I would like to deconstruct something…

Okay let’s break it down like a shotgun, folks. You see, there is something very sick and wrong with the way things are today. Not just in the general sense but on a very individual level. Not even just a societal thing, but; you,you,YOU, and; me, me, ME!

It is so easy to point the finger and say no, not me, not me, sir. You are mistaken,you see I read Foucault and I have several bound books on my shelf that I look at longingly. No there is no wool over my eyes. But, you’re wrong. The thing is you have been deceived to believe that that matters. It doesn’t, you’re not beautiful enough and I’m sorry but it’s a problem.

Everything has become so visual and that’s the problem. Before reality was just reality, plain and simple. You walked out side and you saw a drunk at your door, or you’d see one travesty after another and it would be real and you would become desensitized that way. Now nothing is real. Everything that is visually consumed is some sort of magic trick and the magicians are the beautiful people.

People used to be so in tune with each other that there was a communal unspoken language that could be interpreted as telepathy. Now? People have to be overt. There is no more body language, instead just bright colours that we wear obscenely to make ourselves different from the next person. “Oh gosh, Lucy, you wore blue today? Fuck me, Lucy, you stupid bitch today is a pastel yellow day.” Yeah, yeah… I know it all sounds insane, but you know. Deep down inside you know.

We are weeding out ugliness in our ranks. Even now there are legal proceedings to determine if someone is beautiful enough to be right or wrong. Before, the gods could preside over trial by combat, but now that the gods have all been murdered in their sleep there is no real justice. So, people have tried to make themselves beautiful by mutilating their bodies, or tapping into a sub-genre of not-so-ugly so that they too can be loved. But, the devil is in the details. They may pass for a while, but they might have kids and when others realized they have passed themselves off as beautiful they will kill those children. Trust me, it’s already happening.

I would feel bad for those beautiful people if they weren’t fucking things up for our species so much. They have performed the magic trick too well, they have gotten their way. Now, that is all there is to aspire to. You have to be beautiful or else. Maybe not this generation, maybe not the next, but soon, in the grand scheme of things they are going to start culling. They will be praised for it. How could they not? You’ve already seen it happen. The beautiful blonde girl goes to the hovel to help and on a mission of world betterment, but at the end they simply got some pictures and videos of them beside the ugly people. It is proof that their ultimate plans of genocide were benevolent.

Eventually, it will just be the beautiful ones. They will die in opulence with a mirror overhead, but that too will come to an end. They will be brilliant and beautiful and they will have destroyed anything unique about humanity and then once that is gone they will kill each other out of spite. The killing will be barbaric, that’s one thing about ugly folks like me, we are good killers. Beautiful people want everything to be clean, you know, a fell swoop. Well that’s not how it goes when you want to kill your fellow man. Plus, in the pursuit of beauty I am assuming they will have forgotten a lot of important things along the way.

Ha-ha! I can’t help but laugh. It a real fucking tickler, you know? The old adages are true and none truer than beauty being skin deep. You know how I know? Because I have ripped and torn into people. With my bare hands even and let me be the first to tell you what is inside is not pretty at all. Sure, there is a certain aesthetic to it. Indeed, indeed I will be the first to admit that there is something about blood and gore, but you tear a man open and things get messy quick.

Anyway, anyway, you don’t need my life story. You have most of it on camera anyway don’t you? Can you hear me out there? Can you heeeeaaaarrrrr me?

Burn me up…

…let me pretend I was beautiful in the dark.

These last breaths I breathe in defiance of what we have become.

* * * *

“God-fucking-damnit!” A man leans heavily on a desk equipped with a microphone that sits not far from his dry, much chewed, lips.

“What is it? Have you managed to talk to him? The cutters should be through the hull in a minute or two.”

The man’s shoulders hunch and his head drops lower, “No. He’s gone.”

“WHAT?!”

A pause

“The cutters are through… Oh, Christ.” The woman watching the progress of the rescue team covers her mouth. Her eyes are wide with fear and disbelief.

“He killed them.”

“I thought you were communicating with him? We saw the life-signs they were good. He had enough air to last another 10-15 minutes at least. We were going to save him!”

The man shakes his head and looks over at the woman in the command station with him. She is tall and blonde, her lips are perfect and full and despite the ordeal they had been through the last hour trying to rescue the floating ship, she looked delightful.

