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“The Kid is scraping bottom,” Manfredi said to no one in particular.

His self-conferred nickname had failed to catch on with anybody at the office, and his anus had been itching terribly for the past two business days. He hadn’t made a decent sale in months.

Growing up, he had mastered all the hot dances: the Mashed Potato, the Boney Maroni, the Mermaid. Now he didn’t know what they were doing at the discos. The Running Man? What the hell was that? He felt like he didn’t know anything anymore; what the shrinks called dissociation. No way was Manfredi going to let them pull a psych-job on him, though.

If he could only score: a horse, a sale, a piece of ass. Anything to make a man feel that maybe the whole hill of beans was worth a damn.

A cute secretary walked by.

“The Kid used to be a junkie, but now he’s straight-edge,” Manfredi called out, adjusting his tie.

No response.

The Kid was all alone.

Date Written: March 14, 2003
Author: qualcomm
Average Vote: 3.8

03/14/2003 anonymous (1):
03/14/2003 anonymous (5):
05/8/2003 qualcomm (5): fuck this one is good
05/27/2003 scoop (5): Fuck the Machine? Fuck the Machine? Fuck you Dave. Fuck You.
02/19/2004 Ewan Snow (5): Somebody dropped a turd on this one too. It's bullsit!
02/19/2004 Ewan Snow: bullshit, rather...
02/19/2004 anonymous: Mulp! You said bullsit!
07/21/2004 John Slocum (3): I disagree. It's my right.
07/21/2004 scoop: Slocum, can't you taste the barny aromas of lonliness, the tingling bouquet of desperation, savor the robust brininess of despair?
07/22/2004 John Slocum: I can taste all those things. Does that mean something?