The year was 2029, and Barnaby “The Bulk” Henderson wasn’t just a man; he was a geographical event. At 6’8″ and built like a chest freezer filled with smaller, angrier chest freezers, Barnaby had long ago accepted that the airline industry viewed him as “cargo that could talk.”
When Global Air launched their new “Ultra-Efficiency Micro-Pods,” they hadn’t planned for Barnaby. But Barnaby had a wedding to get to, a non-refundable ticket, and a very stubborn disposition.
The Problem: The Doorway Paradox
The gate agent, a man named Gary whose soul had been crushed by years of explaining why 14kg of carry-on is too much, stared at Barnaby. Then he looked at the circular, 3-foot-wide tube leading to the plane.
“Sir,” Gary said, his voice trembling. “The physics… they just don’t math.”
“I have a seat 42B,” Barnaby rumbled. “And I have a jar of industrial-grade Vaseline. We’re doing this.”
The Solution: The “Tube-Paste” Method
The ground crew was called in. This wasn’t a boarding process anymore; it was a civil engineering project. They realized that a standard walk-on was impossible. Instead, they utilized the Pneumatic Personnel Projector, a device usually reserved for sending mail between terminals at high speeds.
- The Pre-Game: Barnaby was wrapped in high-density polyethylene (basically a giant slip-n-slide suit).
- The Lubrication: Two interns with pressurized sprayers coated him in a proprietary “Low-Friction Boarding Gel.” He glistened like a glazed donut in the mid-day sun.
- The Alignment: They lined Barnaby up with the cabin door. He looked less like a passenger and more like a human torpedo.
The Boarding
“On three!” Gary yelled.
The crew gave a coordinated shove. For a moment, there was a sound like a giant cork being forced into a wine bottle—a high-pitched skreeeeee. Barnaby’s shoulders hit the doorframe. The plane actually tilted 4 degrees to the left.
“I’m stuck!” Barnaby bellowed, his voice echoing through the fuselage.
“Don’t breathe out!” the head mechanic shouted. “Empty your lungs! Decrease your volume!”
Barnaby exhaled a massive breath. In that split second of atmospheric pressure change, the crew gave one final, Herculean push.
POP.
Barnaby shot through the door like a wet seed squeezed between two fingers. He didn’t just enter the plane; he drifted down the aisle at a steady 5 miles per hour, unable to stop because of the gel.
The Aftermath
He eventually came to a halt by wedging himself between the beverage cart and a very surprised priest in Row 12.
“Welcome aboard,” the flight attendant said, stepping over his reclining, shimmering form. “Can I offer you a complimentary moist towelette? Or perhaps a squeegee?”
Barnaby spent the four-hour flight acting as a structural load-bearing pillar for the overhead bins. He arrived in Denver three inches taller due to spinal stretching and smelling faintly of lemon-scented lubricant, but he made it.
The airline later updated their policy: “Passengers must be able to fit through the door, or be prepared to be fired from a cannon.” Barnaby, naturally, kept the suit.