He stops a moment to consider her and what the lone survivor said.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Lucy, but that bastard talked himself to death.”

Where does OnlyFans go from here?

To the Knife Princess,

Not knowing you is pleasurable in some sense of the word. You see, it is because knowing you in earnest would fill my heart beyond its capacity. It would fill and fill and begin to overflow, ultimately consuming me in the process. So, it could be said that I am better off not truly knowing you so that I may remain me and avoid the changes that I have grown to fear in myself.

This banal and ludicrous theory of keeping true knowledge of you at a distance, does not mean that you have not invaded my thoughts. To the contrary, there are swirls and currents of you that penetrate my waking hours and force my mind to wander and float in these imaginary estuaries of you. I am surprised and thankful my mind applies well maintained brakes and screeches to a halt in front of the effigy of you that has been built up in my mind. I am even more surprised when it comes to life and begins to perambulate and make its way into other segments of my psyche.

I am glad of the tenuous nature of you. It allows a certain liberty when it comes to the perversions of my mind when we enter the boudoir of my memory palace. Once there, you look back at me; naked, beautiful, and smiling with the invitation for me to do my worst and in the process fulfill your own desires.

You are not mine. Let’s be clear and account for some realities of our situation. I know I am not unique as an individual who admires you. There are many, I am no fool, I see the numbers and the views you receive and this is okay too. I mean, there is a subdued ecstasy that twirls around inside me as your projected glow reflects off my own pale, sun deprived features. I am resigned, but also comfortable with the fact that your virtual presence is ephemeral and not necessarily directed at me. Perhaps, it is a pathetic admission to say so, but I am okay with it. I’m okay, I swear.

On the subject of reaffirmation, these distances and barriers and payment plans that we have put between each other may indeed be for the best. You see I worry about your proximity and the physiological effects that may result if we were in the same room. I have experienced sensory overload in the form of a pistol being pressed to my temple and, darling, that pistol has nothing on you.

You are opulent in the way we understand divinity. You are gorgeous like electricity illuminating a forgotten place filled with innumerable riches. I sometimes wonder if a goddess allowed her reflection to be born of earth and then I remember that you are your own goddess and I have been genuflecting for sometime now. I tell you this as a somewhat honest man, that should you find yourself in my little corner of the moon, I promise you will drink for free.

Your Admirer,

The Barkeep

There is no fucking behind the bar.

Sex is everywhere. You can find it in the cracks and seams in every aspect of our lives from when we are young and still wondering what exactly it is to when we are old and we consider that we should have stuck more fingers into said cracks and seams.

Sex is so prevalent that they have a hard time giving it away these days. Sex has to be dressed up or modified until it isn’t sex at all, but a part time job at a hardware store, or a strongly worded letter. There is so much sex in the world that it has become the thing by which we describe how mundane something is. How often have you heard the term, “it’s better than sex,” huh?

There is no fucking behind the bar because it is a refuge. I can pour drinks and I can cast my gaze over the small empire I have carved for myself out of the crater in which this city resides.

There is no fucking behind the bar because there are forces at work which I may have had a hand in creating, or may not exist at all, aside from in my imagination.

Once, drunkenly, I masturbated behind the bar when everyone had left. I drank that night harder than most nights. I drank with the customers and watched a young couple in the corner touch and talk and for some reason I could taste and feel them together and once they had gone I rubbed myself until I splashed my jizz all over the already dirty mats that lay at my feet behind the bar. I remember coming to my senses then. A clear sobriety that echoed through my body and seemed to vibrate out into the very room.

I knew I had done something wrong. Perhaps, one of the gods who watches over this place saw me bend or break a rule that I had been resolute to follow. I’m not sure. All I know is, what followed was a terrible week. It was like I had been cursed. Looking back it must have all been a self-fulfilling prophecy, but at the time it felt like the only way to atone for my sin was to wash my mouth out with the shotgun I keep underneath the bar beside the dusty unused wine glasses.

I made it through, though. I made it through and learned my lesson, that the rules you set for yourself in the realm you created are the worst to break and bear the harshest consequences.

