That smell…I wonder what the hell it is? *Someone begins knocking on the door to apartment 109 frequently, as though they're in a hurry to leave*
No matter how clean I keep this shitty one bedroom apartment, that rotten meat stench still lingers. I think there’s…something here…in the walls maybe, but I never checked.
How long has it been? Has it been four months since I assembled all my Ikea modern-deco furniture and moved into this garbage-hole?
I woke up around 7 pm today, the sun wasn’t that bad…it was no more than a few lines of russet orange that had leaked through the vertical blinds of my “living room”, giving the cracked plaster on my ceiling an appearance of pulsating blood veins that had branched from the air ducts and bleed shadows down the gray drywall.
I scratched the stubble on my face and reached blindly into a drawer of unlabeled pill bottles full of stimulants, downers, narcotics and “medicinal marijuana”, until the tips of my fingers brushed against the eight ball of devil’s dandruff that I needed to feel alive. I ripped open the plastic lunch bag, made three bumps of cocaine on the glass surface of my dresser, rolled an old grocery receipt into a straw and inhaled all of them in under ten seconds.
And I didn’t even flinch.
Now it was time to greet what was left of my day, a day that would involve three hours of staring at a dim computer monitor to design an animated menu of a girl lifting her skirt, links to various smut related affiliates spread across her lacey underwear. It was another one of those sleazy-teenage-porn sites that had hired me to make them look more professional than a company that taped erotic material in cheap hotels on the outskirts of the city, promising the 16 year old girls starring in their films “lucrative acting careers” and 10,000 Yen apiece.
To put it brusquely, I wasn’t proud of designing that website. Even more, I wasn’t proud of where I lived, in this urine soaked cesspool, the only reasoning behind me staying here, the solitude…
And that someone like me didn’t deserve better.
There’s an old drag queen living next door in apartment 108. I’m not condemning him for his life choice of wearing prom dresses and false eyelashes….but if the man wanted to be convincing, he would at least shave the five inch-handlebar-mustache that forms two symmetrical curly Q’s on each side of his face.
Aside from him being a flamboyantly, and somewhat eccentrically dressed transvestite, he’s also the undisclosed boyfriend of my Landlord.
Raptophilia is an interesting disorder, where the person suffering from it must be “raped” forcefully with random articles in order to climax. Sometimes the objects used to sodomize the Raptophilic are run-of-the-mill household items….cucumbers, umbrella handles, remote controls and cellular phones. My Landlord, Fusao Kojima, has a severe case of this.
I no longer need to set an alarm for 2:30 in the morning.
Fusao slithers out of his marriage bed, fails to wake his wife of 25 years, and always finds himself at the cross dresser’s apartment, eager to have arbitrary objects thrusted into his rectum. The shouting as they do this continues for hours, and it ricochets through the 40 foot perimeter of my living room.
I’ll stop my bitching and start working on this website, or else I won’t get that miniscule paycheck for pasting advertisement slogans on the ass of a 14 year old girl. It’d be easier if they’d send me guidelines for what they wanted, which is what they said they would do…but then again, the “company” that requested my services isn’t known for it’s reliability.
Whoever that is, must be suffering from Parkinson’s Disease…I can’t think of a better explanation for knocking on my door 150 times a nanosecond unless they have rigorous and involuntary muscle spasms.
*He rises from his computer chair and sheepishly drags his feet to the door, unhinging the chain locks without looking through the eye hole*
And if that isn’t the case, they will have them when I chop them in the neck for being such a pain in the ass.