"Harris, what's wrong dude?" asked Trent, flicking a few curly fries from Arby's at his buddy.
  "Nothing.  What?"
  "You wish you were making more money.  That's what's got you."
  "I guess," said Harris popping into second, turning the corner.  "What do you want to know about it?"
  "I'm sick of getting paid in compliments.  'Nice job Trent,' 'way to go!' 'phenomenal job!' - all like a broken record.  They're cheap.  Pay me with crisp hundreds motherfucker."
  "I posted this ten page essay on the future of ATV's and got like... two likes."
  "That shit was boring as fuck."
  "I wasn't asking for a review.  But then I post an old Halloween pic and I get forty likes and twenty comments."
  "It's 'cause you a dumb fuckin' idiot and you a mamma's boy too."
  "Fuck you bitch."
  "You post the dumbest shit.  Retard."
  "Uh... my name is Twent and I have wike twee dollews to my witto name.  At least I have a car."
  "This is Fenton's car.  It ain't even your car."
  "Let's go to Nic's.  He owes me some bud."
  "Ah-aight."
  Pippa started charging Fenton $250/hr for his psychotherapy.  He wasn't feeling any happier, but understood she was keeping him morosely motivated like no one else could - so he didn't feel ripped off.  Fenton had always lived his life with unrealistic optimism - chock full of high spirits and anticipatory brainwaves since day one.  Life was quasi-stable, but he felt as though the bottom could fall through at any second.  The Room of Volcanic Pretzel was absolutely filthy.  The thirty-gallon leaf bags of garbage were organized better than the clothes and linens, but soggy as all get out.  Melody's simpering wax glossed over the collective remembrance at Colette's place, and Pippa drew blood when she found out about the rumble at the car wash.  The problems only existed because she had brought every issue up herself during the meeting.  Addison knew he was running his mental RPM's pretty hot and was banking on the Chemical Force Integration to get on track with the day's events.
  Friends are good.   It's good to have friends.  I wish I could keep it simple, but I can't.  There is far too much work to be done.  Where do you get your ideas from?  I'm looking for the perfect house.  The sage investment.  It's important to always have a good time all the time, and I'm doing all of this in real time.  I'm not an isolationist, but I do need my down time to get to the bottom of things.  It's time to jog.  It's time to write.  Time to eat - pray ad not use lofty words.  It's time to cook hot-dogs and eat broccoli with mushrooms and go to the doctor's office for a credit score crushing remedy of non-pourmouphatical Celts.  It's a flash in the pan,but I choose to have a great attitude with everyone and everything.  I have more hustle than business acumen  Some days I wake up and fine with poverty.  If money were no object, I'd be dead in a week - most likely from alcohol poisoning.  There is a very fine line between pain and pleasure.  Insult and pride.  Love and rape.  Everything I was told not to do I have an affinity for.  Again, I need a friend, and if I can't be a friend to myself, who can I be a friend to?  I don't dance.  Lay it on the line for everyone and be transparent.  Transparency is a critical component of love, business, pleasure, and any other hot pursuit.  It's also important to be good looking regardless of race, gender, or sexual orientation.  Don't be ugly.  That's rule number one.  Always come across as attractive.  Like you give a shit about your appearance.  Do whatever it takes to make sure you are.  Attractive sells.  Life is life and people is people.  Anyway you cut it.  I'm great with the Jews and you've tapped the buzzer.  Right at the last second for frisson and nacho cheese.  Man I love nacho cheese sauce.  I could probably just drink a gallon of the stuff with the jalapenos and hot sauce.  I'd have a ton more friends if I wasn't living in the US, but English is my primary language, and this country is overprotective of its "own."  Let's be real.  It is.  Again, I don't believe in the concept of celebrity.  Perfection with hit counters at six ay em with bad spellers and horrible syntax agents on tap for the parade with the dry chewing gum and chompity telofransical bank accounts.   Hey all you writers, I know you don't give a shit, but this stream-of-conscious-postmodern-maximalist writing is way too much fun.  Like a pill of wrongness at the ix-nay poet-ness from Sunday's fun fun shop.  This is Big Fun!!  FUN FUN FUN!! (not sarcasm... seriously having fun)  Woo Hoo!!  Life is FUN FUN FUN!!! More than I or you or anyone else could ever handle.  Positive!  Positive!! No reason for negative - ever.  You can't sell negative unless you play drums in a death metal band, and that's a completely different discussion entirely.  Bon the sequencers were programmed and tech-ed out full throttle.  There was much to be done.  Learning business like this would not be an easy task for anyone.
  "Dude, you are piping mad... RED HOT!!"
  "Chill."
  "I'm good thanks."

//Tenmauray Stimulation Mech//
[Plug-ment Day] 

  The Tenmauray Stimulation Mech™ was a device that was constructed by the Platypus Wreckers three months ago to the day, but stolen and patented and marketed successfully by the doo doo gooders™.  (I'm not going to explain how it works in this document, but if you are interested in doing more research on your own or with colleagues, I recommend picking up The Intermittent Vacuum, with complete instructions, diagrams, and training module certification courses for TSM (beta 1.a) by Russ Jefferson, MD at your local library or bookstore.)