So, now, there is no fucking or sex of any kind behind the bar. Don’t get me wrong. I’m still a red-blooded barkeep and my perversions remain intact. I saw that couple again that had caused me to violate myself that night I broke my own rule and I slung them drink after drink. I flirted with them both and told them about the after-hours special where they could drink and touch and play and fuck all for free as long as they let me watch. I watched. I helped. However, we did it all on the other side of the bar. Where it is safe and the rules are different. We didn’t fuck behind the bar and because of that the week proceeded without darkness or fear.

The Alley Guy

Being the proprietor of a bar that is somewhat on the level I have seen a lot of aspects of this industry. I didn’t always own the bar. In fact, when I was a young scamp I worked various jobs in bars and seedy places in general. In the hierarchy of things the best position on the low rungs of a bar is to be an Alley Guy.

Let me explain:

I worked for this Moldovan fellow. He was big in the truest sense of the word. Wide and tall and imposing to say the least. In the several years I worked for him I saw him stand only a handful of times and most of those were confined to the first week I was employed by him. He was surprisingly kind in a direct sort of way. He would ask about my life and how I was doing. Once I told him of a love lost and at the end of my shift he sent me home with a 500 credit bottle of whisky.

This was all contrary to his reputation of course. When I first started working for him I was a front door frisker. What that meant was I had to pat down the patrons that made it into the private section of the bar. I must have done something the Moldovan liked because after a week he sent me out to the Alley.

The Alley is the best place to work. Firstly, when the dancers need a break they go out there to smoke. Now I am not a smoker, but I took to keeping a number of packs and a lighter in my jacket whenever I was out there. It is incredible how many times all it takes is quiet words over a cigarette.

Before I explain the best part it is important to understand the role of a man in the Alley. You see, sometimes in certain establishments, you need a place to deal with delicate situations without the prying eyes of patrons, security cams, or even the other employees. As well, an Alley holds all the accouterments that are required to deal with delicate situations. Perhaps, an individual has been caught red handed in theft that relates to the Moldovan, well that individual comes outside and sees me. I put his hands on a trash-compactor(with assistance, of course) and repeatedly bring the lid down on his hands until every bone from the forearm down has been shattered.

In another instance, a fella got brought back to the Alley and I was given the hint that, while he had done something that required punishment, he was in favour with the Moldovan and so it should have a psychological impact and less physical. So, I put my arm around him and invited him to examine some of my favourite architectural facets of the Alley. Most of these are found at the top of a fire escape ladder some 5 levels up. Once I had shown and described in detail the fascinating aspects of pre-permacrete construction I pushed him off the platform we were on. The drop is about 50 meters and depending on the day, quite fatal. Lucky for my new friend it was a Wednesday, which meant garbage had not been collected. He walked away with broken ribs and a new appreciation for architecture.

That’s what I liked about the Alley. There was always something there to help you solve your problem. However, the best part of the Alley was that you could leave.

One night, I was in the Alley and I was talking to Z over a cigarette. She was a lovely dancer from South Africa, but that’s a story for another time. As I go to light up her umpteenth cigarette there comes loud thumps from inside. Loud, like an anvil falling on the floor above you. I looked at Z and we simply nodded at one another and left.

Turns out that fella that I was trying to teach an architecture lesson to came back a year later and he shot and killed nearly everyone in the building before one of the dancers got him with a shotgun.

I always wonder if the Moldovan gave me that position because he knew it was the safest place. But, if I wonder too much about that I start to think about luck, and then the cosmic reason I was spared. Not worth thinking about. However, it allows me to pass on this information: If you can, when you sign on to work in a seedy establishment try and get the Alley job.

Goddamnit.

I just have to write something once a day. That’s the rule. That’s what I signed up for. All I do each day is polish the bar tops and wipe out the glasses after they have gone through the wash cycle. But, yesterday I became intoxicated and skipped a day of writing. Alas, I am not some Benedictine monk and cannot self-flagellate physically. So, I am punishing myself by relating what happened to you.

I love baths. I have a special bathtub made just for the moon. I have baths almost thrice weekly. I sit and drink some whisky and think. Over time these baths have become more complicated with the addition of oils, scrubs, bombs, and soaps. I make sure to have the best bath products ready for when I want to just get down and enjoy a nice hot bath.

