With my half frozen hands, I open my last can of Coca-Cola. The last drink I’ll be able to get for a long time. It’s about as poetic as an American’s life can be. The final drink is that of the epitome of consumerism.
The airplane I was riding in crash landed into Antarctica on my way to New Zealand. I think it was just a malfunction in the engines, but everyone else thought it was a terrorist’s rocket. Unless the penguins of Antarctica can wield rockets, there is no way there could have been any intent involved. The plane hit the ground on the opposite end where I sat. Most people on my side survived the initial impact, but sudden depressurization shredded the plane in half. We hit a large mound of snow, which crushed everyone in the rows in front of me. The plane fell off balance, ending up lopsided facing downwards, causing the tail end to snap. I was barely able to grab onto the edge of my seat. Everyone else fell, ending up being completely stuck between the ice and the plane’s tail.
It’s not like that matters anymore, I’m going to die any hour now. I'll certainly completely freeze to death by 3 in the morning. I was the single survivor, thanks to getting one of the worst seats on the plane. I guess I was lucky to be the only survivor, even though it barely made a difference in the end.
The American death: Coca-cola and bad seats in coach.
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