#001: uooןןɐq ʞɔɐןq

[David Sanchez]

uooןןɐq ʞɔɐןq



I've stood in a thousand street scenes.
Just around the corner from you.
On the edge of a dream that you have.
Has anybody ever told you, it's not coming true?

Alison Mosshart, The Kills.

“Light as a feather or heavier than hell?”

The globe spins in front of me on it’s mechanism; all the blues and greens whirring together as it revolves.

“The world, or rather the weight of it-- is something I’ve always found to be immeasurable. It’s a very circumstantial thing, see. When you’re a nobody; working in fuckin’ Subway or some shit; the world weighs virtually nothing. Nobody expects anything from you. Nobody criticizes every wrong decision you make. You never have to apply yourself to anything or attach yourself to anybody if you don’t want to-- it’s a beautiful life really, and I often miss it dearly. But too many mistakes have already been made. Too many errors, even those by my own hand: Frank, Joey, Sebastian, Bonnie Blue. For the love of God, I practically put Vinnie Jones in the finals of the Trilogy Cup. But see, unlike anybody else; I’ve taken my lashings every time and came back more focused. I didn’t even have to nail myself to a cross and play martyr this time, thankfully. I’ve been crucified on television once, and as Frankie can probably confirm-- when it comes to cutting a Jesus Christ Pose… once is more than enough. For now, I’ll enjoy the lightened load on my shoulders, and leave the heavy lifting to... lesser minds”

Swirling the crystal glass of scotch in my hand calms my resentment for the people I’d just named and famed. All of them in their own way contributing to why I’m still here. Still waiting. Still… suffering through. My newly won championship lies on the desk beneath the globe; it’s golden faceplate shimmering as the spinning finally starts slowing down. I close my eyes and thrust my index finger blindly onto the tiny world in front of me, before opening my eyes again to find I’m smooshing my digit against Europe, particularly Spain. Or as it’s known to these townies here in America-- ‘the one that isn’t shaped like a boot.’

“Spain it is then, splendid…”

Finishing an earlier dispute I’d been having with myself out loud. I spin around in my leather office chair, pushing my feet off the desk that the Globe sat upon and propelling myself over to the window. It was impossible to decipher what all the little dots below were doing from this height; so I’d often find myself blankly gazing down upon them, playing God-above as they fritter away their meaningless, forgettable lives.

“Excuse me. Just deciding where I’ll be holidaying this week.”

Laughing and lighting a cigarette; hiding heartbreak behind eccentricity. I reach up as I inhale. Pulling on the loose hanging string that had been tied around the knot of a lone, black, helium balloon that’d been pointlessly bobbing against the ceiling in my office for almost four days now.

“Do you like my balloon?”

I tie the string around my left forearm, leaving a good bit of slack for comfort and let the lonely little balloon float there, bound to my wrist as I talk.

“Some little jobsworth prick from Marketing approached me after I’d mentioned recording this little public address. They pitched that I should probably appear to be less ‘obviously depressed’ than I so evidently am and not say much about Singh having just won the grandest prize in our business, unless I can display authentic happiness for my friend. So, hence... I bought the balloon.”

I swipe at the balloon with the hand it isn’t tied to; like a cat batting at a ball of twine.

“Congratulations Steven. For reals-- you deserve it. Maybe not as much as I did. But definitely more than the majority, and that? Well contrary to popular belief; that’s good enough for me. I’ll be right here when you fuck it up and need somebody to bail you out, though. Sitting behind a fuckin’ computer screen watching grown men call one another inept, or homosexual, or insert cultural reference here... At least until I get Seth to sign off on me throwing this piece of shit into the same forge that the Trios belts got tossed. ”

With nothing short of disdain I walk back over to the sideboard and take the Internet Championship into my hands. Holding it between my fingertips as though it were a soiled diaper I pace back across to the window and swing it open on it’s hinges. Immediately a gale blows through the gap and into the room, causing paperwork on my desk to be scattered throughout the elevated office; and the celebratory black balloon around my wrist to be wildly swept around like it were caught in a hurricane.

“Until then… I guess we’ll get to see how much this Title really means in today’s WCF. As of this evening-- the 3rd of August, 2017. I am delighted to announce that the server farms in the lower floors of the Everest Eye will be fully operational. Effectively meaning that I’ll be acting as Internet Service Provider to most of America’s Midwestern States, and soon enough-- the rest of the world. This belt though? This is worthless trash... and trash belongs outside."

I hold the golden belt out of the window at let it slip from around my fingers; falling the 8’000 feet from the top of the tower to North Avenue below; hopefully without killing anyone.

“Enjoy your free internet for now America-- I’d start preparing for a steep increase in line rental prices and a lot more murder porn online. Once again; you're welcome, Chicago."

Closing the window, I wink at the camera before taking a seat back at the computer and incorrectly hammer my password in twice before the screen finally fades.

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