However, a unintended side effect of these bath times is intoxication. You see, I have a small mini-bar setup right beside the tub. Last night, I was performing my ablutions and the whisky just tasted better for some reason. I took more and more drinks until I found that my heart was full.

As I tried to get out of the bathtub I realized that I had become intoxicated. I’ve always had a little bit of a superstition when it comes to alcohol. If you find yourself accidentally drunk it probably has a cosmic purpose and so you should continue drinking. Indeed, I got back into the tub and poured another bath and another drink.

No real good came of it. The cosmic purpose escaped me. Instead, I lingered on thoughts of loves past and slowly chipped away at the brain cells that contain those memories.

I must apologize for my actions; and I do.

The Bar Prophet

A silly story I once heard back on Earth…

“Let’s talk it out,” he says.

I look at the man. He has dark features and the neon light from outside the bar on the cobalt street give him a sinister look that is oddly inviting.

“Okay, shoot.”

“Well, you can’t have the best of both worlds,” he takes a drag of his cigarillo. “You can’t go for the prettiest girl in the bar like you did back there and open up with a real intelligent line.”

I shuffle uncomfortably. I’m not used to straight talk.

Giving the cigarillo a practiced flick he continues, “you need to pick those ones apart, you see. She knows she’s hot, you know? I’m not saying you walk up and start acting like an asshole. You’re a smart guy you’ve got to use that to your advantage.”

I pull out a small gold flask unscrew the cap and take a swig of rye that brings a satisfactory burn. I was already drunk. I didn’t really need it, but the action made me feel good in the boyish way indulgence usually does. The bar prophet gave me a slight nod and I offered him the flask. He shook his head. I return the flask to my back pocket. “So, I can’t be an asshole and I’ve got to be smart, but I can’t come off as intelligent; what’s my play here, man?”

“You can be intelligent; it’s just how you do it. You can be an asshole, but you have to be the right kind of asshole.” He turns his head and looks in through the window of the bar. She’s in there. The girl we are talking about smiling and leaning against the bar her right hand propped up with a wine glass held close to her lips. She’s wearing a tight black singlet with an open back that tucks into even tighter jeans. Her blonde hair is platinum and through the window seems to create a halo. She’s the angel of the night and I wasted a first impression with her fifteen minutes earlier.

I had left the bar to get some air and in the hopes that she might follow me out for whatever reason. Instead, I had run into the sinister man lighting up his flagrant cigarillo. I wasn’t a smoker, but in the moment, I really felt like I needed one. I pictured her looking through the window seeing me smoking a cigarette and maybe she would reconsider what type of person I was.

“You’re staring.”

I was. Ripping my attention away I looked up the street at others who were standing outside bars. This street had several. A sports bar, a tavern, a pub, and the one my friends and I had decided to hit. It’s a ‘lounge’. Which in this case just means that there are no TV’s on the wall and the beer is local and expensive. My friends were in a corner huddled around a pitcher. Grumbling about the prices and checking their phones for updates on the game. I had suggested we go here and meet ‘a different breed of woman’ than we were used to. Most of us are university graduates and still living with our parents.

The Bar Prophet followed my gaze and took deep pulls. “So, what makes you an authority? What are your credentials?” I meant it in jest, but it came off a little too sharp.

He shrugged. His demeanour was passive, but there was an underlying dangerousness to this man. He had the air of a man who could say what he wanted because he was prepared at all times to deal with the consequences. From the moment we interacted I felt that respect was a better plan than standoffishness. I tried to pull myself out of my drunkenness to better engage.

“So far, you’ve been pretty spot on, man. I didn’t even see you in there and you’ve summed up my encounter, so what next?” I pull the flask out and take a smaller sip. This time the bar prophet takes some as well. A good sign.

He clears his throat. I smile knowing he wasn’t expecting the rye. “You have to take the love away.”

I look at him quizzically.

“You are already in love with this girl, right? Hundreds of men have been in love with her at scores of other bars. She’s used to men falling in love with her.” He drops his cigarillo and steps on it; the plastic mouth piece snapping.

“Okay, do you want me to ignore her, or treat her like shit, or what?”

“I mean that’s one way, but I don’t really think that’s the right way for you. I’d do it that way; that’s usually the way I do it I mean.” He crosses his arms and leans back against the ‘lounge’.

