The Hannibal Lecter-esque pachydermic man was strapped to an archaic refrigerator dolly that looked like something from the Spanish Inquisition. The way he gutturally muttered fuck sounded like Donald Duck teaching Arabic to disobedient Indian children. 

When asked if he wanted me to uncuff him, he said, “Yes.” When I asked him why, he said, “Because it feels like I have a calf cramp in my bicep.” When I refused, he asked if I’d kindly scratch his crotch. I told him that the only things I listen to are conch shells and Ocean Vuong songs. He then threatened to have Sasquatch staple his testicles to his leg with a Swiss Army Knife, to make it look like they had an earring. 

Cigarettes saved his life. Otherwise, he probably would have died by bed sores. 

He wound up thanking me for the thank you card. 

He was dreadfully ugly, but was paid handsomely. He was also covered in sparkles. 

Our first encounter was while he was getting euthanized somewhere in the woods, where a limber Mexican man would induce a slumber massacre early every morning by way of cutting down trees via machine. Behind him, his office said, “Sorry, we’re open,” while some derelict underage employees smoked burnt quiches from the Blair Witch’s oven out back.  

He said his sister’s name was Susan Generis, and his mother’s, Mrs. Cancer. Behind his muzzle (where strung-out cheese went through), his face had the unique combination of sunburn and benzoyl peroxide side-effects. 

He has the worst wardrobe in the world; nevertheless, gym milfs flock to his neon workout suit and matching knee brace like zoo patrons to a peacock. 

His hands smell like wet dogs, and Lori Lightfoot is tattooed to his ankle bracelet. 

His silent film production company created a stress ball exercise video called “Body by Xbox.”

He’s convinced Stevie Wonder wasn’t plugged in. 

He has a supernatural funk to him, which can only be described as different body part bacteria synergistically breeding. It reminded me of moving blankets, and Abbott Laboratories. 

He then took two showers in two hours. 

He was so anxious that he was barely speaking; albeit, there was noxious steam emanating from his armpits and shoes. 

His name was Affidavid. 

When asked if he was religious, he said that he was getting ready to meet a diplomat from Dubai, and that there are definitely drums beating in the jungle. 

When asked if he was spiritual, he said, “This Christmas, I want Santa to drop a deuce down my chimney, and put a cookie in my exhaust pipe.”

The flavors are there: a rationalization of every uncertain chef.

When I told him that my partner and I were considering separation, he said, “May divorce be with you.”

When asked if he had any advice, he said, “Swallow your pride, and give peppermints to ponies. 0r, bury your shovel, and grow a mustache.” 

This was him and his fiancé’s prurient bedroom whispers. They wrote a book together called “Soggy Sleep Support and the Weeping Pillows,” which was published by Center Mass Press. 

When asked if he wanted anything to eat, he said that being tiny, frail, and afraid was the name of the game; but that rotating your proteins is imperative. 

He also said that when he closes his eyes, he sees Martin Luther King with a MAGA hat on. Then he asked me if God was an s.o.b. 

He once supported an electronic gloryhole at a Flying J hand truck stop while still coming to terms with his sexuality. He was gay, butt in a joyous way. 

When I inquired about his childhood, he said that his mother once asked him why he was cutting into his forehead, and he said, “Striking oil.” Her dying wish was that he’d “wash his fucking face.” 

He said that he was an unwanted child, conceived only as a dare. 

Once his mother discovered the Discover card, all bets were off. But she loved sneezing. She’d tickle her nasal cavities with Bobby pins to lose all control—a total release. And she never made any extra sound. She just let them happen.

His favorite superhero is Traumaman. 

When asked about his vocation, he said that since no one is going out anymore, he’s resorted to becoming a porch pirate. When asked if business was good, he said, “I’m rich as dick [sic], even though most people pay me in pigs and toy soldiers. But we need a Human Resources woman who is actually going to be here, not someone who’s getting resources from me whilst on maternity leave making a new human every nine months.”

He never performed safety drills at work, but experienced multiple episodes of bowel evacuation in client bathrooms.

When asked if he had insurance, he said, “No, but I do have a goldfish.” 

He made tartar sauce out of mouthwash. 

His hobbies included collecting napkins and grocery bags, which he fashioned into a briefcase. 

His illness originated from injecting drugs with needles originally used for voodoo, and also from being hooked proper on perc 5s and peach wine coolers. 

His health is related to tetanus shots. 

When asked about his medication of choice, he said, “Imodium is the shit.” 

Him and his priest used to hold confession in adjacent porta potties, because there’s ample toilet paper for tears. 

He then referred me to his therapist, Johnny Depth. 

His buddy Bro Dudeman would brush his teeth with a yellow toothbrush, because if he didn’t, his wife would call the cops. 

When the internet asks if he accepts cookies, he says yes, because he’s a monster.

His orgasms have been likened to expressionist face paintings. 

When his playing companion relapsed on Chron’s disease, it left a gaping hole in his golf life. 

He said that he once told a Frenchman he should really do something about his depression, to which he supposedly responded, “Suck my blue.”

He said that he didn’t have neighbors because they consumed each other during Sunday dinner. 

He then asked if he had to like the picture of my kid. 

His theory is that all children eventually turn into piñatas, and that every birth certificate is a risk assessment. 

He said that his grandma liked to watch human beings swim through the blood vessels of blue whales. So we shaved her head and shocked it. 

He said that his go-to ice-breaker is a prescription-grade Coca-Cola. 

His K-9’s favorite activity was swinging from the chandelier. It didn’t have tags on when it died, but it did create a new strain of flea-bitten cannabis called Kennel Cough. 

