True Story, Chapter Two

Chapter One here.

Explaining the gun is simple: I need it for protection. The selfie stick is a more complicated affair. I’ll give you a hint: it involves Asians.

   The silver colored box N dropped off is 6″by 6″by 3″. it has the aspirational look, the kind of thing you place a 5k watch into and wrap in silver paper, real gold buried under simulacrums of silver. Late Capitalism under the structure of a Russian doll.

     I take the lid off and find the note. There’s always a note. Handwritten. Usually numbers i can decode, but sometimes there’s riddles, or phrase. This time there’s both. 

      8675309

      Sharkeys 

      2100

       Bring stick

       First,  the number:  are they being serious?  The Tommy Tu-tone song? I try calling the number with a 907 prefix, but no luck. Must be the song. Okay. 

     Sharkeys is a bar in town. Got it. 2100 must refer to time. 9pm. Meet at nine,  maybe. Maybe I’m meeting Tommy Tu-tone.  What stick?  Does he mean gun? “Boomstick?”

     I walk into the kitchen and get a drink.  My cat scurries out and runs into the bedroom. Like most cats and women I like, she’s only cold until she’s not. Fine by me. Poor me pour me another drink. Whiskey on the rocks. Short glass.  Best start looking the part now.

I look up Sharkeys business hours and their Facebook page announces that starting tonight is a Selfie-strazaganza. Selfie stick, alright. I’m still bringing the gun.

   I sit on the easy chair that faces the window and watch the world outside. Building’s on the second floor of a small town, so you can get a view. 

    Vehicles go by in their order, same time every day. Societal ballerinas. Always on their toes,  making sure they do the correct spin. I’m the same person. I keep this system in place. Not by clocking in and clocking out, no,  but by being able to name more contestants on the Voice than Supreme Court judges,  by drinking instead of community support.  But I see there’s no point. The illusion is so manufactured we no more realize something else exists. Plato scorned his cave but could never guess it’d have such good streaming channels and drinks from a microbrewery.

    There is no left or right, no liberal and conservative. It’s all fake.  Every political controversy is as manufactured as the food advertising right above the news articles that tell us there’s a new problem. Meanwhile the .01% move the world and us. There is no exit,  only choice,  only action,  only guilt and no redemption for ourselves. Perhaps for future generations, which is why I drink instead of drown, why I bruise instead of bleed. 

   Only three hours to go.

    Drink up. 

     

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