I paused and replayed his words in my head trying to find the hidden meaning. Take the love away. How could you take away the love when this girl is an Angel. If I get rebuffed what about the next time? I shake my head and chuckle. What next time?

“What?”

“Just thinking about what you said and I think it is impossible to take the love away with a girl like that. She knows how she needs to be treated. She won’t settle for anything less.”

“No that’s the thing. Jesus Christ! You’re a smart kid. I heard your conversation with her. It was funny, but that is exactly what she was expecting. You need to take the love away.” He turned again to look at her. For a brief moment, I could see her look our way. A glimmer of sweet sickly hope in my stomach. She is keeping track of where I am I think to myself.

The Bar Prophet turns back to me, “it was a good move you coming out here for a break. That’s your smarts coming through for you again.”

I blush. It feels too good receiving a compliment from him. I harden myself and respond truthfully, “I was hoping she would follow me out, like, maybe I made an impression on her somehow.”

“Okay, so, maybe not a consciously smart move then.”

“Hey, do you have a cigarette by any chance?”

“Sure,” he pulls out a pack and tosses a cigarette at me and lights his own then mine.

I take a drag. I’m not used to smoking and I can feel the tickle in my throat. I give a little cough, but do an okay job of holding back a hacking fit. It his turn to smile at me.

“Take the love away,” he murmurs.

“You still haven’t been clear on how I do that.”

He pulls deeply on his cigarette and examines me. I feel small under his gaze and do my best not to fidget. I’m taller and look stronger than the Bar Prophet, but that underlying dangerousness lingers. His examination finishes, but he does not speak.

We stand in silence listening to the night. The smoke feels more comfortable in my lungs now and I experiment with bigger puffs. He leans over and spits on the sewer grate. A group exits the bar. A couple guys with a group of decent looking girls. I consider that it may have been better to hedge my bets on one of them.

“If you hit the Burger Shack down the road right now you’d be in a good position to pick up a girl on her way home for the evening.” I looked at the Bar Prophet. He gazed calmly back and nodded in the direction of the gaggle that had just left. I quickly dispelled the idea of clairvoyance.

“One way or another I’m going to talk to her again. At this point I’ve got nothing to lose.”

He points at me with his cigarette, “Exactly! You’ve got nothing to lose. You’ve always got to fight like you’re surrounded. But, you’re not going to. You’ve got to go in there and force yourself not to care whether you see this girl again or not. Right now, you see her as something she’s not and you’re going to go in there and reaffirm that for her.”

I feel a flash of anger. “How can I ignore the fact that she’s a Goddess?” I say it a little too loudly.

The Bar Prophet laughs. It’s a slow and eviscerating laugh. Hardly escaping his mouth, but it cuts deep. I can tell I’ve tickled him. “Go tell her that,” he says. “She’s heard it all before.”

Frustration peaks. “Okay. Fine. I’m an idiot. Tell me what to say. Explain it to me because I’m probably not going to win at this anyway.”

He sighs and leans forward, “okay, kid. You got to take the love away. What I mean by that is you need to make things unpredictable. If you go in there and walk up, tell her she is a Goddess she will be gracious, but ultimately uninterested. Why not try it from a different angle?”

“Okay, so…”

“Visualize what you want and work backwards from there. Be clinical and interesting at the same time. Be mysterious, but don’t be an asshole it doesn’t suit you.”

I drop what’s left of my cigarette. “Alright, well I guess I’m going to go take a swing at it.”

“One more thing,” he says. “Order something other than beer and tell the bartender you’re friend outside will pick up the tab.”

Another surprise. “You sure, dude?”

“Jesus Christ… don’t call me dude. Don’t make me regret picking up your drink.”

“Okay, thanks. I’m James by the way.”

“Rick. Get in there.”

I turn and open the door to the ‘lounge’. The air is hot and moist from all the body heat. I immediately feel the sweat on my back. I head towards the angel and pick a spot next to her to order my drink. I make eye contact with the bartender and he comes my way. “Two fingers of crown with an ice cube, please. My friend outside will pick up the drink.” The bartender looks over my shoulder and nods.

