Athanasius Finch: Private Dick | ONC 2020

Feces, And Their Repeated Ocurrances

Shit happens. 

If the story of my life could be summarized in two words, they would undoubtedly be "Shit Happens." 

If it could be summarized in more than two words, it would be "Shit happens because I drank some dumb-bitch juice that was particularly overripe, giving me the runs," but my teacher would throw his quirky-red crocs at me for starting a story with a scatological image, which is rich coming from a man who wore crocs unironically and whose biggest contribution to literature was an in-line edit in "Chicken Soup For The Soul: Chicken's Revengace." 

He would also say that the last paragraph was a run-on sentence, not noticing that run-on could be also be used to describe a scatological image, thus adding to my image of shit, and the continuity of when it happens. 

Such is the literary prowess that forced my hand to write my self-published debut novel, "What To Expect When You're Not Expecting The Spanish Inquisition," by Beatrix Cagliostro -- yours truly -- as soon as I obtained my Bachelor's Degree in Literature from Cornell University. 

Pregnant's Up-to-nine Monthly Magazine panned it as unhelpful, Inquisition' Digest called it "derivative," and the only positive review it got was by a bot account on Amazon that promised Penis enlargement pills by following a link, which I am afraid to say it appears to be a scam. I hardly grew a penis at all. 

It was such a financial bust that I owed Amazon money, and Amazon was not beyond sending USPS drivers with crowbars to make "Fulfillment Visits" to your knees, as long as you are home between 9:30 AM and 5:00 PM. As such, I was forced to run away from home, leaving my family, my parakeet, Doctor Katastrophe, and my vintage collection of Celebrity toothpicks. 

My degree didn't give me the luxury to pursue many fields when it came to work, as the word "artist" only seem to gain any traction when attached to the word "starving." A lesson I learned the hard way when my second book, "Diary of a Well-fed, Middle class, White writer" was, as the New York Times put it, "As exciting as watching a bowl of rice pudding curd." 

Which is, interestingly enough, the only advance I got from it, as the well-fed part was being replaced by "Tackling Times Square mascots for spare change I could use to but 99c pizza slices from Ray's Pizzeria." Said effort was thoroughly fruitless when Tickle-me Elmo became "Kick me in the spleen until I cry Uncle" Elmo. 

Homeless, indebted, hungry, and with a scar on the belly that read "Hasbro," I resorted to the most desperate thing an artist can do: begging the Museum of Modern Art for an exhibition. 

As fate would have it, they were looking for a scrawny-looking artist-type to serve as a live-in subject in a brand-new exhibition. The title: Shit Happens. 

And that's how you keep a motif through a chapter, Profesor Gershwin. But I digress. 

My job was a simple one: sit in a toilet all day and maintaining eye contact at all times. Bonus if the person starts crying from the sheer anxiety provoked by someone staring at you from the cracks of a bathroom stall, but in reverse. 

It was a pretty sweet deal, until, yet again, shit happened. 

"Psst, hey kid!" whispered a man. He looked short, squat, and particularly angry. He also looked like a cliche bad boy from the '40s, with a pinstripe Gucci suit and a perpetual frown. 

I tried to ignore him while maintaining eye contact, which was as fruitful as having a Girl Scout selling cookies outside a Marijuana Dispensary. One would think it is a good idea, until they realize that potheads think she might be a narc. 

"Hey, kid, I know you can hear me," said the man again. "Unless this is some weird mime exhibit, in which case I kindly ask you to comply with the law and tell me if you're a mime. I'm not gonna be entrapped."