tearing his eyes away from the thing that comforts him so, he remembers why he zoned out in the first place–this is all weird. whiskey has never made him hallucinate. then again, maybe his father spiked it so he’d stop getting into his precious liquor cabinet. either way, what aleksy sees before him is something the alcohol won’t let him fully comprehend.

                               ❝ that’s because you’re– ❞ he pauses to let out a chuckle, ❝ that’s a 70″ flat screen television your ass is parked on. ❞

                                                squinting slightly, he notices it’s more like he’s floating. how is that even possible? maybe he’s a magician. that would explain how he got here without being let in (because the maid never lets strange people in–under his father’s strict orders, of course).

                              ❝ –so, are you gonna go all criss angel on me? because that guy’s a douche bag, and to be honest, i prefer card tricks. ❞

                he looks down at the chilled glass of whiskey cradled in one hand, watches beads of condensation drip down the sides. it’s pretty cool how each drop creates its own path and that the lines behind them disappear–why can’t people be like that? why do they choose to follow the paths of others instead of making their own? one of the little tears looks like his father’s face for a moment–god, he’s such a loser. partying with his so-called friends from wall street, hooking up with random women every fucking night (who are all young enough to be his daughters), treating his own son more like an employee rather than a human being that he created. why can’t his father be a drop of condensation?

                                                aleksy’s hearing tugs at the sound of another voice–he didn’t realize they were still talking.

                                ❝ —–wait, what? ❞

         ‘ I WILL NOT REPEAT MYSELF TO THE LIKES OF YOU, ’ he dictates, eyebrows          furrowed and stern, voice cold and slick, infused with little to no regret ---- over           anything, really. however, curiosity seems to get the better of his being. still           rocking back and forth on a nearby table? DESK? funny looking chair, he opens           his mouth to speak again, hoping to the creator this one was listening this time,          otherwise he’d have to do something regrettable. not to them, to himself.           he can’t stand repeating. 

  ‘  yeah, that’s, uh …   ’          huh. he’d barely been listening, having been way    more focused on patting the dirt off of his jacket – genuine leather at a five-finger    discount, gotta keep up with it – to really make out what the dude’s been mouthing.    i mean, he’s pretty sure he heard it right, but for the sake of how god damn twisted    it came out, he’s hoping it’s just a nice concussion blossoming. 

    ‘  … unfortunate.  ’  now he’s all ears; and all eyes, too, a poor choice to make at     first glance of the unusual  UNNATURAL  what the FUCK?  shift of color. a deer     in the headlights,  he’s got that familiar curling of danger knotting in his gut,  just     enough to even warrant a few uneasy steps back,  hands  ( bruised as they are )     balling into his pockets. ‘  yeah, i’m, mmmm. so good. i mean, i’m fine. i should     be,  y’know, gettin’ back to … not here,  though. things-to-see-people-to-do.  ’

   ‘ IT IS UNFORTUNATE, IS IT NOT? ’ he murmurs, mostly to himself,     very only vaguely aware of the other’s ADAMANCY towards fleeing.      however, once pamos is seen, there is no fleeing. not so easily, at      least. this unfortunate soul was stuck with pamos, at least for a little bit.

     ‘  ALWAYS.            —- gimmie a minute.  ’

  and, after a series of nine consecutive fucks and shits   ( and even a little fuckfuckfuck at the end ), he manages   to steady himself on two dusty-yet-mostly-unscathed   limbs. a loud cheer of satisfaction follows, along with   the single hearty clap of his hands.

       ‘   a’ight, well, legs ain’t broken !           so that’s … new.      wha’ ‘bout           you, man? you good?   ’

       he does not rise, he instead looks up at the other        with hungry, fire-orange eyes. it would be easier if        the legs were broken. it seems, however, that this         one was a bit more ... sturdy than originally antici-        pated. 

              ‘ MY BODY IS A METAPHYSICAL ILLUSION. ’ 

       he states, words articulate and factual, as if there         were no more precise statement uttered. he rises,        motions deliberate, cautious, and eerily graceful.

 he is the death of hope.