Fat Noir Serial Post 1
Uncle Ted from a parallel dimension.
I began orbiting my local grocer, looking spiffy in a suit minted before the death of taste.
Perhaps such threads caused their own autopsy, twin embalmment, man and wardrobe, but I was another millennial anachronism still evolving upright, somewhat, like how clocks plash vomit round a catwalk twice daily. Fentanyl jesters thin as TV dinner fine print were maligning passersby, no valid digs to contribute, just toe-touch zombies hijacking each other’s catheters, self-blown bicycle pumpers careening through a preputial fugue as necrosis scabbed them over.
Similarly, patrons seemed to scoot from bed to store, crocks flopping. The electronically mobile paraded their obesity. An occasional yoga-panted teen with pajama imprints on her tummy and labia as long as a sock was not why I sought the mock domesticity of shopping, cart hewn tight between aisles, an askew property, though marriage got debunked. Everyone my age’s dick was scar tissue aghast at either sex, sacrificed to a dial-up modem at the advent of file-sharing, soft populace inside and out. Only a girl who wanted me to fuck her would suffice, but I’d never met a saint before. Good thing porn gained omniscience right as sexual regret reached its legal limit.
False accusations hit their dead cat bounce the last time I wiped off. The indicters I accrued were distended with kids, gifted an encopresis halo, plenteous non-prosecutorial bulk. A career remained elusive, nonetheless. Everything was nonetheless. My face became its own allegation.
Inheritor of nothing much but poor carpentry rigged together wrong, junk hoarded en masse, and other noisy habits fostered by those adjacent to the Great Depression, caretaking one’s progenitors proved suicide temporarily unaffordable.
I belonged in jail, behind the rowing etiquette of an hourglass as its purpose disappeared, beating off to the shape sand takes. Police used to use the Patriot Act excuse because my scary Arab beard didn’t flag its patches from a jingoist car antenna. I was the wrong amount young, hoarily swarthy, ugly enough to pass as a born globalist, offensive to each ethnicity, refugee of my own greatly replaced ostracist narcissism, orphaned post-millennium, raised black in a cold strain of Haiti, USA. My bowels moved with purpose then.
The actual national tragedy of social media waited a decade hence, after 2001AD’s aerial twerk, classic kamikaze shark jump, another old debt I slept through, building seven halitosis crowding AOL chat boxes. Cops always got somewhere after the fact. A crime almost need not have been committed. The suburban defensive line imbibed steroids and shook citizens. I kissed a lot of plastic backseats, brewed junky blood inside floor toilets, boinked by a retroviral addict nodding off to spoof Veronica’s Veil with piss-stained jorts, human origami folded in on his waste. Can’t we go back to sniffing glue after class, I pined, missing when Columbine made people respect me against all odds.
I was Ted Kaczynski from a multiverse where he hated the environment too. The version that scored some pussy by accident, but still decided to build a bomb, an even bigger one. The comic book heroes I tended toward way past my age range never flew. They mutilated their antagonists with garden tools. Due to the plasmatic infiltration of politics into life at large, a network was employed to configure the dark mystery of every menial thing.
According to my research into each individual flame in hell, a triad of Jew bankers, media men, and secret lawyer elites had busted our social bond. Satan was God’s peon behind the scenes, and they were in collusion on a porno ring that omitted me. I regretted ever bonding with anyone anyhow. I liked the inadvertent meanings being unlocked by a dose from my phone.
Despite that disordered origin story, a pulmonary suet retarding literature’s apparatus, I chose expendably neutered truths. Gloves were required to relay them. The astrological scratch pad of everything had been batted inward, dice placed in an anus. I sensed the clowns were about to pour from their car, voluminously dead, a worldwide web full. And I’d wind up the eyelash in their autopsy, futzed result doing the reader a favor by categorizing each bowel as it voids.
This story was written by Sean Kilpatrick, give him a follow for more fiction, poetry and collected prose.