(from the pages of AAS: Airport Aviation Stories)
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
THEO “THE GRANDSTAND MASTER” – Lead Station Attendant from Cargo, originally from Jamaica, chessboard always in hand and trash talk always preloaded.
CARL “THE WHIPPERSNAPPER” – Fresh-faced university grad, newly promoted Lead Station Attendant, full of ambition and zero respect for Theo’s “old-school” cargo wisdom.
It was just another day in the bowels of the cargo bay, where the only thing more volatile than lithium batteries was Theo’s ego.
Between skids and stray beagles in crates, Theo’s folding table sat like a throne. On it? The one true test of cargo crew intelligence: a well-worn chessboard, decorated with duct tape, coffee stains, and the faint smell of jet fuel.
“ALL RIGHT, BRO!” Theo would yell after each victory, knocking over the opponent’s king like it was a safety cone at pushback.
He’d defeated rampies, flight attendants, managers, and even that one guy from catering who swore he knew the Sicilian Defense but brought lasagna instead.
No one could beat Theo. His moves were slicker than de-ice fluid. Until…
Carl arrived.
Carl was young, eager, and had a fresh Lead badge still glistening from the onboarding video. Word on the ramp was he once beat a grandmaster at a chess pub night during Frosh Week—while writing a thesis and eating a shawarma.
Theo, smelling challenge (and possibly Carl’s cologne), waved him over with a smirk.
“Wanna learn how to lose like a man, Carl? Sit down, mi boy.”
Carl cracked his knuckles. “Let’s see if that cargo wisdom translates to pawns, Grandpa.”
Round 1: Battle of the Minds.
Theo opened with the King’s Gambit, snapping the pieces down like he was loading a skid. Carl countered with the Queen’s Indian Defense, because why not be flashy?
The cargo break room fell silent—even the air felt pressurized. Forklifts stopped mid-turn. Someone dropped a pet crate labeled “Contains Emotional Support Ferret.”
Then—the final move.
Carl slid his bishop across the board and whispered:
“Checkmate. Have a good flight.”
Theo blinked. Blinked again. Sweat formed on his forehead like anti-ice fluid on a hot tarmac.
“CHEAT! YOU CHEATIN’ BRO! YUH CANNOT MOVE DI PIECE LIKE DAT! DI GAME POSSESSED!!”
With the fury of a diverted cargo manifest, Theo leapt up, kicked over the chessboard, and pawns flew like loose bag tags in a windstorm.
“I CALL A REMATCH! DI BOARD WAS WOBBLY! I SMELL FOUL PLAY!”
Carl calmly picked up a black rook from the floor. “Maybe next time don’t try the Jamaican Fork Attack on someone who reads Chess Monthly.”
Theo stormed out, yelling, “I’LL REPORT YUH TO THE UNION, YUH BLUNDERING BISHOP-BANDIT!”
EPILOGUE:
The chessboard was taped back together with cargo wrap. Theo returned… days later… defeated but defiant. He now only plays against cargo tracking software, claiming it’s the only opponent “worthy of mi wrath.”
Carl? He installed a “Victory Throne” in the break room.
And from that day forward, whenever Carl walked into the cargo bay, Theo would look up from his coffee, give a nod, and mutter:
“All right, bro… this time, I brought my real game.”
And then lose again in six moves.
THE END.
(…of Theo’s win streak, anyway.)
