Chapter 2
Jhon tried to scan the newspaper as he hurried into the office. The front-page story was about the prime minister’s prize bulldog.
The prime minister is a prize bulldog.
Below the fold it said, ‘Bureau of Bullshit.’ Jhon stepped to the side to keep from tripping over a mop or something. ‘As if government waste wasn’t pervasive enough, Prime Minister Aikles and his band of mis-wits have committed millions to the creation of yet another--”
Crash.
“Mother fuck.”
Jhon was already late to his Second Day meeting, and the sounds of minor catastrophe were commonplace in the fledgling Bureau of Antiquities. However, the voice was new, so he detoured into the lab.
Black beetles about the size of his thumb ran hither and yon over polished concrete. Broken glass covered the floor near a set of industrial shelving, and a fire-haired man was frantically scooping the bugs into a bag with his hands.
“Well, don’t just stand there, help me.”
Jhon squatted and scooped up a double handful of beetles. Several bit him, leaving a mild sting. At least they weren’t spiders.
“How serious are the bites?” Jhon asked as he dumped the beetles into the bag. The bites stopped stinging after a few seconds, leaving numbness. Hopefully the new guy at least felt like he was taking an interest.
“Not very. I have antivenom over there.” He nodded toward a cabinet on the far side of the lab.
“Antivenom?” Jhon bent and scooped up more beetles. “That’s a good one. If it’s not serious, why do I need antivenom?”
The red head turned a pair of piercing green eyes on Jhon. “Why the hell would you think that is a joke? The bites aren’t serious because I have antivenom.”
Jhon dumped more beetles in the bag, pausing to dislodge a few of the crankiest ones from his skin. “I assumed you were putting one over on the director. It happens often.”
“Director?” The red head froze in the middle of grabbing a group of beetles. Several of them took advantage of the opportunity to latch onto his fingers with their pincers.
“Jhon Bonga. Director of the Bureau of Antiquities.” Jhon dumped another handful of beetles and offered his hand. The red head looked down at Jhon’s hand, then shook himself, shook the beetles from his hand into the bag, then gripped Jhon’s hand with thin fingers so long they reached around Jhon’s hand and overlapped to the first knuckle.
“Sorry, Director. I didn’t expect you to be black. Let me get you the antivenom.”
“Someone had to be the first black director,” Jhon said.
“Of course, sir. That was clumsy of me.”
The red head stood, and Jhon tilted his head back. He could usually guess a man’s height within an inch.
Seven feet, seven inches.
“I don’t meet many men taller than me.” Jhon said.
“Neither do I,” the red head replied.
Jhon chuckled.
“You didn’t answer me before, Director. Why is that funny?” He opened a cabinet and pulled a syringe out of a leather bag. Jhon cocked his head. It was a big syringe.
“Men tease each other. It establishes the social hierarchy. You might trick me into handling beetles that pinch, and then claim they are poisonous to see how I handle a sudden shift in a situation’s risk level.”
“That makes some sense among equals, but you’re the director. The hierarchy is already established.” He pulled the protective cover off of the needle. “This is going to hurt.”
Jhon slipped out of his suit jacket and unbuttoned his sleeve.
“I suppose I wasn’t clear, Director. This goes in the glute.” Absolutely no trace of a smile.
I don’t think he has a sense of humor.
Jhon unfastened his belt and lowered his trousers, then leaned over the counter. The stab was noticeable.
What did you expect from a needle the size of a framing nail?
The antivenom went in like a mixture of ground glass and hot sauce. Jhon clenched his jaw and blinked tears out of his eyes. It took a solid ten seconds to empty the syringe.
“All done. That’s going to swell a bit, and it will bruise like hell. Icing it will help some. So will deep tissue massage.” He poured alcohol into a beaker, then unscrewed the needle from the syringe and dropped it in, point up. “Well, Sir, I need to finish catching my beetles. Good to meet you.” He extended his hand again, and Jhon shook it.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” Jhon said.
He cocked his head again. “You’re the director. Don’t you already know?”
“I’m sure they will tell me at the meeting I’m late to, but my department heads make their own hiring decisions, and I don’t often second-guess them.”
“Abraham Little, Sir. Doctorates in history, biological chemistry, and of course entomology.” He leaned forward slightly, focusing on Jhon’s face with the intensity of a man expecting something to happen, and not wanting to be caught blinking when it did.
