In a grotesque ballet of metal and mortality, eleven British skydivers, professionals of the pointless plunge, met their end in eastern France. The aircraft, a creaking De Havilland, supposedly airworthy, decided instead to become a tomb with wings. Officials, those grey-suited peddlers of platitudes, mumble about 'mechanical failure' as if that excuses the universe's contempt for human hubris.
These souls, who danced with the void for a living, found the void had the last laugh. They leapt from planes, mocked death, and death, being a sore loser, caught them mid-joke. Now they are punchlines scattered across a French field.
The investigation will be thorough, the findings vacuous. We will learn nothing new about our own mortality, only that falling is always an option, even for the highest fliers. Let us drink to the idiots who remind us that life is a short, absurd thing, best lived at terminal velocity.
