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The year was 1847. Phinneas Bartleby stood on the edge of a cliff, looking down. On his shoulders were a pair of large, flappable wings that he had fashioned out of a wooden frame and canvas sheets.
Crickston, his assistant, stood behind him with a notepad. “Do you have any words, sir, that you would like me to record on the eve of your glorious triumph?”
Bartleby thought for a few moments. “I’d like you to record that Icarus was too ambitious, and that Leonardo was too impractical, and that the Wright Brothers haven’t even been born yet. Additionally, I would like to dedicate this moment to the advancement of human knowledge, which is the only objective good in a godless universe. Except, that is, when it gets out of hand and is used by terrorists to blow things up. So let me amend that to say that I would like to dedicate this to the advancement of human knowledge as used by nontheistic people. I predict that flying machines such as this one will be very useful to future generations, and will allow us to teach those fuckers in Dresden a lesson or two.”
“Is that all, sir?” Crickson asked.
Bartleby nodded. “Yes, that is all. And now, I jump into history, and into the future. On the count of three. Let us count together.”
“One,” they said.
“Three.” And away Bartleby went.
Date Written: April 08, 2003
Author: Will Disney
Average Vote: 3.2727