Final Call; or, Project Icarus and the Plucked Feather Blues

He unfolded his latest attempt at a forged boarding pass. It was hand-drawn, laminated with tape scavenged from an old office printer, and featured, in perfect cursive, the words ARTIST-IN-RESIDENCE. He had even added a small logo: a triangle crashing into a mountain. His fingers traced it like a charm.

This was the fifth attempt.

– – – –

Tomas had not always wanted to die. Once, he had wanted to be an architect. But Prague didn’t need architects. It needed compliance officers, logistics coordinators, and enthusiastic data-entry technicians. Tomas had spent the better part of seven years inserting numbers into forms that led nowhere. He lived in a concrete flat that smelled like the dead rat of lost destiny. And air-freshener bought at a petrol station.

It was during a midnight spiral through his newsfeed that he first encountered the artist.

MARTIN VLK TO STAGE WORLD’S FIRST CONCEPTUAL PLANE CRASH IN THE BESKYDY

Below the headline: a photo of Vlk, the infamous Czech conceptualist, standing beside a rusting Soviet-era jetliner, smiling like a child with a new toy. The caption read: “Art must hurt. My next piece is a literal plane crash.”—Vlk

Tomas clicked. And scrolled.

Vlk was both ridiculously insane and wealthy. He was best known for previous stunts like Molotov Ballet, Still Life with Gas Leak, and The Silence of Museums (a 24-hour live-stream of blindfolded curators weeping in a dome).

Now, it seemed the sky was not even a limit, as Vlk had bought 140 hectares of semi-protected mountain land, registered it as a “temporary autonomous art zone,” and was converting an old Tupolev into a drone-controlled sculpture that would, as he put it, “kiss the Earth like a grieving widow.” It would be filmed from drones, streamed globally, and accompanied by a string quartet.

Tomas read it again.

This was it. His way out. A form of assisted suicide, without the indignity of planning or the necessary will to dabble in the unpleasantries of nooses or bullets.

– – – –

How to go about this admittedly unusual scenario?

When in doubt, ask AI.

So, he asked AI.

USER: How can I sneak onto an aircraft without being detected?

AI: I must advise against any illegal activity. However, for educational purposes, here are some commonly depicted methods in film and fiction.

1. Landing Gear Stowaway: Requires extreme cold resistance. Fatality rate: 95%.
2. Maintenance Disguise: Pose as ground crew. Requires uniform, badge, confident stride.
3. Waste Compartment Access: Highly unsanitary. Risk of asphyxiation or compaction.
4. Cargo Crate Stowaway: Dangerous but plausible. Often depicted in Hollywood or fanciful spy films. But I repeat myself.
5. Impersonation of Performance Artist: Particularly viable if flight is part of art installation.

RISK INDEX: EXTREME. SUCCESS PROBABILITY: <1%. (Query archived under: Recreational Hypotheticals > Performance Death > Moderate User Delusion.)

He chose the fifth for reasons unknown. Possibly because the idea of being a creative person scratched the long faded itch to design buildings. Even if it was all make-believe. Even if, should it succeed, he would be engaging in precisely the opposite of creating something. Maybe he could tell himself it was creative destruction—architecture by subtraction?

Attempt 1: He bought a black turtleneck, wrapped himself in plastic wrap, and wandered the tarmac whispering, “I am the fuselage.” (He also carried a backpack of rations, enough to last the three weeks until the flight.)

Security detained him within five minutes. He was let off with a warning and a suggestion to seek psychiatric help, although one guard did ask him where he had bought the turtleneck.

Attempt 2: He printed a fake badge reading “INT. BODY-ART OP.” and carried a portable speaker emitting the sound of jet engines in reverse. He claimed to be part of a sonic disruption piece entitled “Reentry.”

He was fined 2000 CZK and banned from the airport for a month. Annoyingly, the speaker was impounded which meant no refund from the Amazon seller.

Attempt 3: He forged a document saying he was Vlk’s dramaturg. Security called Vlk’s studio. A bored assistant replied, “He has no dramaturg. He is the dramaturg.”

This time: suspended sentence. Having spent a considerable effort producing the document (with a kind of neo-Secese style that he understood Vlk especially favoured), he was more than a little annoyed this time when a burly security official tore it up before handing him over to police.

