The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

The Sound Of Silence

Since he has been staring at me for like... three minutes, I suppose he is expecting me to say something. What can I say in this situation? Should I reveal myself and make this more awkward than it is? And even if I do, I'm not sure I want to. I'm not sure I deserve to.

There he stands, the first person to not judge me for who I was, for who I was born to be, but for what I can become. He did not push me, nor condemned me, and gave me nothing but love, and the occasional diarrhea, but maybe that's my gut rejecting anything that doesn't strictly adhere to my diet of Four Loko and gas-store beef jerky.

He gave me his dream, to be a part of it, and what did I do? Jeopardize it with my antics just because some dumb fuck wanted to step on my territory.

Tell me, dear hypothetical reader, if my first instinct in the face of even a mild adversity is to burn everything into the ground, what would I do if I fight with him? Will I throw away our relationship over petty squabbles? History seems to be on the side of yes. I can't have that. To break his heart like that, when a side of me that I swore I wouldn't let out came barreling without notice, would kill me. He doesn't deserve that, and I don't deserve that.

I hope you can forgive me, dear hypothetical reader, but I won't forgive myself. I don't deserve this chance. For a man to have anything and throw it away like a week-old fridge chicken, there is no word other than... a dildo. I'm not even real enough to be a dick, just a sad facsimil.

"I'll take you silence as a yes," says Hayden, very patently pushing me on the back towards the bleachers. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to, brother. You were kidnapped and made to shit yourself to survive a strange situation, and to be honest, I would also be a little reluctant to talk. Want a snickerdoodle?"

I shook my condom-hat left to right to say no. Snickerdoodles are for good noddles, and I've been a bad gnocchi.

"Suit yourself," he says, sitting on the bleachers. "Please, take a seat."

I shake the suit yet again, turning around and moving my tushie to say that, if I sit down, I'll have a huge cowpat. Yes, I did shit myself. Can't get too serious in this chapter.

"Right, sorry about that again," says Hayden. "Actually, follow me."

He stands up from the bleachers, making the last few lines worthless in the long run. Not having much to do this chapter but to listen and narrate, I follow him right into the locker room.

Lucky for me, there was no dick flopping in sight. Well, except for me, but I'm a dildo, at most. It's not a particularly big locker room, either, with a musky smell of mildew and hormones and some rusted lockers near the showers. Horrible design if you ask me.

Only the three beefy boys and a few straglers are milling around, shoving things into a duffle bag and doing other jock things, like eating raw pasta and listening to Limp Bizkit. I don't know what jocks do.

Hayden goes to his locker - which, I must add, smells faintly of vanilla and Paco Rabane - and takes out a trashbag. But no ordinary trashbag, but my trashbag! The one with all my underwear. Well, isn't this convenient?

"Here," he says, throwing me the bag. "Take your pick. I'm sure the owner wouldn't mind."

I must remind you all at this point that this suit doesn't have arms, so all that does is make me fall back hopelessly as the bag gets wet from the ever-moist floor that hasn't been bleached since Obama first took office. Of course, the condom also gets wet, and unlike the inside made of lamb-skin, the outside is made out of felt. Felt is like a soggy biscuit somebody left at the bottom of a Starbucks cup when it gets wet. So now this immaculate white condom suit is sullied with grass, mud, and now water. It needs to be on fire and I'll be the fucking Avatar. And if you're wondering, isn't there an element missing? To that I say that I broke wind in here, only with chunks of fish taco, so it counts.