By Malmagne


Wayfaring to Wayfair, and that’s how I ended up in this heap of broken fake-wood furniture. Its blue plastic sheen had looked soft and velvety online. I bought this supposedly sleek and trendy looking armchair from that deceitful hellsite Wayfair in hopes of maybe bringing the hot bartender girl over and impressing her with something that looked new. She was hot. I sighed, laying there in my rubble. The whiskey twinkled in its brown shit-stained glass, laughing with wicked wastefulness at me. I pulled myself free of my sad wreckage of a nest, and stood up and faced the yellowed walls of my crumpled wastepaper apartment. Merciful was he who knew when to leave. I usually left places like this after a few months, but this place had grown on me like the mold under the kitchen sink, and my heart wouldn’t let me leave. It was that girl. The hot one I bought the furniture for. She was really hot, and so I sweated it out a little longer here in bug paradise. The cockroach currently perusing my kitchen somewhere in the shadows was more human with its purposeful scavenging than the empty spending, empty-eyed bugmen scuttling through the streets.

I picked up the once polished Glencairn glass which I used to sip, but now gulped to get through the cheap poop-water that I now filled it with. But I still sounded cool to people when I said I wanted a double and to make it neat. Throwing out obscure bourbon brands like I was some whiskey wizard, but really, I was just an alcoholic. My mysterious magic resulted in constant drifting, living off of a crappy book I’d written years ago when I thought I was the next Faulkner. It barely made any money, but I required about as much cash to live on as a neet—my parent being my absentee book.

I wandered over to my door as I swallowed the last of my drink. I was a discarded cigarette hoping to be flicked just right, so as to set the forest a fire. That’s why I threw myself out the door. I needed that girl to burn something.

She stood there, bartending and politely making conversation through a wincing grin pursed and painfully forced. Yet that smile pulled so tight... was as tight as her ass. That ass. That body. I coughed, realizing I was standing there by the door staring. I stood as tall as I could and forced myself rigid, and creaked over to the bar. Originally, I’d come to this place just to feel cultured and important. A hipster bar with a masculine façade, and skinny twigs bent over their drinks like prostitutes over penises. But there she was... I didn’t even know her name but I felt like we really knew each other. It was all in the eyes. You know. I just knew. I walked, straight and stiff to seem larger than I was, and admired her blonde wheat hair, her nicely flared birthing hips, and her breasts and ass that would make Venus cover herself in shame. She had a field I’d like to get lost in.

“Hey darlin’,” I said, not knowing why I spoke as if I were John Wayne. At least I didn’t call her pilgrim. Maybe she’d be turned on by that. I was getting turned on by the thought. I wished I had his cowboy hat, then I could really impress her.

“Hey,” she said with glassed eyes that had been spilled of life from the monotony of meaningless work. Her chilled attention heated me up despite her obvious indifference and knowledge that she was getting a good tip regardless.

The tv towards the back was playing CNN of all stations. Someone must have requested it. Or everyone in here. A quick scan of the room revealed glued eyes empty of personhood.

I stared at the hot bartender girl who didn’t know I was a person. The delicate upturn of her nose. The graceful slope. Elegant yet sweet. It was a nose that begged to be nuzzled and kissed. The kind of nose that made me want to write again. But instead I sat there at the bar and smiled wide and loudly at her like a broken record repeating and scratching the same strained falsetto.

“What are you having today, sir?” she said.

I grinned wider, taking her sir as a sign of respect. I refused to acknowledge the meaningless smile and formality of her stance.

“The usual,” I said.

She looked at me blankly.

“Elijah Craig, a double and I’ll have it neat.”

She smiled and tilted her head at me while her body pulled away. My heart hurt as it was yanked like an out of tune guitar string, played in every way but the way it was supposed to be.

I looked awkwardly away as a man and woman sat on the two stools next to me despite the several empty to my left. Maybe they knew the left was evil too! I didn’t even notice the beautiful woman smack my glass right in front of me but I mumbled thanks and tried to sit up straight while my soul slumped.

I sipped and watched over the big heads of the couple pressed together, right to my right. CNN. Yes, it was on and of course they talked about Trump. Of course, of course. In an age without King Arthur or Hercules, our heroes were resentment and bitter irony. So, the stars were those who could command the most rage. And oh, how Trump fed the flock with his sardonic scraps and chirpy twittering that more often than not was but mere squawking. What happened to sheepdogs? The sheep were all wolves now. Bark and bite rotting with rabies, they growled at even those who would feed them.