He has no sense of humor, and everyone laughs at his name.
“Pleasure to meet you, Abraham. Do you prefer ‘Abe’ or your full name?”
He straightened and cocked his head a bit. “Full name, please.”
“Doctor, or agent?” Jhon rubbed his offended glute and decided he wasn’t going to do it again, at least not until he could do it where no one could see him cry.
“I haven’t decided yet, sir.”
“Very good, Agent Little. If you decide you prefer ‘Doctor,’ just let me know. I would say it has been a pleasure meeting you, but the antivenom burns like the devil.”
“Yes, sir. My apologies. It will help though. Without it you would lose all feeling in your hands, and if you are extra-sensitive it might spread into your chest. That could be fatal.”
“Well then, despite the discomfort, I thank you for the shot. Look forward to working with you, Agent.” Jhon walked to the door, then turned. “Why the beetles, Abraham?”
“They block ley, sir.”
Jhon took a step back toward the cages. “Anti-magic beetles? Truly?”
“I haven’t figured out how they do it, but I’m working on it.”
“Very good. Carry on.”
* * *
“Good morning, Jhon.” Sharon Tbela stood as Jhon entered the conference room. She looked every inch a researcher, with a pencil poking out of her wooly hair above her ear, and a stack of papers in one hand. Her lab coat was pristine, but she had a bit of chalk dust on her blouse and gray skirt.
“Good morning, Sharon.” He smiled at her and looked around the room. Someone had put up a poster for Husband of Hectera. It said, “The first theatrical release in vivid color” at the top.
“I see we got some art.”
She looked up from the papers in her hand. “It’s not what I prefer.”
She’s always just a teensy bit on edge when she knows I’m around. Someday I’m going to figure out why. At least she called me by my first name. Maybe that’s progress.
“Please sit. You don’t have to stand when I enter a room.”
“I have to stand when I greet men from outside the agency, sir. Why would I treat you worse than I treat them?” Her voice came out smooth, with a touch of something flippant, or perhaps sarcastic.
“Tell me, Agent Tbela, have you ever experienced racism or sexism?”
“Are you joking, sir? The right question is, have I ever experienced a day without them.”
“I would suggest that I don’t show you respect by calling you Agent Tbela, or by standing when you enter a room. I show you respect by hiring you to run my research division and paying you a research head’s salary instead of a female research head’s salary. Among other things,” Jhon said.
“And you’ve never asked if you can see my tits. That’s always welcome,” she bit out. Then blushed and looked down at her notes.
Should I make a joke about the way she phrased that? Probably not.
“If you have any problems of that sort here, Agent Tbela, I want to hear about them right away. I’ll not tolerate my agents being abusive to each other. We deal with quite enough of that outside these walls.” He pulled a chair out from the conference table and sat, then clenched his jaw.
Holy hells that hurts.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I apologize for the outburst,” she looked down at her notes again.
“We’re in the news again,” Jhon said, spreading the paper out so she could see.
“Bureau of Bullshit? Really? Where are the censors?” Sharon asked.
Jhon rolled his eyes. “I think there’s a different set of rules when the article is about us.”
Sharon shook her head. “That’s an unfortunate truth.”
“Where is everyone else? I thought I was late.”
“Out sick.”
“All of them? Should I be worried?” Jhon leaned forward and steepled his fingers.
“I don’t think so. Jacob called in with a hangover. He proposed to Molly, and she said yes. They were up late, ‘celebrating.’” She rolled her eyes. “Hui called in with food poisoning. Said he had some bad white people food.” Sharon snickered. “And Lee called in with the flu. He said he might not be in at all this week.”
“Tell Jacob congratulations, and he can have one more day off for his pre-honeymoon. Tell Hui he’s a hypocrite, and to get back to work. Tell Lee he is not allowed to return to work without a doctor’s note.”
She made notes, then looked up. “You think he’s faking the flu?”
“Absolutely not. I think if he is so sick, he won’t come to work, he might die. Make sure he understands the doctor’s note is for his health, not a trust issue,” Jhon said.
“Yes, sir. I’ll have Agent Gantry make him a doctor’s appointment, and then take him to it. By force if necessary.” She grinned.
