Chapter Text
The air is heavy and humid as I step out of my apartment building, onto the baking Manhattan sidewalk. Glancing up at the summer sky through the tinted glass of my Ray-Bans, it’s difficult to imagine that the world is doomed. Ending. That the human race’s time has almost run out. Tossing the keys to the penthouse into my pocket, I saunter away from the ancient brownstone, trying to remember where the fuck I parked my car. Someone as world-famous as I am would normally live somewhere like the Upper West Side, overlooking the park and fashionably close to all the hip places to be seen. But something about the East Village, with its cast-iron fire-escapes and indie record stores has always felt more my speed. The locals are too busy trying to appear aloof to accost me for autographs as I saunter by, even though they all know who I am. I feel at home here despite starting to age-out of the demographic of twenty and early-thirty-somethings who dominate these streets. Of course, it does make it a pain in the ass to get to my uptown office.
After wandering for a couple of blocks, I find my beaten-up old hatchback. The thing is a piece of shit, but it’s probably the most valuable piece of shit in the world. The “STR1D3R” number-plate is a dead giveaway, but the crappy car isn’t designed to give me anonymity. It’s simply a tribute to how deeply I worship the gods of irony. Frequently, it’s stolen by kids who leave garbled scripts in the back seat when they dump it a few streets away, but one of my people is in charge of monitoring the state-of-the-art tracker fitted under the dashboard. The car always ends up back within walking-distance of the apartment one way or another. Some of the shitty scripts have even inspired parts of my movies – several former car thieves now have lucrative jobs in my ironic-media empire.
Driving uptown is always a chore, but putting on some music blurs the honks and fumes of the traffic into a soft background hum. There’s nowhere to park when I get to the glass edifice that houses the office, so I just stick it on the painted curb by a fire hydrant. Half the attendants in this city won’t even bother to stick a ticket on the car once they see the number-plate. Even if they do, it’s probably cheaper to pay the fine than waste any more of my time looking for a space. I could, of course, park in my V.I.P. spot in the secure car-park below the building, next to the BMW’s and Mercedes’ of my remora-fish executives. But the little notes that fans leave under the wiper blades always lift my mood after a boring day. Anyway, “fuck the establishment” is pretty much my core brand, so it wouldn’t do to disappoint my audience.
Morning meetings fly by in a blur of sycophantic hipsters, simultaneously obsequious and condescending. Half of them love me with a passion that is almost terrifying, and the others want to hate me to death behind their rictus grins. The latest SBaHJ project is pushing forward at breakneck speed, and the producers know that the time is approaching for me to throw my customary spanners into the works, inserting meaningless asides and subversive political messages. Re-ordering the key scenes so they run in reverse, or cutting to a five minute shot of a beach ball blowing along a deserted beach instead of a critical action scene. My usual shtick. The political stuff in the last movie was getting fairly blatant, and I’ve been waiting for the hammer to fall ever since, just like the one that squashed that poor little frog in the Condesce-style tiara. A shitty, early-90s-CGI frog, naturally. The glitter encrusted death-warrant I’d received in the post had had my name on it, but instead of a signature, the final line had been decorated with a single eggplant emoji. The Condesce’s attempt at irony was more weird than amusing, but the message was crystal clear. Any more bullshit and I’m toast.
While I nod sagely through yet another pitch for SBaHJ merchandise - in this case condoms and lube – I discreetly open a conversation with my only real friend through the smoked-glass of the desk. My phone has the brightest screen money can buy, as well as the loudest ringer.
turntechGodhead[TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist[TT]
TG: yo rose hows the book coming
TT: It’s good, David. I suspect it will be even longer than my last novel.
TT: Felines the world over will tremble in fear that their owners’ copy will slip from their grasp.
TT: You?
TT: Still filling the world with cinematic garbage?
TG: yeah my shits going ok too
TG: want some free samples of condoms with geromys gormless face on them?
TT: What possible use could I have for condoms, David?
TG: oh yeah good point
TG: hows the missus
TT: Kanaya is fine, thank you for asking. Her fashion line is premiering in NY next week.
TT: We were wondering if you wanted to have dinner.
TG: sure that sounds good
TG: be great to see you both
TG: might actually stir some genuine emotion in the hollow centre of my admittedly attractive chest
TT: Are you still feeling depressed, David?
TG: yeah well whats there to feel happy about rose
TG: worlds ending
TG: fish hitler sending me death threats
TG: clowns running unopposed for president
TG: making preparations for my own death and a successor who ill never meet
TG: poor little bastard he doesnt know what hes missing
TG: plus i still wake up every morning wondering where someone is
TG: except theres never really been anyone i cared about
TT: What do you mean by "wondering where someone is"?
TG: seriously rose its like whoever it is just popped out for some aj and never came back
TG: its always super confusing when theres some rando guy or gal in my bed
TG: like ive done something awful and i want to be sick
TG: cheated on my imaginary soulmate
TG: i miss them so fucking much and ive never even met them
TG: i’d fucking know if i had
TT: Is this every day, Dave? Every single morning?
