also losing weight rapidly, but upon noticing your gaze, he seemed to gain strength from it, and his entire body—especially his chest—immediately swelled up like a pigeon vying for mating rights with a female bird.

You felt a little speechless, instinctively pulled your head back, pursed your lips, and stopped looking at him.

He saw this as a victory and shouted even louder. His voice was like a valve that had been opened.

Inside the cabin, more and more passengers began to stir. They raised their hands, their eyes gleaming, and shouted:

"I'm still hungry!"

"Give me one too!"

"I want three servings!"

"I can finish it! I can pay extra."

They were like a group of piglets crammed together at the edge of a fence, arching their bodies and sticking their heads out to beg the flight attendants for food, their smiles filled with morbid expectation and greed.

They began banging on the small table, raising their hands, tearing off their blankets, and revealing their bodies consumed by appetite.

And the flight attendants... naturally cooperated perfectly.

Heaven knows where they got so many lunch boxes from; they just pushed food carts around with incredibly bright smiles, distributing meals.

If that's not enough, do another lap.

After several trips, the flight attendant regretfully announced that they had finished eating.

A chorus of voices clamoring to complain about them erupted in the cabin. Then, the flight attendant smiled and said, as if coaxing a child, "We have other snacks too!"

As they spoke, the flight attendants pushed out another cart, which was piled high with small bread rolls—not the kind of fancy baked goods, but the kind of cheap white bread that you would despise even in a school cafeteria in a flower country, full of technology and hard work, without any milky aroma, and that would only make your mouth dry.

"Oh, oh, oh!" the passengers cheered enthusiastically.

The flight attendants stopped distributing food individually and started "feeding" the passengers directly.

"Open your mouth."

"One more?"

"You deserve it."

"You are special."

Their tone had never been so gentle; they tossed small bread rolls through the air into the passengers' mouths like feeding pigeons. The passengers scrambled and tumbled—some had already unbuckled their seatbelts—swallowing gulps, some even sobbing as they swallowed.

"Great...this is service...long live the American spirit..."

It's as if bread isn't food, but a reward, a social recognition, a "symbol of value."

Then, the anomaly occurred.

Those figures, which had been thin due to hunger, began to swell after eating the fifth, sixth, and seventh loaves of bread.

It's not an exaggeration of "being stuffed," but rather, like the opposite of a deflated body, it expands directly from the structural level.

It was as if, out of sight, someone was inflating them with an air pump. Their flesh was swelling, their skin was taut, and their joints were beginning to disappear.

The jaw of the middle-aged man who started out gradually disappeared, as did his neck, and his chest cavity became like two cooked hams wrapped around it.

He looked at his swollen arm in horror, but he couldn't stop eating. Even though the bread was already stuck in his esophagus, he still used his fingernails to pick up new bread and stuff it into his mouth.

Tears streamed down his swollen eyes, mingling with creamy saliva: "I don't want to go back to starving... I... I can't be an Alpha man anymore anyway... Let me become a symbol of the great United States' industrial dominance!"

*Smack*

His seatbelt broke.

Next, there was his chair.

"Crack!"

He and the chair sank into the floor and became embedded in the aisle. The red hat made by Yi Niao, which she had pressed down on, rolled a few times on its side.

The flight attendants showed no sign of panic.

They opened the electronic panel in their hands and calmly said, "The volume exceeds the safe load standard, and the passenger did not pre-book a special ticket. We request to initiate the throwing procedure."

You stare wide-eyed as you see the ceiling at the rear of the cabin slowly open.

A silver-white mechanical crane arm extended down from the ceiling, with petal-like claws that grabbed the white man, who was now round and plump like a ball of flesh.

He merely struggled symbolically, managing to utter bubbly sounds: "Yes! That's it! Look at me! I am the great Mi—"

Click.

The crane arm rotated, automatically turning towards the waste disposal hatch at the tail of the aircraft. A metal door marked "Maintenance Access" was slowly opening.

Thud—

He was thrown out.

There was no blood, no screams, only the chair cover and shoes floated twice in mid-air before being swept away by the airflow.

Only you, as an observer, watched the whole thing carefully; everyone else, even Anbo and the others, took it all for granted and didn't care at all.

The rest of the journey was very smooth. You took a nap, and then Anbo woke you up.

“Okay, you’re back at your little home in the US now. You should be happy now,” she said.

Is this home? You look out the window.

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Author's Note: Speaking of which, only Tiger thinks all airline food is pretty good (eye movement). And here's a tip: mix the butter from the bread served on the plane into hot rice or noodles; it makes both Chinese and Western food taste even better! ^ ^ Also, this book really should give me some money. Who supports this and who opposes it?