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Untitled 02

He hated animal rights activists. He hated their self-righteousness and their pompous hypocrisy. He imagined asking the fucking retards what they’ll do if they’re stuck in a island with a pig with no food whatsoever, and he imagines further the lot to sanctimoniously whip out their standard issue research from their umbrella organisation or whoever the fuck is the lobbyist behind their movement and read out to him the fucking Miranda rights of a weasel or a honey bee. At this point, he can almost savour the pleasure of bitchslapping their hallowed bodies (from eating not so much as a couple of sticks of lemon grass and carrots) and hogtying them in his basement, and when they’re almost starved to death, dangling a nice tender piece of roast in front of their faces. It is at this point that he makes them choose between eating the meat or their fucking ideology.

***

He drove past the rallying mob, whose placards sashay in the air like heavy drapes covering the view of the pristine ocean and the glorious bouncing boobs that make his office in this waterfront building so goddamned expensive. Missing one of the punks with the ‘Save the Seals’ poster by an inch, he quickly parked his Lexus in the shaded space allotted for the Senior VP, who is not him; however, he is not taking the chance of one of those over informed junkies throwing their dead cat dummies and messing his newly waxed convertible. He’ll deal with the SVP at lunch.

***

He was never one for sympathy. The day his dad suffered a massive coronary back when he was in college, he was sitting at the ER waiting room with his mother and brother. He felt dread… and confusion. But not sympathy – not for his mother, not for his brother, not even for his father who at that moment was being sliced open as a result of years of bathing his insides with oil and alcohol.

Its not that he chose to be that way, no. As a matter of fact, sympathy was a foreign concept that continues to baffle him. He knew it exists, but never can he claim, if for the purpose of this narrative he will be asked, that he once felt sympathy for another human being. He was polite (when necessary), but never actually sympathetic.

He greeted her secretary and did a double take at her sumptuous ass. Could they have grown overnight or is there a little buttpad action going on there? These vixens drive him mad sometimes. He knows if he doesn’t play his cards right, these scheming mongrels can bite off his head clean faster than he can say…

“Good morning RNF!” (the SVP). I took your parking slot this morning, I hope you don’t mind. It’s only until your car gets back from this new car spiff joint that one of my clients opened this weekend. Heard one of the valet boys he’s about to take your ride for a wash, and I sent him there. You should see the exquisite job they did on my car blah, blah, blah…

***

That was the day he blew his brains out using the scrubbed .45 he nicked from his neighbour’s punk kid, who’s been using their empty dog cage to stash his stolen goods from all over the neighbourhood. He came to know about it after he caught the teenage deadbeat scurrying about his backyard when his dad sold him the cage for some quick booze bucks.

That day was particularly calm, eerily so, that the screech of tires against the pavement sounded like it was on Dolby Digital from the park bench he was sitting on, calmly eating is salami and jalapeno sandwich lunch. Looking at him from afar, one can easily pass him off as the generic corporate slave who sips expensive chino in the morning, take hasty, unsatisfying lunches at the park on slow days, and occasionally dines on expensive tiny food portions at swanky hotel restaurants that is often paid for by others. All his life, he had been cheery, and though he had his moments of melancholy, he was never generally thought of as the suicidal type.

Except, of course, he was.

***

Keeping up with the façade he put up in the image of what a man of his age, stature and breeding is supposed to be, he walked, talked, gossiped, worked, fornicated, bargained and dined with people who never even really had an idea that a façade of that sort was in existence. He was sad a lot of times, but what really ate at him was the loneliness, although he never even had a wanting for physical company. The irony of it all often left him dumfounded, until eventually, all he ended up really wanting was for everything to stop existing.

He made a decision, one that, for once, he was happy to make.

And obviously, he doesn’t want your fucking sympathy.

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