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D.B.Cooper falls to his death
The story is this:
D.B. Cooper is the pinnacle of Americana.
D.B. Cooper is the high point, the place where the tide reached its crescendo.
And the story is this:
A man hijacked an airplane. Demanded money and parachutes. The plane landed to collect the goods and took off again. Somewhere over Washington state, he lowered the sky platform, a thud was heard, and he disappeared, presumably parachuted away, clinging to his loot, enfolded by the darkness.
He were never seen again.
And according to two accounts, that of Occam’s Razor and that of Bayes' particular theorem, D.B. Cooper died that very night.
No one ever found the body, not a single finger. And here’s a thing that is hard to appreciate from the comfort of an urban metropolis.
The wilds of Washington state are vast and impenetrable. You might think it’s a pretty long way from your house down to the local shops but let me tell you that is nothing compared to the distance from one ride in Washington state to the next.
How he turned up here, in this bar, on this particular Thursday, is, I swear, beyond me.