“Tell Agent Gantry I authorize the use of excessive force for this mission,” Jhon smiled back.
She focused on his hands, then looked up to meet his eyes. “I assume you’ve met Agent Little?”
Jhon cocked his head and looked at her hands.
Not very observant of me. She has beetle bites.
“I have indeed. Are you telling me that we hired an agent who managed to look at his bosses’ bottom during his interview, and then look at his bosses’ bosses’ bottom upon their first meeting in the office?” He raised an eyebrow at her.
She burst out laughing. “You know, I was having trouble finding the humor in it until you put it that way.”
“I think the worst part of the situation is that Abraham has no sense of humor. He could get so many free drinks telling this story at his favorite pub, but he won’t think of that angle,” Jhon said with a laugh.
“Well, since it’s out in the open now, can we have the rest of this meeting standing up?” Sharon asked.
“I hired you for your pragmatism,” Jhon said, and stood up.
“Agent Mackey says he has information on a credible threat to the prime minister,” She said.
Jhon frowned. “Perhaps you should have led with that. What do we know?”
“So far, that someone is plotting a magical attack on His Excellency. No information on the precise nature of the attack, and no information on its timing. Agent Mackey believes we have several days at most,” she glanced down at her notes, then shook her head. “Are you certain saving His Excellency is best for the nation?”
Jhon grimaced. “My duty requires that I say yes.”
There was knocking at the door.
“Come in,” Jhon said.
His secretary peeked in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but Agent Mackey says he has urgent news for you.”
“Thank you, Greg. Send him in,” Jhon said.
Charles Mackey entered the room without his suit coat. His tie was loose, and his sleeves were rolled up. His skin looked slightly gray, and his eyes were too bright.
Sleep deprived. Again. Need to give him some time off.
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“Sir... Ma’am,” he nodded at each of them. “I was wrong about the timing. It’s today, via the mail. The PM gets his mail at 2:00pm, sharp, daily.”
“Nature of the attack, Agent?” Tbela asked.
“Still unknown, ma’am. My source slipped up. I now know he is a member of Liberation First, so I’m pretty confident they are staging the attack, but he doesn’t have any information about its nature. Just that they expect to effect regime change, and it’s happening this afternoon when the mail is delivered.” He glanced back and forth between them. “What should I do?”
“Continue to work the case,” Jhon said. “You worry about the perpetrators. I’ll save the PM.”
“Are you sure that’s necessary, sir?” Agent Mackey asked, then blanched. “I’m sorry, sir, ma’am. Please allow me to retract that statement.”
How does that feral manatee keep getting elected?
“Retract what statement, Agent Mackey?” Jhon said. “Agent Tbela, did you hear anything untoward?”
“I heard an agent express concern over the details of an operation that has too many unknowns, and not enough time,” Tbela said, failing to suppress a smile.
“I agree. That isn’t the sort of thing we retract at The Bureau of Antiquities, Agent Mackey. I only hope that you always feel free to speak your mind in the presence of your coworkers and managers,” Jhon said.
“Thank you, sir,” Mackey said, as color started returning to his face.
“Of course, we should all practice the utmost discretion when out in public.” Jhon said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Absolutely, Director.”
“It will take about an hour to drive to the Capitol Building, and at least a few minutes to argue my way past security. If I’m going to save him, I need to get moving. Thank you, Agents. Sharon, we’ll continue our regular business when the emergency is resolved.” He nodded to both of them and started for the door.
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Jhon. I’ll hold the fort down while you’re out.”
* * *
“Agent Little, how many of these beetles can I eat without killing myself?” Jhon asked.
“Well, sir, normally I would say one for every sixty pounds of body weight.” Abraham walked around Jhon, poked him in the midsection, and squeezed his arm, feeling for muscle tone.
“However, you are still early in metabolizing your antivenom shot. How much do you weigh?” Agent Little asked.
He’s so calm you’d think someone asks him that every day. How does he manage to be curious about the mundane, and oblivious to the strange?
“Two hundred forty-four pounds this morning,” Jhon said.
“Let me see your hands.”
Jhon held his hands out and Abraham squeezed them, turned them over, then picked up a jeweler’s loop and looked at them closely.
