#1 “Mr. Words, The King of Capitalism” by Bill Goodman

He cracks the head of another warming Steel Reserve. For once it doesn’t get drowned out by the low frequency rumble of nation states of conversations having a hot war of competing decibels. In fact there’s an echo even. When the hiss and crack bounce off of brick and concrete of a parking structure, it sounds like the warning signs that some 80s slasher is coming around the corner, machete at the ready. He tilts his head back to try to give the alcohol a path of least resistance to get into his body and hopefully bypass his taste receptors entirely, presenting his throat to the world and God themselves.


And no machete.


And no release.



At the very least it’d be some god damn physical contact. He thinks to himself. A taste akin to if beer was left out in the sun for two days still found a way to dip it’s hooks into his tongue. A Dollar Tree beer for a Dollar Tree high for a Dollar Tree life. The lights are still on outside of the parking garage and everyone is home. Humanity has entered a hibernation state. Life too exhausting, people too much. Hell is other people, got that right, and they might just send you there too.


Mr. Words crushed the can and threw it into a plastic bag for a high end department store. It’s not blouses or stockings yet, but with a few more empty cans it could be a few more full cans. Diminishing returns. He thought about the conversion rate as he entered back into the double doors of Maxon Wallace Mall. That same high end department store was the very first thing you ran into. You park your car, get the kids out, and immediately send your money back to where it truly belongs. That’s why Mr. Words didn’t have money. Just too above the whole process of it all.


And look at where that got him now. A seat in the throne as the king of capitalism. Racks of pressed dress shirts, sunglass displays, and rest in piece blank shirts all amounted to the same general net worth in this dead mall, absolutely nothing. Mr. Words kept sliding his feet across the floor, feeling the slight kiss of the ground through the waning soles of his shoes and his stomach rumbled, the sound falling against the tile below like a watermelon softened by the humid summer, spilling out of a dumpster. The watermelon would pain the ground below in a dull pink. Hunger isn’t real, it can’t be seen, but the food sure can. He remembered not being able to tell the seeds from the pebbles of the asphalt.


There were a set of mannequins lining a window. Striped shirts abound and no face on the lot of them. The face was instead stitched by little hands onto their shirts, shorts, and shoes. By god the shoes. Mr. Words tried lifting the gate of the Footlocker, but could not gain an inch. Street life does not breed strength of muscle or will. And so Mr. Words walked away. Street life, however, did breed strength of mind, at least in the realm of survival.


It’s 2016 and celebrities are dying. It’s 2016 and celebrities are getting older and closer to the brink and reminding all their audience that they too will die. The TVs in the electronic store windows are eye level, so you can’t really blame them for being distracted. The colours and memorandums are grief entertainment, a joint venture of all your favourite production companies. Like many productions, it’s roots are in the theatre and here Mr. Words is a star. Right below the display of televisions broadcasting best wishes for the families, Mr. Words is dying for free, like a chump. The nerve, the audacity, taking dollars out of paid professional dyers mouths.


And from what? A simple infection. The best workers do wonders with the smallest of tools.


“It’s a shame,” Bodie said who had also found a home underneath the gentle light of the TV display, albeit a fair distance from Mr. Words. “There’s a guy, Rodney that sells me stuff.”


“Uppers ain’t gonna get rid of my cough. Just gonna pump it-”

“Would you let me finish a god damn sentence for once. You ain’t got a whole lot of time and you wanna use it interrupting? If it ain’t you it's that Entertainment Tonight bitch.” There was a silence. For once in this world at the same time, Mr. Words and The Entertainment Tonight Bitch both shut up at the same time. “Rodney sells me stuff. Yeah uppers, but also medication. Real medication. Might be able to see him.”

“Oh yeah, I’ll just hop in my car and drive to where ever and see doctor basement murder.”

“Jesus, Mr.” Bodie said lighting up the millimeter of cigarette that someone had left behind. “At least act like you’ve sucked a dick before, brother.”

So that’s exactly what Mr. Words did. He got an address for a house that was not upscale by any means, but tucked neatly away enough that no one would notice someone during vagrant visiting hours. Bodie had given him some pointers on dick sucking technique and suggested removing some teeth, although Mr. Words chose to keep the ones he had left. At this point it was either suck a dick and maybe live or die and suck Death’s dick. And Death may come, but it never cums.

But Alister Broad. In a surprising amount of time, in the driverseat of a jacked up F150 with a family of sticker people stuck to the rear window. Thank god the windows were tinted, Lil Stick Jr didn’t need to see what was happening in here. Mr. Words thought that the work he put in should’ve gotten him a first class ticket to Amsterdam, but alas, he ended up at Rodney’s house instead. The whole transaction with Rodney was cordial, if not a little cold. Mr. Words could see degrees framed on walls, but noted that the lettering wasn’t raised and although he never graduated magna cum anything, he was pretty sure they didn’t use white computer paper to print $50,000 degrees.


Rodney asked what his symptoms were and gave him some pills. He then asked for some money as people usually do, but Mr. Words had grossly underestimated the cost of mystery pills in this economy. So they haggled. And Mr. Words found himself wishing he had removed those teeth to make this easier.


A week later, Mr. Words felt no better. Bodie had sense left after an outburst a fevered Mr. Words had at Entertainment Tonight Bitch, noting that it wasn’t safe for him anymore. In a last ditch effort, Mr. Words decided to make another visit.


Another dick and a handful of miles down and he was back at Our Lady Homeless knocking on the door, waiting for Rodney to come out again, but no one came to the door. With shaking hands and atrophied muscles, it took more than a few shots at a back window to jimmy the lock and do a courtesy check in. Inside, Rodney was dead.


Outside, in some suburban home with a stick figure family, Alister Broad was dead. In a few days the man who preferred not to give a name and just shut up and drive, would also be dead.

Taken aback and tired of shaking, of aching, of living seven eighths to death, Mr. Words took every pill he could find. Drank every syrup in a cabinet. He laid on Rodney’s memory foam mattress and waited. And waited. And waited. Days passed. Appetites returned. The muscles didn’t ache from walking anymore.


Mr. Words is leaving Footlocker. Bulky white sneakers with a swoop and long laces protect his feet from the shattered glass underneath. He’s making his way to a pretzel shop to raid the freezer for liquid cheese to drink with a slight hint of solid salted pretzel underneath. Here Mr. Words has become the king of the mall, having all the shoes, pretzels, and gaudy jewelry he could want. Days pass and he’s worked his way to the kiosk that just sells french fries. His fraying pants are held up by a belt made of strung together golden necklaces, with diamonds hanging like combat trophies of his enemies heads. He puts ketchup into an antique bowl he found at a house goods store. Listed price $60, now, just worth the sauce that it holds.


Outside of the glass doors, the sun is setting. He walks up to it, lighting his way with an iPhone he never knew he needed until he could have it. Outside the streets are still quiet. The lights are still on. Entertainment Tonight is playing on a display TV on a shop across the street. Even through panes of glass and plenty of feet between, he can make out the voice of Entertainment Tonight Bitch. She’s saying the death toll is rising.