#frotfiction

"And the winner for most handsome and best smelling film critic is... Vince Mancini!"

Vince looked around, uncertain how he'd got here but surrounded by smiles, well wishes, and jealousy. He stood as strangers clapped him on the shoulders and shook his hand. When he looked uncertain an usher gently directed him to the stage.

He strode up and approached the announcer, who he now realized was Warren Beatty. This caused him to slow down, and the lights seemed to dim. As he continued to approach, time seemed to go in slow-motion while Beatty reached below his own neck, peeling off a mask to reveal Matt Lieb in blackface.

"KEEP MAH WAIFFFFFE'S NAME OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!" Matt shouted, rearing back for a monumental slap.

Before he could, Laremy emerged from Matt's chest, leaned to the mic and whispered "the real winner was actually Raspberry Beret from that San Francisco paper. Syke!"

This went against all Vince's instincts. He hated talking to strangers, and taking to strangers about his problems was even worse. But his doctor had recommended it, and his wife had insisted, so, with immense resistance, he trod into the Bells Palsy support group.

He took a seat in the back, as far from anyone else as possible. Gradually others filed in. Eventually someone rushed in clumsily and all but ran to the front of the room. "Sorry I'm late!"

That voice...

"Vince?" Laremy asked, from the front. Vince slunk down in his chair but there was nothing for it. "Vince! Hey buddy! You got the old lop-sided grin now too, huh? Funny old world!"

Vince got up to leave, but as he did he noticed a strange-looking man in the next row or chairs. The eczema on his elbows was unmistakable. Vince leaned over, and in one movement ripped off the man's fedora and groucho glasses.

"Matt? You don't have Bells Palsy. What?"

Matt stood up and shouted "oh what, you and Laremy are the only ones who get to do cool things? I can handle things, I'm smart! Not like everybody says!"

By any account, it had been a bad day. Vince had tripped going out the door and banged his shin, missed his bus, run into a fence chasing it, then failed his history exam.

Now here he sat, on the wrong side of the 805 with two flat tires, a result of an ill-timed wheelie into some brambles.

He sat there glumly, having not quite determined his next step when a red camaro pulled up. The driver rolled his window down. He had slicked down brown hair, big aviator sunglasses, and swoll arms.

"Vincent, right? We're in Psych 101 together. I really liked your joke about Freud wanting to fuck the professor's mom. You need a ride?"

Vince gratefully accepted. When he went to grab his old bike, his benefactor raised an eyebrow and said "Eh... the paint."

"Godzilla has a long dick"

Brendan raised an eyebrow at the unexpected non-sequitur, put down his copy of Sports Illustrated and looked over where Vince was hunched over a laptop. "Say what?"

As Matt approached the Uproxx offices, he expected to feel vicarious anxiety. It had happened ever since Vince was forced out. He wished his route didn't take him past the building every day.

What he didn't expect was seeing Vince protesting outside the offices, holding a sign declaring "FUCK THESE CLOWNS! CHAD UPROXX: HORSE COCK"

Again beset by second hand anxiety, Matt would have slunk away entirely had Vince not spotted him.

"MATT!" he called, "come support the cause! You like my sign?"

Matt hesitated, obviously struggling. "What?" Vince probed.

"I... well, do you think maybe your sign... like... makes people think Chad Uproxx has a huge cock?"

Vince scoffed. "What? No. That's stupid. Only you think that."

At that moment Laremy strolled up, hot-dog in hand, and lifted his flip-up shades to read Vince's sign.

"So this Chad Uproxx has a horse cock, huh? Sounds like a guy to know!" He waved goodbye, jaunting along with his day.

"You don't like camp, Vince."

"What? That's ridiculous. I got my first handjob at camp!" Vince responded, then, more quietly added "it was a bad time."

Brendan sighed. He knew the handjob story already and was in no hurry to hear it again.

"So?" Vince stared at Matt across the café table. Matt had just finished reading the draft post and was squirming in his chair.

Vince recognized the squirm. "Dude, do you have a boner right now??"

"What! A man can't read the words 'cheeky yet impenetrable' and get a boner? Oh let's all celebrate Vince, king of not getting boners!"

Vince stared at the pigeon again, daydreaming. He heard vague shouting from outside, a common occurrence in the Tenderloin.

A phrase was being repeated, though he couldn't tell what. Curious, he opened the window.

"... eat your... right... son"

Still not quite making it out, he leaned out the window and looked around. An old man, a caricature of a 30s hobo, was standing across the street, very deliberately yelling to Vince.