Bo stepped out into the futuristic New York street, where large crowds of people were walking down the sidewalk, most of them Asians squinting in the bright morning light. Hovering cars flew quickly across the magnetized roads. As Bo crossed the river of Asian squinters in suits and ties, people walked into him, and were annoyed but unable to determine that it was a person they were running into. Bo had almost made it to the edge of the road when he was pushed down. People trampled him for a few minutes, stepping on his head and body and kicking him around as Bo reflected quietly on the uncaring and seemingly hateful attitude the universe seemed to have towards him. During a lull in the swarm walking past, he managed to get up, get to the edge of the road, and hold his hand high in the air to hail a cab.
Many cabs passed by, unable to recognize Bo as a human being, because he was so boring. They even picked up nearby black people before they went to him, and everyone knows how understandably racist cab drivers are. After twenty minutes of holding up his hand, his arm strong from this daily practice, a nearby Asian hailed a cab right near him, then changed its mind and walked away. Bo moved quickly and got in the back before it could move on. “To Cum Unity Bank please, sir. And step on it.” Since cars no longer had accelerators, but rather were moved along the magnetized road at prescribed speeds, the cab driver instantly disliked Bo, at least to the extent to which he could be conscious of Bo’s existence.
“Fuck you. I hate you,” the middle eastern terrorist declared in a diaper-head accent. “I’m charging you triple, you no good infidel.” The Hindu-Muslim-whatever-they’re-the-same-thing cabbie threw a black bag back to Bo. “I’d rather you wear this so that I can forget that you’re here better. I feel like I shouldn’t notice you.” Bo did as instructed, since he actually had to do this on a regular basis. He found that inside the bag, where the world was dark, he felt safe, and he forgot his many troubles and reflected not at all on the likelihood that God hated him and was trying to get him to kill himself.
Bo finally reached Cum Unity Bank and was charged $45 for a 3-mile ride. He stepped out of the cab and braced himself, then walked across the river of squinting Asians to the front door of the bank. Luckily, he made it to the other side without being trampled, a rare victory for Bo. His brief break from suffering would soon come to an end. When he got in the door, his boss Boss Banky, a fat old midget with glasses and crazy hair on the sides of his bald head (think Danny DeVito) swung his cane directly at Bo’s nutsack. The wind was knocked out of Bo and he crumpled to the ground and Boss Banky used the opportunity to piss on the back of Bo’s head. “Get up, you lazy fucking retard. I hate you, just as anyone else would if they accidentally bothered to acknowledge your existence. Shit. You are less than shit.”
Bo got up, not even bothering to dry off his pissed-on hair, and said, “Good morning, sir. I’m sorry I’m late. My robot injected too high a dose of sleeping medication into my brain.”
“What the fuck did you just say?” Boss Banky barked, pummelling Bo’s nuts with all his might, and following him to the ground to keep assaulting Bo’s sack. “I don’t give a dead donkey’s dick about what the fuck your excuses are. Get in there and count those fucking pennies before I murder you and get away with it. Scratch that, murder you and win a cash prize. Just kidding, nobody would notice you were dead. Fuck you, Bo. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you,” Boss Banky said, continuing to say “fuck you” constantly and punch Bo in the anus as he followed him to his desk.
“Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you,” Boss Banky said as Bo sat at his desk, where there was a large pile of pennies on one side and clear desk on the other Bo began sliding the pennies over to the right, one by one, as he counted inside his head. Boss Banky would not allow Bo to count out loud, or write anything down to help him keep track of the pennies he had counted. If, at the end of the day when the pennies were put into the counting machine, Bo was off by even one penny, Boss Banky would shit into his hand, then smear his feces all over Bo’s face. This happened almost every day, and Bo had accepted as part of God’s plan for him, a plan which seemed to be to make Bo suffer as much as possible before he died miserable and alone.
Posted in: Shortened Stories