“Very little reaction. You may not have needed the antivenom. Normally I would say someone of your size and general health could survive four of them. After your shot, I am confident you could survive twelve. Given your apparent resistance, I believe you should not attempt more than twenty. May I ask why you want to eat them, sir?” Abraham asked.
“I’m on a tight schedule, Abraham. Please put twenty of them into a snack bag for me. I’ll explain late this afternoon when I return,” Jhon said.
Agent Little pulled a paper bag from a drawer, opened a terrarium and began selecting beetles, dropping some in the bag, and rejecting others while counting softly to himself.
“There you are sir. Twenty beetles. The best of the bunch, I believe,” he said, handing the bag over.
“Agent Little, do you have any castor oil on hand?” Jhon asked.
“Of course. I’ll get you a dose right now. It will intensify the effects of the beetle toxin, but that will be offset by eliminating some of the toxin before it can be absorbed. This is a novel experiment, sir. Please try to notice your body’s responses, so that we can record them later,” Abraham said.
Abraham poured a small quantity of thick oil into a test tube and corked it, then handed it to Jhon. “I’ll have a second antivenom shot prepared for you when you return, sir.”
Oh hell.
“Thank you, Abraham. Do you think the oil will taste worse or better than the beetles?” Jhon asked.
“I’m sure that is a matter of personal preference, sir. I would suspect the oil is worse. We can put your observations in our lab notes later,” Abraham said. “Good luck, Sir.”
“Thank you, Agent Little.”
* * *
“Good afternoon, sir,” Annabeth said as Jhon approached the car. “Agent Tbela said you needed to visit the Prime Minister, forthwith.” She stood at stiff attention and held the back door open for him. She was tall—in the pair of boots she had chosen, she was taller than Jhon. Her broad shoulders were accentuated by her suit coat. Today her blonde hair hung to the middle of her back in a loose braid.
She’s still angry with me for asking her to be more professional.
“Indeed, I do, Agent Toy. We have information that there will be an attack on the PM included in this afternoon’s mail.” He slid into the rear seat of the car, and the door snicked shut.
“Have we phoned ahead, sir?” she asked, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“We have not. Our sources are not up to the standard required for Ministerial Security to interrupt His Excellency’s schedule. Therefore, I intend to visit under the pretext of discussing another urgent matter, so that I can be readily available when the moment arrives.” Jhon looked in the bag and selected a beetle. “Should I pull the legs off, or just get it over with?”
“Is that a beetle?” Annabeth asked. Her reflection in the rearview mirror frowned so hard she appeared to have one eyebrow.
“Yes,” Jhon said, and popped the beetle in his mouth and bit down before it could struggle.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Not as bad as expected. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow swallow swallow.
Definitely need to pull the legs off.
“May I ask why you’re eating beetles, sir?” Annabeth asked. “I know you are in a hurry, but we could pop into a drive-through on the way.”
“You don’t have to call me sir, Annabeth. Particularly when we’re alone.”
“I’m just trying to do what you asked me to do,” she said, with a frosty glance in the rearview mirror.
“I asked you to put pants on when you run around the house.”
“I didn’t know you were home,” Annabeth said. “Let me practice being more professional, and you tell me why you’re eating beetles.”
“Agent Little recommended them, though he didn’t realize it,” Jhon said with a sigh, carefully picking the legs, pincers, and wing covers from the next beetle. He looked around, then sighed and dropped them on the floor.
“I’m going to let that slide, sir,” Annabelle said, “but next time, try to bring a disposal container.”
“My apologies, Annabeth,” Jhon said, biting down on the beetle.
Flavor is like… roasted nuts. With a bit of spice. The spice is probably the venom.
He pulled the test tube from his pocket and uncorked it.
“Is that skunk oil, then, sir?” Annabelle asked.
Jhon upended the tube and waited. And waited. Slowly a drop formed at the lip of the tube. “It’s castor oil,” Jhon said. “Would you happen to have something long and thin that I can use to scoop it out of this test tube?”
“Well, that makes sense,” Annabeth said. “If you’re going to eat beetles, you don’t want them to stay in there forever.” She reached into her suit coat pocket and extracted a pencil. “Will this do?”
“It’s perfect,” Jhon said, taking the pencil. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sir. You can keep it when you are finished.”
“I’ll get you a better one to replace it,” Jhon said.
