Pole Pop

I’m eating Burger King in my car when I start to think the Polish idol I saw on Eurovision is some sort of shaman. I pull out my phone to place a bet she’s going to win. The combo meal was $12.87 so there is $97.81 in my bank account. I put it all into In Memory of Gary Coleman Coin and send the slip off to Gibraltar. Then I pop out my phone and stick it in between the dash and the windshield and start recording a review of my hamburger. It’s a promotional Whopper, with a green bun and fried shallots, related to some movie coming out. I tell my followers the meat is pretty tender and the bun is soft. I don’t have much to say but I have to say something. I rate it four stars and tell them about the Polish idol and how it’s easy money. She’s a shaman, like Hitler, I say. 

You can bet on anything is what I’m telling my fans when I’m popping out of the parking lot. Some fella does a shimmy toward my dually and I do a little wiggle with my wheel like Imma hit him. There’s something about his ruffled face that makes me think bismuth will soon surpass the price of silver. I resolve to put some of my winnings into some but I keep this from my viewers—I keep this for myself—but I’m letting everyone know my tattoo is infected and I’m showing the thing off when I’m pulling into a parking spot at my greige ass apartment. There’s this abandoned car next to me, been there for months, broken windows, and I toss my trash in it. What else serves the people as well as this, I hoot to my audience. Someone gifts me a Finger Heart. I’m doing a Finger Gun backatem. 

I take a moment of calm to ask myself how I can better serve the people. This is what I’m wondering when I pour into my apartment and split a can open. For now I wanna fire off some slurs at some people instead. I shoot a handful then add three photos to my Facebook album REDEMPTION. It’s kinky memes about how much I want to fuck. I’m taggin Minou but she won’t see it. She’s off Facebook. Besides Eurovision is almost on so I’m reminding everyone to place their bets and bring blindfolds lest they become possessed. There will be no watching, I tellem. There will be no discourse, I inaugurate it to them. We will be immune to whatever shamanic dalliances in store. We will be the Leftouts of the Total War and just sit deprived until we turn a profit.

And now I’m blotto and pixelated, picking at my tattoo and grabbing at my phone, and I’m recording a review of the Bitch Tattooist Marnie who fucked me all up. I’m tellinger she and Minou should meet and that I ship and stan them and I’m tellinger how sexy you both are and how much I hate you both and how hot and horny and hateful it all is that I’m abouta pop off when I decide instead to whip open Hinge to invite over some last minute honeys. I’m going nutso at all these dogs and showing everyone when my neighbor walks by to shut me up so I whop him and tellem the shaman made me do it and then I’m showing my fans him bloodied and a girly with the Sunday Scaries and I’m making jalapeno poppers. 

They’re burning but I’m flicking on the frigging program and my eyes are popping at the Boob Tube and my dick is pointing and popping at all the pixels together in an intimate ass dance I’ve only ever seen on something like Eurovision. Then the poppers start billowing and I see some piggies arriving before I lose my vision to the smoke and my screen smudges to nothing and I’m shutting my door. They’re banging and I put on my blindfold to protect my eyes and I feel my phone vibrate and I’m sure it’s Marnie and I’m sure it’s Minou and I’m sure they’re here breaking down my door. They’re here to watch Eurovision. They’re here to love me. But I’m starting to feel scorched and like I’m flaring up when I hear the shaman’s beat. It’s a beat with Hitler in its heart. And I’m certain I’m being hailed and I’m being flung and I’m serving the people. It was something I was doing.