Sky Mall

Heralded by the excited buzz of fluorescent lights, Mister Steryle saunters down the aeroplane aisle. There are no oil baron bacteria drilling deep wells in to this guy’s facial pores. No Tarzan germs swinging on his pubic hairs from testicle to testicle. It seems Mister Steryle’s skin sweats disinfectant and his blue lips spit bleach. You can hear him coming down the hall because his bones squeak. He probably shits toothpaste from a self-sanitizing ass. He belches breath mints, I have no doubt. Mister Steryle slips steam pressed magazines into his seat pocket: Fitness and Hygiene: GQ and Esquire: Metropolitan Bath.
They can still smell his lingering Old Spice aftershave in the previous terminal he departed from. Yes sir, Mister Steryle sure is pretty damn clean, but in a vulture and maggot ravaged white cattle skull in the desert sand sorta way. Like he’s been licked clean by loofa tongue. I guess you’d say there’s something downright nasty about how clean Mister Steryle is. Something sorta, well, unclean. Had Charles Dickens written "A Bathroom Carol", then Mister Steryle would be The Ghost of Shaving Cream Yet To Come.
Feeling slightly queasy, I bury myself in a packet of complimentary pretzels and an old paperback book.

Comments

[DarkoV]

One large tissue required.
One loud sneeze, caught by the tissue.
Sneeze need not be genuine, just loud.
Wave said tissue whenever Mr. Steryle wafts by. He'll speed up at the sight of the tissue. A cough in his general direction will kick the retreat into fifth gear.

[Bleak Mouse]

You have to understand what a blow it was to Mr. Steryle when he was told that he could never father children. Not the way he was going about it, anyway.

[Mrs. Peperium]

Twisted pretzels I hope.