D2 ☺ { Cranky } ☹ WIP

"Thank you so much for agreeing to do this telephone interview with me.... um..."

"You can call me Cranky, I don't mind."

"Ah, sorry. Thank you, Mr. Cranky."

"Of course."

"So, if I can just jump right into the questions now... Why 'Cranky', of all things for your pseudonym?"

"I didn't choose it. A newspaper, back from when I tagged up this processing plant up north a few years back--"

"Four years ago. The Indigo Jeweler's Processing Plant."

"You've done your research."

"I'm a big fan, Mr. Cranky."

"Well then, you should know my contribution to the plant wasn't so well-received."

"....you spray painted a donkey defecating on the president."

"....so you're a selective fan, then?"

"No, Mr. Cranky, I'm so sorry..."

"It's quite alright. If everyone approved of what I did this interview could've been face-to-face, and where's the fun in that? But anyway, back to the subject at hand.
You might remember the piece caused a little bit of a stir back then."

"There was a $500,000 bounty out for your head."

"....really? I didn't know that. Do you know if that offer's still on the table? I could use some extra cash..."

"Mr. Cranky, please."

"Right, sorry. So one particularly funny newspaper covered my portrait. The headline wasn't anything too great, 'LOCAL DELINQUENT HORSES AROUND INDIGO PROCESSING PLANT'. Never was I so insulted. It was clearly a donkey, right?"

"Mhmm--"

"Yeah, I know! And they called it a damn horse, can you believe that? Plus, it was a donkey SHITTING ON THE PRESIDENT. Imagine all the puns they could've used for that headline. 'POLITICS GET DIRTY IN DISTRICT TWO'. 'PRESIDENT UNDER DEEP SHIT'. 'SHIT HAPPENS'. I gave them a goldmine and they gave me nothing but disappointment and heartache, I swear...
...but yeah. I read the article, regardless. Pretty expected content. Disapproving finger wagging stuff. All hail the Capitol. Remember kids: graffiti leads to smoking crack and satanic worship. But then the last line of that article really stuck with me, y'know? Resonated. That's a 50-cent word. It resonated with me. All throughout the day. Like an asshole ghost reminding me I murdered him at every minute of the hour. Couldn't get it out of my head, that line. Like a prose phantom."

"What did the line say?"

"'The artist, when found, will face unspeakable consequences for the offense. The artist in question will likely face a lifetime of imprisonment, if not death, all because he was a little cranky.' Isn't that hilarious?"

"....I'm afraid I don't see the humor there."

"Cranky. They called me fucking, 'Cranky'. Like I poured out my cereal into the bowl before realizing I was out of milk. Like sleeping was too cold without a blanket but too stuffy with a blanket and I stayed up all night trying to figure out a balance. Fucking 'cranky'. Because that's what you get fucking cranky about, okay? You get cranky when the drive-through guy gave you one packet of ketchup for 30 nuggets. You don't get 'cranky' because the spread of wealth in Panem is completely hideous. Not because we televise the execution of our own children year after year after year. Okay? I'm not 'cranky'. I'm mad. I'm fucking livid. I'm pissed off and angry an--"

"Mr. Cranky, how old are you?"

"....
....
....you know I can't say."

"Oh, but I know your fans would appreciate you telling."

"I don't think they would."

"Well, I know they would. I'm a fan, and I'm really dying to know. We want to know more about you, Mr. Cranky. We want to feel closer to you."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Mr. Cranky, please."

"You're not a fan. You're a puppet. You're a shepherded sheep who wandered a bit off away from the flock but you're a sheep just the same. And you're so far gone you have no idea that you're a sheep. That your ideas aren't your own. That the words you speak have already been recited a thousand times over. That you aren't living for yourself. You aren't. You're living for the sake of living and that's not living at all. You're dying slowly. You're dying slowly with grace, but what's the point of grace at all if you're dying?"

"Mr. Cranky..."

"Real 'fans' aren't fans of myself. They aren't fond of who I might be or my name or even what I create. The few people who support me support my cause. I could be 'Cranky' or 'Sneezy' or 'Sleepy' or 'Bashful' and they wouldn't give a damn. They just want to make sure the message keeps going. The pillar of light at the top of the tower keeps stabbing through the storm, letting everyone know that we're looking for an end to the hell that we're living in. We're looking for a change. The change. A catalyst to devour everything that's been written as right in the textbooks. Children are dying, families are starving while the rich shit in diamond-studded toilet seats and you never asked me once why I do what I do."

"....Mr. Cranky, why d--"

"This interview was over a long time ago."

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Cranky, if I offended you."

"....."

"Mr. Cranky?"

"...."

"Mr. Cranky?"