The End

A Skyline Interrupted

The Hijacking

The plane shuddered as it dropped—a steel bird with clipped wings. Twenty minutes earlier, four men had risen from their seats, their movements sharp, rehearsed. Their accents carved through the cabin like cold blades. Sit. Stay silent. The passengers clutched hands, eyes darting—to loved ones, to exits, to the razors glinting in the hijackers’ grips. 

One man loomed at the rear, a walkie-talkie hissing in his palm. Another barred the cockpit, a mountain of muscle. The pilots fought, but the extinguisher came down hard. The co-pilot crumpled. Duct tape sealed their wrists as the plane veered sharply left, gravity tilting like a held breath. 

The Calculations of Fear 

Men in rows measured their chances. Could we take them? But the aisles were narrow, the risks too vast—women here, children there, no weapons but a smuggled nail file, a belt buckle. And who could fly a plane? Better to wait. To hope. 

Some shut their eyes, conjuring beaches—salt air, palm fronds, the lie of normalcy. Others burned with fury, fists tight, imagining lunging. One wrong move, and the cabin would erupt.

Then the old woman spoke. 

"Where are you taking us?" 

The hijacker turned. His smile was a shard of ice. 

The Skyline Approaches

New York rose in the window—a jagged silhouette against the sun. Confusion rippled. Why here? The Air Force would stop them. This would end with megaphones and snipers, a Hollywood standoff. 

Until the scream from the cockpit. 

Not pain—terror. 

The hijackers pressed against the glass, their razors forgotten. "Allah forgive me!" one gasped. 

Outside, chaos bloomed. Police cars, helicopters, tanks—all aimed not at the plane, but at the World Trade Center. At the thing scaling its side. 

A shadow. A myth. A beast from a storybook, roaring as it climbed. 

King Kong. 

Collision Course 

The plane hurtled forward. The gorilla, oblivious, swatted at helicopters like flies. The hijacker at the controls covered his eyes. 

Screams filled the cabin as they struck—not tower, but fur. The impact sent them spinning, crashing through the roof of a Planet Hollywood, glass raining like diamonds. 

Alive. 

Somehow, alive. 

The hijackers? Gone. Vanished into the city’s gutters. 

And Kong? 

He paused, nostrils flaring. The scent of charred burgers lured him down, where soldiers waited with nets and indecision. 

Until he arrived. 

Spielberg, breathless, leaping from a limo. "Let me take him," he urged. "I’ll make you stars." 

The Aftermath

The passengers staggered into the neon glow of Times Square, their vacation clothes torn, their stories already twisting into legend. Above them, Kong bellowed—part prisoner, part punchline. 

And as the cameras flashed, one thought echoed: 

No one will ever believe this.