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Bell Curve


Aieee splat. You're dead. You've brought 100 other souls with you as you smacked into a commercial jetliner filled with good little girls and boys heading to gramma’s for Thanksgiving. Luckily you were drunk so YOU didn't feel a thing.


You're just a mediocre teacher. You resent the ass-kissing you have to do for clients; you resent the low pay. You loved flying once but then fell out of love. And now you're stuck in a dead-end (maybe literally) job. You just hope your side business restoring used furniture works out.


You work for a large (ish) instruction company. You make a decent salary. You have a relatively steady and stable job. You get a bonus of $5k every few years when times are good—and when they're bad, you feel relatively secure that your company won't go belly up. You will have taught 597 pilots in the course of your career. Lotta granted wings.


You train trainers. Your skills were identified early. You're not the nicest guy in the world—you kick ass so that your pilots don't have to. You are feared and loved by your students. You have a military style and approach to learning—flying is a privilege, and if you don't respect it, you aren't worthy. Students fight for your time, even though they know that it will leave them scarred. In a good way.


You train F-16 pilots for the military. You are Top Gun in real life. Minus the weirdo Scientologist.