Clive, or as his fake I.D. (courtesy of the lovely people of the Sunday Group's forgery department) read "Jacob D. Ferguson", spent the walk up to the luggage checking counter mentally preparing himself to be metaphorically naked on a plane full of strangers. He swallowed hard when a TSA agent with a crisp, ironed uniform and practiced customer service smile asked how she could help him.
“I’d like to check some luggage.”
“And a lot of it! Are you a musician?” she asked, gesturing to his guitar case.
“No.”
“Oh? In that case, are you carrying any hazardous materials? Fireworks, chemicals, guns, ammo--”
“Both.”
He set the rifle case and the guitar case down on the scale along with one of the duffel bags on his shoulder.
“Oh that’s no problem at all! What firearms are you declaring today?”
“Shotgun, rifle, two handguns and some blades in the duffel. Also, approximately ten and a half pounds of assorted ammunition and magazines.”
“Alright, sir we’ll take good care of all your firearms. Enjoy your flight!”
One by one the bags were checked for airline compliance and when they passed, on to the luggage belt they went. The sheer volume of firearms and ammunition he checked was a bit odd but nothing she hadn't seen before. Once the agent got to the guitar case, however, Clive instinctively held on. She gave a small tug and frowned at him.
“Sir, you can let go now.”
He continued to hold his grip on the case as she pulled harder with both hands this time, but to no effect. Clive’s iron grip held firm.
[i]“Sir.”[/i]
He released the case all at once and the agent stumbled back a step with a scowl. Clive remained immune to her venomous glare as he watched his pride and joy disappear around a corner. His jacket and waistband felt all too light as he made his way farther into the airport.

[center]==========[/center]

Clive was hopeful for a time during the boarding process that he would be alone during the flight. If he couldn’t be comfortable without his tools, he could be comfortable with the extra leg room. That hope died when a young girl who couldn’t have been much older than ten took the seat next to him. He took solace in the fact that she was wearing headphones and stared down at her cellphone while she took her seat without saying a word. At least she wouldn’t be bothering him during the trip. The thought occurred to him that she seemed rather young to be flying by herself, but that was no concern of his. He simply fished another stick of gum from his pocket to help his ears during the take off.

Having nothing else to do, Clive waited until they were comfortably in the air before producing a deck of worn playing cards from his jacket pocket and began a game of solitaire. The girl beside him took notice of the game and tugged on his jacket sleeve.
“What’re you doing?”
Clive choked back a sigh and replied, “Playing a game.”
“What game?”
“Solitaire.”
“What’s it about?”
“Matching cards.”
The girl pursed her lips and gave a small “hm”. “Sounds kinda boring.”
“It is.”
“Know any better games?”
Clive paused for a moment as he set down the card in his hand. “I do.”
“Like what?”
“Ever played poker?”
“No. My dad says gambling’s for heathens and degenerates who want to throw their money away.”
Clive couldn’t help but smile and even gave a small chuckle. “Sounds like he’s just bad at gambling. Poker’s easy if you got someone to teach you.”
He gathered up his cards off the fold out table in front of him and dealt a pair of hands quick as a whip with the cards facing up. Despite her earlier statement, the girl leaned over and regarded the cards with interest.
“Now, the first thing you gotta learn is the hand ranking system.”

[hider=Summary]
Clive does a B- job of not looking sketch af in an airport and spends the flight teaching a middle schooler how to gamble
[/hider]