TG: yeah for like seventeen years
TG: been getting worse and worse ever since i was 16
TT: Why have you never mentioned this before? It’s very concerning.
TG: well for like a couple of years
TG: before you met Kanaya
TG: i thought it might be you
TG: you know that i was meant to be with
TG: i didnt really feel like talking to you about it once i figured out you were only into the ladies
TG: on account of never being able to wake up next to you
TG: unless in a friendly sleepover context
TT: Oh David, I’m so sorry.
TT: I had no idea.
TG: its not your fault rose i guess i just transferred expectations on to you because youre like the only decent friend ive ever had
TT: To tell the truth, I had the same feeling that someone was missing before I met Kanaya.
TT: Not that I ever thought it was you I was meant to be with.
TT: Sorry, but you know I’ve never had any deviant heterosexual leanings.
TG: yeah i know
TG: no need to apologise rose
TG: some people just arent gifted with the ability to see the inner sexy within each and every special snowflake
TG: except unattractive people obviously
TT: We met at University so I assumed it was just teenage hormones.
TT: And when we started dating, the feeling just sort of went away.
TT: I can’t imagine feeling it for so long, Dave. It must be terrible.
TG: pretty much but thems the breaks i guess
TG: my lifes pretty good otherwise apart from the impending doom
TG: anyways ill see you next week we can discuss all this shit then if you like
TG: this was just supposed to be a quick morning bullshit jamboree not a stern symposium on feelings and shit
TG: and this dude needs my opinion on which flavoured lubes we should sell
TG: ill bring you some of what we decide on
TG: *wink*
TT: Okay, David. Take care of yourself.
TT: We love you.
TG: loves you too babes
turntechGodhead[TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist[TT]
After the morning’s asshole parade, the fresh-ish air of the street is a release. Sauntering across the tarmac to pick up a sandwich and some AJ (yet another thing I won’t let my assistant do for me, seriously, it’s the only break I get all day), I spot one of my people standing next to my car. It’s the guy who monitors the tracker, and he’s yelling at the top of his lungs at a short guy who appears to be affixing a ticket to the windscreen. I start jogging over, waving my hands frantically at the guy (Mike, or Rob or something?), which seems to stop his tirade. The little meter maid doesn’t look any happier, though. He’s still glaring out at the world from beneath his stupid hat, scowling through black bangs as if he wishes everyone in the world would just shrivel up and die.
“Ok, dude, just let him put the ticket on! I parked illegally so its fine!” I yell at Bob, hoping he’ll just fuck off back to the little office where he watches a blinking red dot on a map all day.
He nods, and I catch the momentary sneer beneath his dark glasses; this guy hates my fucking guts. He can join the other billion or so people in the Strider-hate-club, for all I care. While I was telling Doug to piss off, the attendant has retrieved a yellow boot from his van and is wrapping it around my front wheel. Not cool. The ticket was fine, but I need to use this shitheap to get home. The little guy jumps out of his skin when I tap him on the shoulder, and glares up at me, scowl set on kill. Even standing up he only reached to just below my shoulder, which adds to the humour of his angry disposition. Clearly he’s the Napolean of the Upper-West Side. Ruler of an empire of illegally parked cars.
“Chill, man, I’ll pay the ticket. Put two on it if you want, just don’t make me spend hours speaking to the asshats at traffic to get someone to come remove the boot.”
He huffs and continues incarcerating my car, seemingly taking great pleasure in slamming the padlock shut.
“Dude, c’mon. Don’t make me hang around in the asshole district any longer than necessary. I’m not one for being all like “don’t you know who I am”, but, like, don’t you? It’s on the number plate and everything. I can literally pay you whatever you want to take that thing off my car, no questions asked.”
I’m not pissed at him, for some reason. He’s only doing his job, after all, and I parked like an asshole. When he stands up, flipping me the bird with both hands, laughter bursts uncontrollably from my mouth. Most people fall over themselves to suck up to me these days, even the ones that openly despise me.
“Okay, hilarious! What crawled up your ass this morning, little dude?” I ask, grinning.
He takes a deep breath, ready to launch into a diatribe of epic proportions. I’m struck by his face, by the big, dark eyes beneath the thick eyebrows. He looks Hispanic, maybe? Definitely something other than Caucasian. And hot, even though he looks like he wants to flay the skin off my body. Just as I prepare myself to be well and truly schooled, he lets the air out again and turns on his heel. He walks away in a composed manner, checking the meters calmly. Damn. I want to chase after him, but that might seem a little desperate. The only reasons to care are that the sight of his ass in those little summer-uniform shorts is fucking breathtaking, and it's honestly been years since anyone gave me that kind of sass. Sign me up for masochists anonymous, because apparently that's what I'm into. I don’t care how many times I have to park illegally; I’m getting that guy’s number.
It should take my mind off the inevitable death of the human race, at least for a while.