Tastes like… motor oil. Or maybe petroleum jelly. And it’s got staying power. Swallow. Swallow. Scoop. Swallow.
Jhon looked at the tube. There was still a lot of oil stuck to the sides. He’d probably only swallowed a bit more than half so far.
He pulled out another beetle and picked off the prickly bits, then popped it in his mouth.
Very poor pairing with the castor oil. Damn.
“Agent Little is the tall one, isn’t he?” Annabeth asked.
“Indeed, he is.” Jhon managed to not gag as he focused on his grim snack.
Crunch. Crunch. Swallow.
“Do you know if he is single?”
Crunch. Crunch. Swallow.
Jhon coughed as one of the beetles struggled in his esophagus. “I do not. I can check though.”
Scoop. Swallow.
Don’t gag. Don’t gag.
“Oh, don’t bother. I’ll just ask him,” Annabeth said.
* * *
“You are not on the list.”
Jhon looked at his reflection in the security agent’s glasses and considered checking his teeth for beetle bits. “I believe I introduced myself by saying I was not on the list.”
The agent flipped back through the six pages on the clipboard, then methodically compared Jhon’s identification to each entry. Jhon’s stomach gurgled.
If I shit myself waiting on this moron, I’m going to choke him to death with my soiled shorts.
“You are not on the list. Why did you say you were here again?” The agent asked. Jhon took advantage of the angle of his glasses to check his teeth for beetle bits. “What are you doing, sir?” The agent demanded.
“First day on a new diet,” Jhon said. “Just making sure I don’t have anything stuck in my teeth. I’m here because the Bureau of Antiquities has evidence of an imminent threat to the capital. I need an emergency meeting with the Prime Minister.”
“Perhaps your agency should have called ahead. Then you would be on the list.” The agent made a flaccid gesture with his clipboard.
“Emergencies don’t always schedule in advance, Agent. Please notify your superior that I require a meeting with the Prime Minister.” Jhon took a deep breath. His gut gurgled again.
“Emergency meetings are not always granted,” the agent said. “Perhaps if your agency had sent its director.” He raised one eyebrow.
Yeah, yeah. I’m just the help. You need to talk to someone important.
“My identification says director on it. Right under the agency name,” Jhon said.
“I see that, sir. I assumed you were the director’s assistant, perhaps.”
“He’s not the director’s assistant, you ass. He’s the director of the agency, and he’s trying to save your life, so get the fuck out of the way,” Annabeth said.
A new angle presents itself.
“Now, now, agent,” Jhon said turning to glance at Annabeth. “We still have time. There’s no need to be rude.”
I’ll have to thank her for that when we’re back in the car.
He turned back to the agent. “That meeting, agent?”
The agent pulled his glasses off and stared into Jhon’s eyes. “Put your bitch on a leash.”
I don’t have any influence, but I do have a fair amount of legal authority… The question is, can I maneuver them into court, instead of trying this in the press and Parliament?
“Agent Toy?”
“Yes, Director?”
“This man is standing between me and my lawful duty. Move him out of the way.”
Jhon staggered slightly as Annabeth exploded past him, snatched the security agent off of the floor and hurled him into his partner.
“Your wish is my command,” Annabeth said, stepping over the agent’s legs.
“I’m always impressed when you do something like that,” Jhon said, stepping over the agent.
“You should see me do something challenging,” she said, and shot him a sideways grin while she cracked her knuckles.
“Duly noted.”
Where is everyone? Two guards dispatched with a certain amount of noise.
At the far end of the hall, they turned the corner and found the PM’s reception area.
“Who are you?” demanded the immaculately coiffed woman behind the desk.
“Jhon Bonga, Director of The Department of Antiquities,” Annabeth said, stepping to one side.
“Director Bonga requires an emergency meeting with the Prime Minister.”
The sound of running feet behind them announced that the down security agents had been discovered. Jhon stepped around the desk, and lady immaculate launched herself at him like a missile. Jhon smiled as Annabeth grabbed her and hurled her over the desk into the oncoming security agents.
Jhon opened the Prime Minister’s office door. His Excellency was wreathed in faint blue flames, and sat behind his desk like a statue, one hand holding the embossed seal of a letter.
“What the hell did you do to him?” agents poured into the room, weapons trained on Jhon and Annabeth, but mostly Annabeth.
