Terry Bisson - The Fifth Element

The stewardess smiled and shook her head.

Not kidding.

WHAP!

A door opened, knocking a few new stars in the already sore heaven of Korben’s consciousness.

Through the door came a being of intense vivacity, impeccable sartorial integrity, and intermittent intelligibility.

A young black man with an elaborate “do,” velvet bell bottoms and boat-sized pointed-toed shoes.

The 24th century’s most popular DJ.

Loc Rhod.

“Korben Dallas!!” said the DJ, speaking into a mike that doubled as a silver cane, in a rhythmic voice that sounded more like rap than radio reportage. “Here he is!! The one and only winner of the Gemini Croquettes contest!!”

Loc Rhod turned to scan the crowd that was already gathering around him.

“This boy is fueled like fire!! Ladies, start melting because he is hot, hot, HOT!!”

Loc Rhod put his hand on Korben’s arm.

“Right size!!” he said, “Right build, right hair, right on!! And he’s ready to say something to those fifty billion eager ears out there!! Pop it, D-Man!!”

He stuck the mike in Korben’s face.

“Uh… hi!” said Korben.

Loc Rhod winced and pulled back his silver rhinestone-studded mike. “Un Be Leave A Bull!!” he said.

He grabbed Korben’s arm and led him down the hallway.

The crowd fell in behind them.

“Quiver, ladies, quiver!!” crooned Loc Rhod. “He’s gonna set the world on fire, right here from five to seven!! You’ll know everything there is to know ’bout the D-Man!! His dreams, his desires, his most intimate of intimates!! And from what I’m looking at, intimate is this stud muffin’s middle name!!”

He bent down and put the mike in Korben’s face again.

“So tell me, my main man, you nervous in the service??”

“Uh… not really,” stammered Korben.

Loc Rhod put his arm around the stewardess.

“Freeze those knees, my chickadees, cause Korben is on the case with a major face!l”

The procession paused at an intersection in the corridor, where the airline’s catering service had placed a robot with a tray of champagne glasses.

Loc Rhod grabbed a glass, drained it, tossed it away; all the while scribbling autographs as he rapped nonstop:

“Yesterday’s frog will be tomorrow’s Prince of Fhloston Paradise!!”

An aide handed him a cue card.

“The hovering hotel of a thousand and one follies, dollies, and lickin’ lollies!! A magic fountain flowing with nonstop wine, women and hootchie koothchie koo!! All night long, ooowwwooooo!! ” Korben looked on amazed, as the smooth and supple DJ grabbed two stewardesses by the arm, and continued rapping as easily as others walk or breathe. It seemed to be an unconscious activity with him; the rhymes and rhythms flowed without thought as his eyes appraised the crowd that followed him everywhere he Went.

“And start licking your stamps, little girls, this guy’s gonna have you writin’ home to momma!! Tomorrow from five to seven, I’ll be your voice, your tongue, and I’ll be hot cm the trail of the sexiest man of the year!! D-man!! Your man!! My man!!…” Bleep.

“End of transmission,” said an engineer’s voice over a distant speaker.

Loc Rhod stopped in his tracks.

The hallway fell silent.

Two assistants ran up to Loc Rhod, one with a cigarette, another with a match.

Loc Rhod lit the cigarette, blew out a cloud of dissolving smoke, and asked, “How was it?”

“Oh, green!” said one assistant.

“How green?”

“Oh green green green!” said another assistant. “Super green. Crystal green.”

Loc Rhod approached Korben.

He put his hand on his arm, and in an oily, unctuous voice, said, “Korben, sweetheart, do me a favor…”

Sweetheart ? Korben looked at the DJ skeptically. Favor ?

“I know that this is probably the biggest thing that has ever happened to you in your inconsequential life,” said Loc Rhod. “But I’ve got a show to do here and it’s got to pop, pop, POP! So tomorrow, when we’re on the air, give me a hand.”

A hand? Korben stared unbelievingly at the arrogant little DJ.

“Try to make believe you have more than a six-word vocabulary. You green, pal?”

Instead of answering, Korben grabbed Loc Rhod by the collar.

A security guard stepped forward, but Korben shoved him out of the way. His partner hesitated.

Korben rammed Loc Rhod against the wall, wedging his head into the corner, holding him up so that his feet were six inches off the floor.

“Green?” Korben said. “I didn’t come here to play Dumbo on the radio. So tomorrow between five and seven, give yourself a hand. You GREEN, pal?”

Loc Rhod’s eyes were about to bulge Out of his head. “Super green!” he said.

The check-in attendant, resplendent in her see-thru dress and vinyl pillbox hat, examined the two tickets in her hand.

She read them curiously.

“Mr. Dallas? Mr. Korben Dallas?”

“That’s right,” said Zorg’s Right Arm, giving her his most persuasive smile.

Which was not very persuasive.

With her foot, the check-in attendant tripped the passenger scanner, and its ultralight beam played across the face of Zorg’s Right Arm.

Which remained the face of Zorg’s Right Arm.

“The problem is,” said the attendant, “I have only one Korben Dallas on my list. And he’s already checked in.”

“Impossible!” said Right Ann, his smile shattering. “He’s in jail—I mean, there must be some mistake. I have my ticket. And I am the real Korben Dallas!”

DING! A bell rang at the end of the gate corridor.

“Sorry, sir,” said the attendant. “Boarding is finished.”

Zorg’s Right Arm reached for the attendant, just as a thick plexi screen rose from the check-in counter.

“I’m Korben Dallas!” Right Arm yelled, thinking of the torments Zorg would prepare for him if he failed. “I want to see your boss! Get rid of this stupid window! Somebody’s made a mistake, goddammit!”

He pounded on the counter with both fists.

The only result was that a steel curtain descended to back up the plexi screen.

“THIS.IS.NOT.AN.EXERCISE!” said a robotic voice from an indeterminate spot in the air, where an atmospheric speaker node had temporarily coalesced.

Red laser sighting beams sliced through the air, forming target spots on Right Arm’s body.

“THIS.IS.A.POLICE.CONTROL.PUT.YOUR.HANDS.IN.THE.YELLOW.CIRCLES.”

Gun barrels protruded from the wall, the counter, the floor.

“Sorry!” said Right Arm, in his best dealing-with-insane-authority voice. “Just a little overexcited. That’s all. I’m CALM now…”

KORBEN HATED SPACE TRAVEL.

The military ships were bad enough, with all the cannon fodder lined up in hard aluminum seats, each man lost in his own nervous thoughts as he was warped across the galaxy toward the latest suicide mission.

Commercial coach class was even worse. Standing room only, and a tiny bag of dry roasted peanuts unless the trip was over a hundred light years, in which case you got half a cold sandwich and a peanut-butter cookie.

But this trip was different. No cattle car, no peanuts. First class only.

“Leeloo,” Korben whispered as he made his way toward the back of the spaceship.

The corridor was lined with small private cabinettes.

“Leeloo…”

As if in answer to his deepest wish and fondest

dream, a cabinette door slid open silently, and there she was—stretched out on a velvet cushion, studying a computer screen.

First class!

She flashed Korben a galactic-quality smile as he sat down beside her.