“American rye is better.” The Angel speaks just loud enough for me to catch it. I turn quickly. I look her in the eyes and hold back the urge to say the first thing on my mind.

The bartender comes to my rescue delivering my drink. Quickly, I take a sip. I wasn’t expecting her to speak to me first. The cooling rye sparked my brain and I revaluated the situation. “I like Canadian Rye at the end of the night because it reminds me that sometimes faking it ‘till you make it is a worthwhile achievement.” Shaky at best, but I will have to run with it.

A small laugh. A small victory. “Oh yeah? What makes you say that?” She takes a sip of her own glass.

“Well, Canadian rye isn’t actually made with rye it’s just the name on the bottle. So, it isn’t what the label says it is, but goddamn, is it smooth.” I make a mock salute with my glass and take a mouthful.

She giggles again. I fight not to smile like an idiot.

Take the love away. “It reminds me a bit of you, actually,” I hear myself saying.

Her smile turns to a slight frown. “How do you mean?”

“I just mean that I’m sure you’ve been given a lot of labels or been expected to be a certain way, but something tells me that you’re quite different. You’re probably a weirdo”

She looks at me suspiciously. I wonder how good I’m playing off looking calm. I’m trying to look as relaxed as possible and to stop my damned leg from shaking. In what feels like an eternity she responds, “so, what if I am a weirdo?” Her glass is on the bar now. It feels like I have her full attention for the first time.

“I would say that I regret approaching you like a normal person. I’d much rather see the real you.”

“Oh, would you?” A glimmer of a smile. “What made you have this profound change of heart?”

I lean in closer. “A friend gave me some perspective. He told me to visualize and work backwards and in my mind, I decided that you’re not necessarily what’s written on the label.”

Her smile grows wider. Hope that was once a small sliver of light is now becomes a beacon in my chest. I’m saying the right words. “I’m James by the way. I never mentioned it before.”

“Briar.” She holds out her small pale hand and we exchange a loose handshake our eyes locked. “I’ve never seen you in here before,” she says.

Why build a bar on the Moon?

Originally, the bar was supposed to be on the Sun; but if I followed through with that I could only be open at night. I feel as though the patrons I cater to require their libations day or night and so I settled on the moon.

The Moon is a tough place to set up shop. What with their dry counties. However, I know honest people just need a drink and sometimes they just need a drink to hold onto for dear life. A beverage to see you through the small, but particularly violent storm that is day-to-day existence. I hear you, friend. Which is why I opened this speakeasy. As long as you keep it to yourself and away from any of those Lunar Magistrates; I think we will get along just fine.

The Moon has changed in the short amount of time I have been here. Not as shiny and new as it used to be. Each crater a little less deep, each dust pile a little less charming. But, I don’t let the diminished luminosity of the Moon get me down. I serve folk their drinks and sometimes I sit and I talk with them about their troubles.

This one fellow came in the other day. Real business type. Ordered with authority and wore a suit like plate armor. He was busy trying to heat up his glass of whisky with his eyes and I focused on cleaning glasses myself. He quietly ordered another neat whisky before upending his own glass and downing the whole thing in one go. You see a fella down a drink like that and it just picks at your brain why he did it. I’m not one to let questions like that stew, so I ask him about it as I bring him another drink. I almost wish I hadn’t.

Business hasn’t changed much in the last century. Everyone has to make a dollar, sure; but some search for ways to get it faster and harder. It didn’t take much, just a little suggestion and he told me everything I had already suspected. He told me about Earth and another outbreak. He told me about the cure and just how much it cost to make it and just how much it cost to buy it. He told me how difficult it was to live with what he did and how there were drugs to suppress those feelings. He told me all this and then downed his drink, left money on the bar top, and put on his hat all in one smooth motion.

I tried a moral suppression pill once when I was just some kid. Let me tell you; there is a reason I work a job with booze close at hand.

After all that I didn’t hate the man. In fact, he is one of the reasons I opened a speakeasy on the Moon. Everyone needs a place to drink. Some folks drink slow and easy and others, like the businessman, drink quickly and with purpose. Him, like I, won’t ever forget why were drinking though.

At some point in your life you’ll need a drink. If you’re on the Moon, come have a drink at my place. It’s cheap, I sweep up the dust, and there is no judgement on my side of the bar.