He told me that a cup of ketamine a day keeps the demons at bay.

His dream amalgamation reminds him of ice cream men. 

Then he said, “I’m confused.” When I asked what he meant, he said, “I don’t know—but it must be how a computer feels when someone’s violently swiping right.”

His hand-me-down t-shirt had one black horse and one white one pulling someone apart.

He then offered me the sweat of his haus frau’s brow, and asked if I’d like to take a bike ride to Blockbuster. 

His dream is to walk into the sunset on the wrong side of the tracks. 

Every time he loses his Ray-Bans, he says, “God dim it.”

He told me that on September 9th, 2018, things were starting to add up. 

He also said that Trouble was his maiden name. 

When asked if he was philanthropically inclined, he said that he once donated a broken Gucci watch as a protest to time and materialism.

When I asked his thoughts on Disney’s cryogenic takeover, he said he was always partial to the dwarf named Sighy, and that sleeping with a lover who doesn’t snore is boring. 

His philosophy is that life isn’t for everyone, and that it’s best to isolate from people as much as humanly possible. 

He said that getting from his bed to the bathroom in the middle of the night should be adapted into an Evil Kneivel movie. 

When I asked his age, he said, “I walk uphill in the snow to school.”

When I asked if he had any butter, he said, “No—I know because I tried making a grilled cheese last night without it.”

His best friend is Yenny the vote yes volunteer. I told her that eating acid, dairy, and gluten, is literally a recipe for disaster. She’s convinced of the conspiracy that there’s definitely an Illetterati. She was clinging to life like a skin tag that’s begging to be lasered off. 

Then she said to me, “You people eat beans for breakfast! You should be bending your knee and kissing my sword!” Then she caught the hantavirus, and became as quiet as a church mouse. 

To this end, David told me that 2020 was just a masquerade to encourage eye-contact. When asked how he knows this, he said, “Hindsight.”

His favorite food is bad Thai.

He sued his stepdad for a wrongful life. 

He said he couldn’t live with anyone unless they were like Helen Keller. 

Whenever anyone mentions covid, he tells them to watch their mouth.

He wants to create a new community called Skid Row 2.0.

His father had 4 different men as his emergency contact. Alfalfa went to live on a farm after his pops was put in the ground. 

He owns a food truck called First World Problems. 

He said Kamala Monica Lewinskeed his penis to stay in power. 

He identifies as Davy Crockett. 

Under his pool is a speakeasy where people can breathe freely. 

He often puts his AR-15 in the microwave to heat it up  a bit. 

He hears voices in his head from a radio station in space. 

He said The Matrix was based on his life. 

The CIA supposedly knows that he knows that they’re just doing their job. 

He’s happy the death penalty is alive and well. 

He won’t be satisfied until fire trucks are baptized. 

When asked if he was an organ donor, he said that the organist at his uncle’s funeral was about as bad as you can possibly be, to the point that he almost withheld his donation. 

He said that the craziest thing he ever saw was a black nurse’s wounds getting cleaned with cotton balls. 

He then asked me why my phallus is tanner than my face. 

He said that unless you’re an international transvestite in Stephen Hawking’s wheelchair, no one seems to care. 

His breathing and skin gnome were normal. 

He shoots people with owl pellets. 

The bathroom is the only place he seems to find any peace, but paradoxically, where he’s made to confront most of his suffering. Every morning, his wife whispers under the door, “This too shall pass.”

He digs well water. 

When I asked if he was comfortable, he said he works part-time at a pain clinic, and feels like he’s at the center of a cinnamon roll. 

His favorite author is Darth Books. 

He mostly gets heart attacks on the right side of his head. 

When asked if he had any modern art critiques, he said he wished The Creation of Adam was instead two monkeys passing a Tums-flavored banana. 

He hates underdogs, but said what goes down must come up. He prefers knishes, and never does the dishes. 

He said that the only thing he did on Valentine’s Day was masturbate to a piece of dark chocolate. 

His favorite band is Circle K and the Castaways. 

When asked why he wasn’t on Twitter, he said that he’s Hawkeye. 

His house sounded like a cover of “Break on Through” during obligatory boys night out, using only doors as instruments. 

He had a top knot below his beard, and looked like an emaciated sumo wrestler. 

He kept referring to himself like a bird person. 

He said you’re not an adult until you wake up everyday with a headache. 

He wondered why Rip Van Winkle never had to piss. 

His favorite memory was salsa dancing in an asparagus-smelling air taxi lavatory in England. 

He said America is just an evil umpire. 

He loves sheep, but was never a nap proponent.

He was once on the cover of Suicidal Ideation Magazine. 

The blowdryer boy used to tape his eyes shut, because he couldn’t do it by himself. 

He says that heavens to murgatroyds are heck bent for bulls in china shops. I told him AstraZeneca may be able to help.

He said that he made sure to schedule his malted gruel for an experimental surgery. 

He carries an expired condom, just in case. 

When asked if he meditated, he said it’d been awhile since he listened to the rain.

When asked what he’d order for a last meal, he said, “Breakfast.”

So we sat in self-conscious silence and listened to the rumbling of each other’s pestilence-riddled stomachs—the kind of intimate conversation it takes years to be okay with. 

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Charles J. March III is a food porn addict from the South Side of the Windy City. His work has been upchucked (or soon will be) by Taco Bell Quarterly, Shot Glass Journal, Nauseated Drive, talking about strawberries all of the time, Eskimo Pie, Gutslut Press, etc. Less can be found at LinkedIn & SoundCloud.