“We came here to fix that, not cause it,” Jhon said, pointing to the letter in the Prime Minister’s hand. He stepped around a pair of chairs and leaned in to study it.
“What is it?” the agent demanded.
“A magical trap,” Jhon said.
Someone should put on a class about avoiding the obvious for them.
“Where is Agent Mikel?” the agent bellowed.
“Right here, right here, no need to shout.”
An aging agent in a tailored black suit entered the room.
He hasn’t drawn his service weapon. I’ve heard he’s calm under pressure.
Mikel approached the Prime Minister’s desk and examined the letter and its seal. Jhon felt the air around Mikel stretch toward the letter, then it snapped back. The color left his face, and he staggered slightly, catching himself on the edge of the desk.
“This is beyond me,” Agent Mikel said softly. “He is going to die. There is nothing to be done. If we break his contact with the trap he will die now, and whoever touches him may join him. If we wait, he will die in a few hours.”
“Actually, I came prepared for this,” Jhon said. All eyes shifted back to him.
Agent Mikel straightened. “Then what are you waiting for?” he demanded.
“The solution is, um, let’s call it unconventional,” Jhon said. “It will take me about two minutes, and no matter what happens, you cannot disrupt my ritual. Clear?” His belly gurgled.
Hold it together.
“Are you ill?” Agent Mikel asked, leaning forward.
“What I am is prepared to solve this problem,” Jhon said.
“Then do it.” Agent Mikel leaned back, an urgent expression on his face.
“Annabeth, if any of them try to stop me, tear their arms and legs off.”
“Yes, director.” The hair on Jhon’s neck stood up.
Damn she’s frightening sometimes.
Jhon mounted the Prime Minister’s desk without shitting his trousers.
That’s a milestone I wasn’t sure I would make.
He turned to face the agents, doffed his suit jacket, and tossed it to Agent Mikel, then loosened his belt.
“What the fuck.” one of the security agents bellowed as Jhon squatted over the Prime Minister’s frozen hand and finally unclenched his sphincter.
The Prime Minister threw up. Two of the security guards threw up. Annabeth looked grim but managed to hold it down. Jhon breathed a mantra to calm his stomach, and pretended he was unfazed.
Once he was slightly recovered, His Excellency described in spittle-flying detail exactly how long Ministerial Security were to keep Director Bonga waiting next time he requested an emergency meeting. Once he was through with them, he turned his attention to Jhon.
“Why didn’t you call ahead?” The PM glared at Jhon from over the coffee table in the receiving gallery.
“Security would not let me through when I was here in person,” Jhon said. “There were many questions about which agency I worked for, and when the actual director would arrive. If I could not surmount that problem in person, with my identification in hand and one of my agents at my side, how could I possibly do so over the telephone?”
“It takes time for things to change. It would be worse if we over-corrected in our haste to make a better world. And how did defecating on my desk break the spell?”
It takes time to change the law, certainly, but how much time do we need for basic human decency?
“Well, Prime Minister, I don’t rightly know. The fact that it can be broken at all was discovered by one of my agents very recently. The basic mechanic is that there exists a beetle that breaks up magical fields. I knew that Security might not let me onto the premises, and certainly would not if I brought in a bag of beetles. So, I, uh, ate them.”
Come on, you old wind bag, let’s wrap this up. I want this story to get around, but not if I throw up and faint in front of you.
“You ate beetles so that you could smuggle them into my office in your gut?” The Prime Minister asked, eyebrows climbing.
“Yes, Your Excellency. I could not see another way. By the time we understood the threat we only had three hours of warning.” Jhon did his best to look apologetic.
“Beetles.” The PM grimaced. “Are they poisonous?”
“Decidedly, sir, er, Prime Minister, but I have a rather large dose of antivenom waiting for me back at my office.”
“You what? Antivenom?” The Prime Minister asked.
I wonder how high he can get those eyebrows.
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“Well, get going, man. It will not do to have you die on my rug.”
* * *
Jhon threw up in the car on the way back. He couldn’t say how many times. Annabeth drove like his life depended on it. He had a vague memory of her carrying him from the car to Agent Little’s lab like a baby.
All in all, it was worth the discomfort to check that particular item off of his bucket list.
Who knew I would check that one off before I got to ride in a hot air balloon?