life's facade

Life's Façade
Nothing is unbearable. Something would be bearable, though. Entertaining. Scattered describes the room nice like. Used condoms and Mr. noodle packs. The smell of classless clean. Like the smell of a just-vacuumed hick's home, shampooed deer antlers and all. Summer rain is a welcome change to what had become a daunting killer stagnant heat. A black woman scolds her children in a harsh and endearing way. And, as the façade life goes, nobody notices, and if you make any comment, you'd be told to mind your business, to which you could reply: Mind your own because it is my business whose business I mind. Then you'd be shut down with: Treat others the way you'd like to be treated.
Not a word is spoken but there is a silent discourse between my associate and me. As he flicks the channel between CNN and FOX news to watch the coverage on a dead pedophile that no one would have suspected ’til his death when someone read his diary and told the world. A senator, this man was a Republican, and one of the unnecessary evils that plague the Earth. My associate slaps his cardac pants. A sip of Jack Daniels and I do A line of coke that has the taste of mint to it.
“So what is it today?” asks my associate.
“Give me a swig.” My associate hands me the bottle and I drink it down. “Well, there's a fire in me today, friend. Scum of the earth like this running the country! Only thing to do is go on some kind of a spree.”
“Indeed,” my associate drawls in his horse yet deep voice.
The Buick chugs up like a morning shower loogie and rips along the rain beading on the window being smacked off like cum off a cock at midnight in Las Vegas. Roll down those bloody memories like sun faded bright vivid colours. Through my mind run thoughts of getting to the casino and winning the jackpot.
“A big win is waiting down at the center there.”
I say this in telepathic to my associate whom I hate and would sell out to the police later on. Numerous trafficking charges, of course, because I have the tapes.
The casino entrance is veiled in hookers with tight red booty shorts. We wade through with slight erection do to the sluts fondling their breasts and pursing their lips. The only thing saving me from a full-blown hard-on is the thought of their green mucus filled snatches.
Inside we use magnetic devices, hand crafted by my associate to trip the slot machines and win a considerable sum, a suite, and our choice of the casino’s finest whores. I pick Mandy who boasts that she can suck a cock so good that my penis will be rendered dysfunctional for hours, but not to worry because she'll stick around and snort blow till I am ready to fuck her in a vigorous fashion, high as fuck.
“You'll like it,” she whispers in my ear, groping for my cock.
Sirens scream out at noon and Mandy has left. Hotel officials had to come up and take her out on a stretcher. I am an epileptic seizer. At least she and I had finished our business. It is Monday, so to work I stumble off after picking up a prescription of Benzos at the pharmacy.
The add agency is a grey shit-log in the toilet bowl city. I pop a Benzo and duck into the café below. I give a sheepish smile to the woman with freckles and large tits who serves the coffee. She knows the routine: By mid-week, I’ll be flirtatious, but Monday I am always blaze‘. I feel like saying something like “you have a marvellous rack miss”… I do not have the guts…
White walled office and the eyes of 12 or so smiled up cunts of men in ties and fresh suits and coffees in hand. The boss throws me a grapefruit.
“Okay Geoff, this is what we're working on.” I smile. Grapefruits. An easy vegetable to sell to the peons. I’ll give a call to my friends in the food guide department.
“I’ll make it sexy,” I say.
“Just what I like to hear, Geoff.”
“I’ll have to take some days in the field…”
“Oh of course, Geoff. I figured that much.”
“Can I hold on to this grapefruit?” I ask.
“Of course, Geoff. It's yours.”
The office all look with their envious leers and glares.
Nothing is unbearable. Work is too easy. Life is given to me, handed to me on a silver platter, if you will, this façade of a life a caring individual. BULLSHIT rules the world. Don't tell me it's love. Maybe if love was hate. Hate is love. Nothing is unbearable.
I made a TV commercials with a model and a grapefruit dancing around.
“Because it's good for you.” was at the end. Then people break dancing.
I got a raise. I am done in this void. Money is life. Life is money.