I took a bigger gulp. And then another. Maybe I’d like Russia better anyway. Trade bourbon for vodka and find a pretty girl to have many mini Putins with. Now the TV was talking about Biden. Gropy Joe reminded me of Trump, if Trump had been a career politician. Woman like those who grabbed apparently! My method of awkward conversation and silent worship was certainly less effective.

“They still don’t talk about Bernie enough. Biden is just like Trump! Old and out of touch,” the dude-brah next to me said to his girl loud enough so the rest of us could hear.

I winced as I felt the bar nod in silent—though breathy—agreement. I might think Biden was similar to Trump, but was Bernie all that different either? Old. Three old guys who told their base whatever they thought would help them win. None of them would enact lasting change. I love our ineffective system! Resurrect Teddy and make him Emperor! We’d be colonizing the stars by now with Teddy leading the charge and terraforming planets just to make more national parks (for him to hunt in). I smiled and nodded.

“What are you grinning at?” the dude-brah said to me.

“Bernie is old,” I muttered, longing for conflict. I had no stake in this, but I did wish I could afford steak. This was mid-shelf bourbon, but very solid and it tended to impress bartenders. Hot girl seemed not to care. I glanced up at her and had to hold onto my seat as she was staring directly at me, with sympathy sparkling in those almond eyes! Oh my, was I hungry! “Bernie is old!” I shouted, encouraged by that delicious glare.

The air was sucked out of the room at my shout and breathing suddenly felt poisonous. I had burst their polluted bubble. But hot girl was my oxygen tank! She still was looking at me! Her face glowed with an airy grace fitting of an angel. A Victoria’s Secret Ange;! Hallelujah!

“He knows the youth! And you probably like Trump, don’t you? What kind of drink is that?” He said.

I looked up from my glass and clinched it tight. The smirk of his heroine addled, doodlebob tattoo whore girlfriend gave me exactly what I needed. I laughed, shook my head and smirked. A couple pushups a day kept the bugmen away. I finished my drink and wiped my mouth, scanning the room to see dead eyes accusing me of bringing life... and we all know how they feel about life. Parasites that fed on the blood of the righteous and unborn... and more frequently the newborn.

“Tulsi is good,” the hot girl said.

I turned back to her and stared, our eyes locking and my crotch tightening as I drowned in her. I might have just tinkled a little at her voice. Tulsi. Yes. Hawaii Mama save us! Yang too, he save us with bucks! Trump even... save us with wall. Still waiting on wall though. But even still... anybody but the normal. Normalcy had become the evil. Acceleration or improvement, stagnation would bring about the worst of all: the nothingness of virtue victimhood. Who feels the most shame? Me! Me! Can you pay for my penis removal now? That was now normalcy. I shook my head to clear my silent raving.

“She’s a Putin defender too. Did you hear her defend Trump with Russia? And not to intervene in Venezuela is to let Russia win!” The now gay-brah said.

“Bro, you’re being too much of a stereotype man. Nobody would believe me if I wrote you in a story. Do me some justice here, what about Yang?” I said.

“White supremacist.”

“Warren?” I offered.

“Better, but can’t get over Native American lie.” His girl nodded so hard her sickly little spindle neck looked ready to break. A mercy for her and her family, if it were to happen. Let it happen Lord!

“Bernie bowed to proven corruption last election and with his money bought his third house. Is that a man of the people? A man who hasn’t held a real job his entire life? He protested, and that’s it,” hot girl said.

“Protesters are the voice of the people,” gay-brah said.

“And what of the working class?” I said.

“They support us.”

“Statistics show they supported Trump,” hot girl added.

“Those were just the dumb rednecks,” now hypocrite-gay-dude-brah said.

I stood up to leave and nobody clapped, but I imagined clapping hot girl’s ass. She smiled tightly at me but clearly didn’t care too much. I shook my head and walked out without paying. I didn’t have much money. It was time to get back to wayfaring elsewhere. Maybe Venezuela might give my vacant heart a reason to thump, or at least some cocaine-like stimulus. Was that Colombia? Did it matter? Hot girls are hot, and no matter how hot I get, I remain cold yet constantly melting in the horniness of my ennui.

Wayfaring to stranger lands, to be a stranger and suck some milk glands.



is a writer of despair. He's the one still going on about the void, as he’s yet to reach the bottom. He’s still falling, not from a leap but more of a stumble. Read his books if you like being melancholic, because at least it's something. Do you too stare at the wall with a boredom too sad to be explained away? He’s affectionately void falling. Embrace the absurd and tumble in. His writings have been featured in Terror House and his novels Moth and Man and Spider in the Sun are available now on Amazon.