He scratched his nose and flipped the page of a nearly worn-out Maxxim magazine.
It was tight quarters in the 737 bathroom, but he liked it fine.
"Tap, tap", someone knocked politely and cleared their throat.
Lonnie "Limb of Satan" Duggins made a loud, juicy farting sound with his mouth and groaned horribly.
The knocking person said a muffled, "...uh..oh, sorry" and disappeared.
Lonnie glanced over at his video iPod he'd duct taped to the mirror. The movie was nearly finished. The iPod's battery indicator was flashing weakly.
"Pig twats!" Lonnie grunted.
The iPod flickered and went dark.
Footsteps approached and a voice came through the door, "Sir, are you doing alright?"
Lonnie thumped his feet on the door and groaned a little more.
"I'll be ok pretty soon."
Outside the door, "Ok...you've been in there for an hour and a half. Let me know if I can do anything for you. Shall we have a doctor for you in Tulsa."
Lonnie turned a page and made another bowel-centric mouthnoise.
(piteously) "No, I'll be done pretty soon." Hot damn! These magazine womens were foxalicious!
The footsteps went away.
Lonnie uncapped his tarnished brass pocket flask and sipped from it. This was travelling like the Almighty had intended when She invented Boeing (Someone else invented Airbus).
More footsteps outside the door. Feet shuffling around.
Lonnie picked up his water bottle and poured the vile smelling liquid he'd prepared out on the floor so it would run under the door.
Feet hopping. A muffled squeal. Footsteps disappear.
Lonnie scratched his belly right under the waistband of his Family Guy boxer shorts and grinned.
He was irresponsibly rich--having been born the only son of a pork magnate who left him a gigantic fortune after dying in the bed of a transvestite Jewish hooker. He could travel any way he wished--he had four private jets--but he loved to impose his eccentric methods on humans of lesser resource.
Lonnie heard the captain's voice through the speakers announcing that they would land in about 3 minutes.
He struggled to his feet, stuffed the magazine halfway down the toilet hole and glanced in the mirror.
He was wearing a ragged brown bathrobe over two layers of promotional Marlboro t-shirts (both never washed). He scratched the four day's stubble on his jowls and beamed at himself.
This had been a nice trip.
He took a key out of his pocket and raked it across the face of the iPod on the mirror a few times.
Then he peed in the sink and left the bathroom just in time to get back to his reclinable seat in row 1-B before the plane landed in Tulsa.