“What we could do is rent a truck and collect all the bottles we can find. Once we fill up the truck, we cash in all that recyclables and take the cash to pay writers to write for ANF.” The Inner Capitalist said. “Then we will have enough material to post and we won’t have to do nothing.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I’m telling you, these writers work for peanuts. Literally, I threw a bag of fresh roasted into of a coffee patio and, just like pigeons, screen writers flocked all over the home grown protean.”
We are sat on the couch and I am sick as hell. Though, not the reason there have been no posts in a number of weeks on our favorite website. The reason there have been no post on our favorite website is the absence of him. The Inner Capitalist doesn’t want me to mention his name and I’ve grown a little sick of his self righteousness indignation.
“He got what he deserved.” The inner capitalist said. ” So what do you think of my idea?”
“I see one flaw.”
“What’s that?”
“Well Kramer and Newman proved that you need to own the truck to make a con to work.”
“Well there goes that plan.” The Inner Capitalist. “Pass the bong.”
The coffee table is a mess of empty bottles, loose tobacco, and chard clumps of cannabis. With the blackness of the dark finish, I start to see the end of the world displayed on the table top. The bottles become fallen sky scrapers in the aftermath of the year 2012. Building crumble from financial melt down. The fragments of red gold and chard black becomes shrapnel from the wars of the scavengers. The meek left to inherit the Earth. We have a dark road, a long night, ahead. A bleakness that he somehow could never fathom.
“The guy is a heel. I keep telling you, we are a lot better than that jack ass.” The Inner Capitalist said. ” So why doesn’t one of us sit up on Hollywood Blvd, with a sign that says “Will Write for Money.”, or maybe down by the Grove. We could make decent cash then pay writers to write. I’m telling you, these guys work for peanuts, like elephants. That’s why they are so good with trivia.”
“Who is going to be sitting with the sign as millions of high profile CBS employees and female tourist walk by?”
“You, of course.”
“Yeah, not going to happen.”
“See you really are no fun. At least he likes to do things. He has no sense of how to make any profit, but He has devotion. You, I look up procrastination on Wikipedia and your whole bio comes up. It’s really no wonder why your mother has been accusing you doing hard drugs since the age of 13.”
“Hey, that’s a low blow, and to be fair, most of my teachers thought I was on hard drugs. In my defense, I had heard a rumor that White Out could get you high if you sniffed it. I vocalized the rumor with a bottle of White Out in my hand and the bottle was then ripped out of my hands by the strength of authority.”
“You are one messed up dude.”
“Coming from you, my W.A.S.P.y friend, I take that as a compliment.”
That is about the time we heard a key in the door. We looked at each other and towards the hallway. Could it be? The Inner Capitalist donned a sour look that bent his features into a dark grimace. He could sense the number of his days.
“What the hell smells like gym socks and pot-roast?” His voice was familiar and angered, and as he walked into the living room I could tell there was no room for hellos. “Jumpin’ Jahosa fat, what the hell is going on here? This place is a pig sty and what is he doing out of the board room?”
“It’s a free country and I can go any where I want.” The Inner Capitalist said.
“Shut up.” He said. “What is he doing out of the boardroom?”
“You know, just came by for a visit.”
“A three week visit, where you sat around and postulated the easiest way to con money?”
“CRV is not robbery!” The Inner Capitalist said.
“Shut up.” He said. “So what have you been up to?”
“You know I have been doing some things, working on some guides, getting ready to get back to school.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Well I was working on some guides.”
“And watching too much Netflix and digital television. I knew the Digital Antenna was a bad idea. Damn our devotion to D.I.Y. Is it true you spent an entire 3 days watching nothing but LOST episodes?”
“Who did you hear that from?”
“Doesn’t matter who I heard that from and you don’t even need to answer. You lazy sod!”
I hate it when he uses the fake British accent
“Hey big guy, we did lay the ground work for some big ideas that could pay off big time.” said the Inner Capitalist.
The Inner Capitalist moved to smooth things over, but he should have realized this was not a time to mess with him. He reached into his belt buckle and pulled out the largest six shooter, I have ever laid eyes on. It looked like the physical manifestation of redemption and the Inner Capitalist is a tortured soul.
“Oh, come on. Everyone knows you’re a Pacifist.”
“Say another word. Make it English, because I swear, that is the language you speak to me and the language I speak to you. But you don’t ever seem to understand the words I use. What is it about ‘shut up’ that you do not understand. Yes, it’s vernacular but it’s common usage would suggest that even you would understand it means to close your mouth and keep it closed.”
“….”
“Good, now leave.” He pointed at the door.
The Inner Capitalist looked to me and I gave him a consolation nod. It’s not like he was leaving forever and it’s not like I have any power in this situation. He is the boss, we all knew it. His word was the law and the inner capitalist liked to stretch the lines. We both feared he had stretched the lines a little too far this time, as the Inner Capitalist got up, without complaint, and walked to the elevator. As the door to the elevator closed, He pulled the trigger and a loud bit of onomatopoeia produced a rather large flag with the word “Bang” written in Adam West’s Batman style.
“I knew you were faking.”
“Well you are the writer. Now let’s get back to work.”
“Wait, I’m sick and I have a headache.”
“How would you like to add Ass-ache to that list you are compiling?”
“You are such an Asshole.”
WHAT TO DO NOW?