matt colekay. [d9a.cb.fin]

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It was just something my mother used to say. Or what I imagine she would say if she had ever existed in the first place. It helps me to keep my knees from shaking too much as I hand out propaganda pamphlets with apparently too big a smile and not enough teeth. (But you punched them out last week.) I was just trying to make some money.

They fell in the gutter, my teeth, I mean; my father thought that was good for a whistling, wheezing, toothless laugh.

("Look at us. A matching set.")

I can't really figure out why, but the world seems to love kicking me around. Sneers and jeers and jabs and for what? (What did I do to deserve this?) When I was young I'd simply ask. I learned quickly that it made them laugh more—the kicks ended quicker when they were out of breath. It was a smart tactic if you could stand the humiliation. (And I can.) I used to think, maybe one day, the universe would throw me a fucking bone.

I hear people snickering. (Let them. It only proves they are looking at me.) And maybe they should be paying attention. (As they should be.) Because I was about to give the world what they all fucking wanted.