Each failure was followed by a digital report.

INCIDENT REPORT ANALYSIS: VLK-PLANE INTERVENTION, ATTEMPT 3

ENTRY METHOD: Identity Fraud (Minor). WEAKNESSES: Inconsistent font choice on forged ID, excessive cologne. RECOMMENDATIONS: Limit exposure to front-facing cameras; employ AI voice emulation for phone verification. (Consider getting a new plan. Or life.) LIKELIHOOD OF SUCCESS (NEXT ATTEMPT): 4%.

Attempt 4: He smuggled himself in a crate marked “EXISTENTIAL MATERIALS”. A forklift driver cracked it open after hearing sobs.

He served six months in Pankrác Prison, figuring his grand plan was over when the sentence was handed down. But then Vlk ran into legal difficulties when a local eco-group sued the madman to stop an impending environmental catastrophe: the annihilation of the habitat of the Lesser Moravian Greater Spotted Goose (a noble bird tragically unable to fly but once photographed—like anything truly Czech—trying regardless) that lived in the Beskydy region Vlk had mapped out for his fiery art apocalypse.

Tomas’ mission to ensure he would never be in need of future missions was back on.

The cell had yellow walls and smelled of vinegar. His bunkmate, Jarda, had tried to rob a vape store with a medieval flail.

“What’d you do?” Jarda asked.

“Tried to die artistically.”

“Really?” Jarda said, as if Tomas had admitted to robbing a bank to get enough change for a tram fare. “Most people just drink.”

He kept to himself after that. At least the AI understood. Or pretended to when so prompted. He redrew the boarding pass from memory. Version 5.4. This time the logo was embossed with a sharpened spoon.

Two weeks before he got out, Vlk managed to defeat the “eco-fanatics” for, as he put it, “the connoisseurs of art and bad taste everywhere.”

Accordingly, when Tomas was released, he didn’t hesitate.

– – – –

Attempt 5: He tried to bribe a catering truck driver to let him hide in the refrigerator. The driver pocketed the money. Then reported him. (Tomas figured the guy should go into politics as his talents were being wasted in being a glorified airline food delivery guy.)

Three years this time.

Back to Pankrác. Same yellow cell. Same vinegar. New Jarda. This one quieter. Sadder. Because the gig was, as they say, really up. One can only count on the intervention of a Lesser Moravian Greater Spotted Goose once in one’s lifetime.

And so, he watched the days pass on the wall calendar. Lines etched in pencil. At night, he dreamed of wings. The wings of an Icarus, to be sure, but wings all the same.

One morning, a TV in the rec room showed the crash.

“VLK’S FINAL FLIGHT: PLANE CRASHES INTO BESKYDY PEAK TO A CHOPIN NOCTURNE.”

The footage was majestic. The plane drifted like a ghost and then blossomed into fire. Applause from the livestream audience. And from his fellow inmates. (They were certainly a cultured bunch.)

Vlk stood beside a burning fuselage wearing a wreath of pine needles.

Tomas watched in silence. His chance to literally go up in smoke (painlessly and in the most user-friendly way) had gone up in smoke.

Then, weirdly, he laughed.

It surprised him. As it wasn’t bitter. It was whole. Like being punched in the face by the god of clowns.

That night he sketched a new boarding pass. But not for himself. He handed it to the quiet Jarda, who had begun to mumble about disappearing.

“Why?” Jarda asked.

“Because you’re still here,” Tomas said. “And so am I.”

– – – –

A month later, an envelope arrived. Inside: a letterhead from Vlk Studios.

Mr. Vojtěch,

Your persistence has not gone unnoticed. I am beginning work on my next piece: “Institutionalised Intent: A Man Who Tries to Die and Fails Five Times.” I wish to invite you as co-collaborator. Honorarium: negotiable.

Art must hurt. But it must also miss sometimes.

Warmly,

Martin Vlk

Tomas folded the letter. He slid it into the spine of a notebook where the last boarding pass lay.

He didn’t really need either piece of paper. Not anymore. But it felt good to keep them close, like the phone number of a beautiful girl one has just met, or the key to a mysterious vault which could contain a lost golden hoard.

Or nothing at all.

© Anton Verma, 2025