₵$52 Ghost
Tobacco (20)
₵$15 Bloody Mary
₵$55 El
Dorado Green (1/4)
₵$9 Bug Powder (g)
₵$1 Slut Root
(kg)
₵$30 Marital
Aid Potion
₵$10 Quetzalcoatl
Feathers (doz.)
₵$5 Blue
Roses (doz.)
₵$35 Mythril (g)
₵$9 BZTCN
Stu had an idea,
put in the work, proved the product, filed the patent, developed a four year
business plan sound with contingency responses. All he needs is start-up
funding. He makes a concise investment pitch to Iris.
(Bee-tee-double-woah, she now works in 'road project management', whatever that
means.)
Digesting sales pitch, Iris cracks the first of a
Four
Pack of Beer: 'OK. The technology is genius. If you want a career in STEM,
I will give you a reference. But.'
Iris skulls the beer. It gets her honest drunk
and much faster than twenty minutes, as she needs
'Like, what do you want? A lampshade big enough
to hang on this level of evil? Because that's like hacking the blockchain -
it's doable, but not worth it.'
Stu, sheepish: 'I was hoping for start-up
funding.'
Ignoring him: 'I mean, I'm a serial killer. I
have killed four of my boyfriends. I think the last was... something about mascara.
My current beau wants to stick it in me all the time, but not as much as I want
to stick something deeper into his eye socket, we could do both at the same
time I suppose, but I can't because construction materials are expensive enough
that I can't justify having concrete laid.'
Stu is disappointed but Rome wasn't built in a
day and was kinda' racist. He wakes on Monday, does fifty push-ups and contacts
the next evil bastard on his list. Christian
Holiday is a mechanical vampire. Christian looks over the business plan and
clucks approvingly:
'Two years to establish a foothold, then sinking
revenue streams into growth, producing dividends for shareholders in five.' Here
Christian grimaces a But. 'It's
really gross, isn't it? Maybe I don't get it, being preoccupied with the
acquisition and merchandising of blood. But wombs. And you made it financially
viable.'
Stu, diplomatic: 'It provides a much needed
service without the current negative externalities. It alleviates burdens.'
Christian stands and sweeps gaze over room in
search of high BAC to leech: 'I think, I think my skin is perambulating like an
infant human. Yes, this must be what I make other people feel. I understand
now.'
Huh. Stu resolves that he has been dealing with
rookies and so contacts a professional venture capitalist, a demon investor. Erin dons a
pencil skirt, single breasted blazer combo that uses her arrowhead-tip tail as
a jet-black cord belt.
Stu pitches his idea and grows confident when
Erin fails to completely hide smile with fist. Then Erin begins to
intermittingly giggle scoffs. Stu pauses his spiel and Erin's fist hits table
thrice, followed by forehead and avalanche of laughter.
Adrian Albert,
straight white lawyer with no soul, has made a career pivot into pest control.
He purchased the Gall Wasp
Ocarina with a dozen grams of Bug Powder. Tinkering
with chains of notes, he discovered a catchy 3/4 number that attracted bees to
the general area. This became a service to farmers seeking pollination for
their crops.
Adrian kept experimenting with the ocarina. He
discovered that power-metal covers attracted an audience of locusts. Riffs on
the original music command the swarm to go in one of the four cardinal
directions, or attack.
So now Adrian is on tour - a zigzagging trail
through croplands amongst clients who do not enjoy Monsanto. He pied pipers
from the back of a minibus, a large swarm 30m above ground. The last leg of
this tour is a large net.
Erin winds laughter up: 'Oh fuck, ohhhh fuck, I
needed that.'
Erin takes a long sip of wine, eyes loaded with hell of an aphrodisiac, humour. Stu does not pick up on this. Erin does begin
to suspect this:
'I mean. You see, on the news, a pro-choice
pro-tester with a placard that says "Stop Controlling Our Wombs". You
accept that the entire pro-life, evangelical Christian, Republican GOP is an
effort to control women's bodies and instead of saying "that's a bitch
move" you think "I could do that cheaper".'
'Yes.'
Thusly Stu does not get laid, suffice to say. So
he sends a message down the straight-white-cis-male chain, which reaches the
straightest, most white, most cis male in the country. Malcolm
arrives to find that Stu has already ordered the wine:
'Cab sav?'
Stu nods: 'Cab sav.'
Fists in air: 'Cab sav!'
They small talk videogames, AFL and the price of
timber whilst the first glass wafts its magic. When they have drunken through
the preamble and topped up glasses, Stu goes 'say, I have this idea...' Malcolm
leans forward, elbows on man-spread knees. His nodding starts as high tempo
head bopping, slows with hand over mouth, then becomes a vertical metronome of
up, then down, then up, then down, of three second integers.
Stu finishes pitch, pours both a third glass and
leans back: 'So. Whaddaya' think?'
Malcolm raises glass towards lips but stops: 'I
write erotic fan fiction.'
Stu, already annoyed: 'You're a fan of European
far-right politics.'
Closing eyes: 'My happy place is Marine Le Pen
tribbing Giorgia Meloni. Please excuse me.'
Malcolm goes home. He hugs his children, and
cries.
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