Bitchboy Melodrama I

Author: a Lyr

I wrote this some time ago and it’s not fucked up, sorry, guess i decided to set the scene before writing the escalations

Once upon a time lived a boy named Leland. Although unskilled in the social niceties of life, he was stunningly beautiful and incredibly sexy. Unfortunately, his beauty did his intellect no favors. That is, until one ill fated day when, after many long preponderating hours, he made up his mind to pay a visit to the bookstore.

Unbeknownst to the boy, the bookshop was owned and operated by a coven of dusty old women who fancied themselves witches. Any human being possessing half a discerning brain cell would have flashed them a tight lipped sneer AND BROKEN EVERY WITHERED FINGER THAT DEIGNED TO HOLD A PEN at the sight of the astronomical prices that condescended to adorn the corners of those title pages. To this day, no one can explain how the shameless posturing of that gaggle of fetid hags, sulfurous cunts they were, could have scammed the people out of as many units of exchange as were finally uncovered (by Herr Mercurial in the Lnth century, who chanced upon their makeshift bunker and the hoard within while mapping an inconsistency in the sewer system’s gravitational field).

But it is a shock to none that the Lelands of this world make a practice of slavishly offering up not only their coin but also their dignity to the flimsiest facades, so readily do we see them beg to be fleeced by the meagerest holier-than-thou sophisms. One would think they make sport of it, so gayly do they flock to every intolerable poseur who likes big words.

Leland, perennial fool that he was, did not notice in that loathsome bookshop anything out of the ordinary. His simple nature would have afforded the vilest louse on Hades loincloth a presumption of innocence. But, as he soon found out, the covert agency of his psychosexual preoccupations and lingering traumas had more than a small stake in his meandering social ineptitude, which anyone possessing half a fucking brain cell would have guessed from the first, if not for their own psychosexual preoccupations with his Venusian complexion alight with the cornucopian desire to enjoy life that appears so briefly at age 22. And so the two grizzled hares manning the bookshop that day were jarringly removed from their usual whinging at the sight of him. In point of fact, their descent into total debasement was so palpably fanatical that the shop emptied of its 7 customers within 49 seconds of Leland’s arrival. I shall now describe their misplaced petitions.

In the same instant, the younger of the two leapt out of her chair, releasing an odor so mouthwateringly noxious that her sister momentarily broke from her amorous stupor to comment on the the plausible origin of the ghastly stench, being that sewer hoard, its copious piles mere feet beneath them. Undeterred, sewer girl began to mutter to herself in a croaking voice destroyed by eons of cigarettes. Her sister’s eyes closed, revealing their painted image on her lids, and collapsed, convulsing.

Leland, oblivious as ever, cheerfully whistled to himself as he perused the shop’s floor to ceiling shelves of second-rate first editions, blind to the whores of Satan at his back, as to the idiotic veneration of shit attempts at “literature” before him (not to mention the copious waste of resources on their cheap bindings (nor the insufferable prices)). He did not even bat an eye at the sewer stench that was filling the already filthy room. In all appearances, he was a casual victim of the bookstore’s contrived “aesthetic”, staring doe-eyed at the highest shelves, cooing admiringly in hushed tones. But, inside his brain, something was stirring.

He was approaching a moment of clarity.

Perhaps it was the rancid ink and decaying glue he had been inhaling for several minutes; perhaps the fine clouds of dust filling the small room; perhaps the unearthly clicking and hissing noises, which he had by now registered as an entity outside his line of sight, which were beginning to raise hairs on the back of his neck. Whatever the case, a rare flicker of electricity was making its way through his prefrontal cortex. And all at once, he realized what he had always known. In the empty devotions of the unlucky men and women that happened to glimpse his beauty and bask in the purity of his innocent heart, he could take anything he desired. Fame. Riches. Whores. Money. And then he decided. He would start by filling the empty walls of his apartment with books as a proxy for his relentless and incurable idiocy.

A cloud of dust and dirt was quickly enveloping the mess of black hair and withered bones seizing on the floor, and her sister too.

Slowly, Leland started to turn around, surveying the landscape of the darkened room. Immediately, he identified the exit point. The door.