Copyright (c) 1997

                    AMPHIBIANS WITH PARACHUTES
                         by Michael Hahn

     "Toad!" she yelled in my ear, and slammed the phone down.  I'm
assuming she slammed the phone down, anyway, because the connection went
sharply dead.
     I put the AirFone back in its slot on the seatback in front of me.
"I guess I'd better not count on her picking me up at the airport," I told
myself.  An hour from now the plane would be touching down in Denver, and 
half the reason I was going there was now apparently no longer an issue.
That's what I get for dating a flake, I guess. 
     I thumbed through the airline magazine, but the words on the page
held no interest.  Nor the pictures; but an ad near the back caught my eye.
It was for the same damned phone psychic service Janell called; I might
at least find out what hideous sin I was supposed to commit, or had 
committed, or whatever the stupid phone bitch had told her.
     I pulled the AirFone out again, zipped my card through the slot.
I dialled the number, listened to it ring, trying to think like a silly
twat with too much time on her hands.  Her friends all said I did a letter-
perfect impression of her; now was the time to find out.
     I punched numbers as I wandered through the "Psychic PhoneLine" 
screening system, remembering Janell's favorite psychic, Deon‚, just in
time.  She'd been Janell's "life advisor" for the better part of a year;
every silly-ass thing she'd decided to do could be traced back to 
"(sigh) Deon‚"--the sigh as constant as the name--and the three-times-
daily phone calls.
     She finally came on the line.  "Janell, my lamb, did you break 
up with him?"
     I faked a stifled sob.
     "It's all for the best, little one.  He's a beast, and you're
better off...you're not Janell, are you?"
     I laughed.  "Geez, you really are psychic."
     Deon‚'s entire manner changed.  "I feel a whole lot better now,
sport.  I thought I was just makin' stuff up, but you really are a
toad.  She'll be a whole lot better off when you're gone."
     "Lissen, sweetheart, what makes you think I can't get her back? 
She isn't quite as attached to you as you think."
     Now she laughed.  "You don't get it, do ya, sport?"
     "Get what?" I asked, a little annoyed.
     "Flight 835, about forty-five minutes out of Denver, right?"
     "Yeah, so?"
     "Has the turbulence started yet?"
     "What turb..." the plane bounced "...ulence?  Uh..."
     "Nice knowing ya, sport."  She laughed again, and hung up.
     I replaced the AirFone in its cradle.  The plane bounced again.  I
thought of toads wearing parachutes.
     The captain clicked on the intercom.

                              END