9

Tantrums

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Your phone vibrates again… yet another call from Frank.

And another prompt dismissal.

With you shortly, Amigo…

Relax.

Calling something ‘one of a kind,’ doesn’t make it special. Every shit you take is also one of a kind. 

Scarcity doesn’t imply rarity. Being unique doesn’t qualify you as being useful.

You can market old cheese graters as cutting edge pocket pussies all day long, but don’t be surprised if you get some unfavorable Yelp reviews.

On the screens above you, enthusiastic citizens have gathered on the Main Street of Middle-America to bear witness to the festivities, involving a parade float showcase of animated pop icons.

You recognize some as those from a show you might have liked in your childhood, while a few of the others you don’t quite recognize, though they might as well be you.

A bobble headed caricature. Perpetually sky high, or utterly and completely deflated.

On the other screen, directly adjacent to the procession, the home team’s Offensive-Coordinator thought it wise to call for a pitch route on 3rd and long, resulting in the ball carrier getting sacked for a loss. Now, an overpaid ex-con takes the field to tack on 3 respectively, and head into the locker room at half time with a slight lead.

The interview scheduled for ten minutes ago was abruptly called off for some reason. Could be, the position was already filled.

A definite possibility for Mr. Cool Guy himself.

In the flesh, so to speak…

Wearing last years John Varvatos’ Fall-line button-up, offered in a Gunmetal grey, with buttons reminiscent of ivory eyes, complimented by a vermilion silk necktie that’s now knotted in a flawless Double-Windsor noose.

Seems this particular design came equipped with standard Barrel-cuffs, which are now folded twice over themselves, revealing an indistinguishable etching of Old-English letters.

All of which are branded firmly into a weathered rawhide wristband. The stretched leather runs security detail for your art exhibition of avant-garde razor wounds.

Flesh toned cave drawings.

Some layered over others, though more remain entrenched, laying parallel to triumphant blue veins. 

Evidence of job left undone. 

Yet another reminder of the ugliness that you call your life.

This archaic showcase of ineptitude is flanked by another wrist, where an old watch occupies some real estate in a market that’s dying fast.

A former boom town of uncapped promise.

The lone hold out remains ticking in place, steadfast in its protest of the reverse gentrification you’ve imposed on yourself.

The once fertile fields of limitless potential are now in a state of arid neglect. The wells have long gone dry.

Property value has reached an all time low.

Maybe the old timepiece is just content with being broken already and is resigned to it’s fate of becoming garbage, like it’s owner.

You…

Now on full display at a bar top table for one, in the lounge area of your prospective place of employment. Ordering enough drinks for a party of six and consuming them as fast as they arrive.

In any sane environment, this sort of behavior would raise some red flags for sure. In a typical setting, this obnoxious display would definitely merit some rightful concern.

Here, it’s just another Thursday afternoon.

In this jurisdiction, this is par for the course.

Too bad about your meeting with Trisha…

Perhaps you just weren’t the right fit for the establishment’s dynamic.

Could be, they have some kind of company policy against offering Starburst laced with LSD to random patrons in the waiting area.

Who knows?

It might be some corporate red-tape mentality that tends to frown upon their potential staff offering to remedy untreated cases of infant crying syndrome, by punting the hysterical shit machine like it’s 4th and long.

There’s no telling…

Now. This particular watch is always flamboyant enough to provoke an inquiry or two, yet it’s unique enough for you to be blanketed in your responses. To be precisely vague with the details. 

To use selective ambiguities that get heralded as scholarly dogma. 

To craft tales of lore in regards to the supposed family heirloom which was recently bequeathed to yours truly, by some distant relative overseas.

At least, that’s the story today.

It truly is a great conversation piece. But, an even better judge of someone’s character.

Throughout the baffling charade, you’re always sure to regularly highlight the persons possession of such rare knowledge. 

Never shy to shower them with praise, for all the impressive revelations they reached while supposedly studying this imaginary 18th century ceremonial wedding gift in college.

As was the case last time.

Next time, this nonexistent family heirloom will morph into a royal hallmark, originally meant for a notorious Austrian archduke.

The following occasion, it will become a priceless piece of U.S. History when it transforms into a fashion accessory worn by a former POTUS.

Fascinating, you say. 

You’re never left disappointed over their stunning insights into Soviet homosexual S&M, and its wristwatch sub-culture, respectively.

Especially the pre-collapse analog trends of insert bullshit here. 

In utter awe, you blah out, with a half-hearted smirk, as you size up the soon to be EX-husband.

As luck would have it, the folks you typically entertain, being wrong is damn near impossible. 

Regardless of their sheer incompetence, they are met with reassurance and admonishment.

All the bombardment of affirmations, and perceived agreeableness. 

The pitch of the HELLO and the calculated handshake. 

Warm and measured eye contact at key exchanges.

Always mindful not to appear dismissive or uninterested. Never intending to assert dominance, but never looking away first. 

From the other party's perspective, the power dynamic has shifted in their favor. 

Now at a perceived position of advantage, you are his victim…

…clever devil. 

Well done, good sir.

See Dunning-Kruger effect. 

The subject now has a perceived superiority, which causes an inflated sense of self, along with a natural release of apprehension. Triggering the intended response: A severe lowering of one’s guard. Seeing as how they already won, it's completely understandable actually.

This, just one of many coding sequences of manipulation. 

Strategic prefrontal malware. 

Smugly and willingly ingested into the persons subconscious.

A subtle prospect here, some precise keywords there.

Then it’s a 1/2 cup of freshly prepared non-fat ego stroke, a big handful of vine ripened fibs, and a teaspoon of hollow re-assurances. One mustn’t forget the standard size portion of horseshit, for protein.

And for the love of God… always, always, always remember to top the dish with a finishing glaze of planned capitulation. 

And violá

We’re ready to set it, forget it, and revel in the fruits of our labor. Occasionally reapplying some gas-lighting for the signature flavor profiles that are often sought after, but rarely realized into fruition.

By the pitch’s crescendo, your needs are now aligned with their goals and a mutually beneficial set of terms have been agreed upon.

He revels in glory, having gained the upper hand in securing a favorable outcome for himself.

Bravo.

Good form, sir

In reality, while you and Mr. Soon to be Breaking-News Headliner did your little dance, your partner has been in room 17232.

Just busy as a little bee.

Making copies of all his private files. Making duplicates of the photo galleries and address books.

Cloning hard drives. 

Switching the Mark’s screensaver to a photoshopped collage of him and a certain special K-9 lover from the Midwest. 

Finally, uploading the fabricated correspondence between the two.

Adjusting his travel manifests to sync up with the date Daphne was last seen. 

Sticking polyurethane carpet fibers with dye that perfectly matches the Burgundy #291 from the stolen limo’s carpet, deep in the grooves of his Italian leather wingtips. 

Blotting D.N.A. on his underwear with discarded cotton balls found in her purse. 

Mr Late-Breaking News is currently in the mens room, laying in a puddle of vomit and blood.

In part, due to the liberal hand washing practices of the kitchen staff.

But mostly due to the eye-drops in his club soda and the stall door made with double paned particle board. 

Check your hair in the mirrored backsplash attached to the wall behind the POS system… which is currently being fingered into climax by a grumpy barkeep as she furiously transfers all your drinks onto the Future-Headliner’s bar tab. 

Remove the FAA-regulation sized spray bottle, containing 2oz. of the aspiring med students blood and begin to generously apply a damning spritz of conviction on his Men's Warehouse navy blazer. Business casual. 30R with a split hem.

Yuck

Awfully generous of your new buddy.

Push in your stool as you thank her for the drinks.

Exit the property.

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