  The "circus elephant" (its prototype code name dubbed in RTD) was locked in its cage as a Wampum Warrior began performing ninja-like moves to warn an oncoming doo doo gooder™ from attacking the perimeter of the compound.  This wasn't a refrigerator box full of curdled Cocoa Puffs and Saturday morning cartoons; these were some pretty gruesome trenches.  Vexroad's Cortex was only a mile away.  It was "go-time."  As Trent pulled into town, henchmen with heavy artillery could be seen standing next to the portal, wearing Duke-Nukem-like-shades.  Pacing.  Could there be another way out?  Joe continued to deal with his solitude on his own terms.  He wanted to move to Georgia, because he thought people would be friendlier there, and that's just what he needed due to his litany of phobias.  Bugs and arachnids, infants to children under the age of eleven, germs, untidiness, homophobia, body hair, food poisoning, any forest or wooded area, skiing, inbred town and country folk, or trying to explain himself to others.  He was NOT afraid of stingrays, nap time, petroleum jelly, (even though not a huge fan) nor was he fearful of chalk or taking three or more baths or showers in a twenty four hour period of time, story time, or being read to.  The tanks and whales - all of 'em waiting, rubbing their hands, tapping their feet of trepidation, began to realize what the Skirt Chasers were really up to.  They had the whole thing mapped out once again.  It wasn't really "back to the drawing board" from scratch, but a cohesive cycle of un-plagiarism, riffing, and parody.  Jackets and even more thrust of galviston on their beautiful cleanly order of this surrogate poindexter named SkyBerPunk.  There was always something to pick up.  Something to fix.  Something misplaced.  Something just slightly out of order.  The Nitpicker Brigade came out full force the following winter with their hybrid of sword and clemency.  Don't ask how they did it, 'cause it's something I'm still trying to figure out - even as I write this.  Even at the Subaru dealership, the multitude poured out the cold blooded heatwave that seemed to be permeating all of Sage Mountain and most of GN county.  The Maverick, as they called him, went to meet up at Troy's Aquarium with all the fake fish and bumped and picked and washed away putrid ingrown yellowish toenail and calli with no balm of rectitude or bung of bratwurst and sloppy port wine spread with burnt pumpernickel toast to dip it in, but never with the chintzy plastic sticks ever; never forgetting to run up the energy bill and sing in the shower while snacking away on Hot Pockets and ice cold energy drinks.  The product placement was getting out of hand.  A state of mind.  A fallacy that couldn't be ignored and snot experience that spews unto the nose hair plucker that was left at Colette's house, Harris' half-sister. 
  "Were you crying last week?"
  "Who me?  Nah.  Haven't shed a tear in years."
  "You sure about that?"
  "Yep."
  "I could have sworn that was you crying.  It's cool.  Stress related?"
  "I have high hopes and expectations.  Yes.  I made a pact with myself.  Alright?  An ultimatum?  Don't you misconstrue stress with zeal.  I become overzealous from time to time.  I'll tell you the story some other time, but for now let's just see if we can't get these graham crackers eaten.  NAPK..."
  "Enough with your finishing school antics!  Please!"
  "Fine.  Overboard?"
  "A bit."
  "Wanna play some chess?"
  "Sure."
  The boundaries on every coordinate shifted sixty degrees.  The oscillators, radars, sonars, subterranical uractionaries, and all the firearms were at the Grande Expo, and the Montpelier Kontomanos Press Kits were put on display at the vendor showcase.  A trash heap of artistry and business.  Tables of salami and cheese, hot coffee, and a panini grilling station were catered in at two thirty-five as Pippa and Melody stormed the place like a couple of feral kids that were abandoned in the Adirondacks.  Pamphlets, fliers, business cards, brochures, calendars, water bottles, stress balls, USB chargers, promotional pens and key chains; one of them gitchu-a-baggie-and-grab-you-some-free-junk event - that kind of thing.  Troy thought he saw the ghost of Tony Randall at one point.  It was there that Melody informed Trent and Harris about the wiles of the witch who seemed more like a spider than anything else.  The witch spiel seemed like a diversion; a masquerade away from some alternate fractal.  The still head and fast acting appendages, quick as whips on granite, the scurry and crackle, the fear and granny lotion that seemed to be secreting from the painted walls came just at the right time.  Ordinary intervals were pulling out forensic conjunction and free will to accomplish the intestinal splattering with ball-peen delivery.  Out at the Grande Mausoleum, the spelling bee was underway with the Picnic Princess Jamboree with all the melted doll heads that had irreplaceable sockets. 
  "I don't mess with tarot cards.  Against my religion.  Sorry."
  "Sure."
  "And I don't fuck around with Ouija boards either - or any Parker Brothers game for that matter."
  "Sure."
  "..."
  "..."
  "Well I don't believe you."
  "Sure you do."
  "You like that?  You think it would fit?"
  "I... ughhh..." blushed Harris.
  "You need to brush your teeth.  You have stinky breath.  Like garlic.  Which is funny cause I know you don't like garlic."
  "I've been taking the supplements.  The cheap ones.  That's why."
  "How about this banana.  Hmm?  No?"
  "Stop!"
  "You like the way that feels?"
  "Yeah.  No cucumbers.  No.  OW!  Later alright?  Not right now.  Let's watch a movie."
  "You need more training.  You're not ready for this yet.  I know.  Put on a Scooby Doo DVD."
  "No."
  "Why?"
  "I want to watch this documentary on Ellis Island."
  "Ugh.  Fine."
  12 years earlier:
  Lane Peachman had bought a snack machine - sort of a Christmas present to himself on his thirty-fifth year.  It was a state of the art model, made in Russia, only slightly used.  He had it installed in his bedroom one afternoon.  At first, he thought it might be defective because it didn't want to give him anything to munch on.  For the first two years, he'd frustratingly pour money into it, yet it never popped out any snacks.  He ignored this for a while, because it rarely spoke, could accompany him to corporate dinners and fundraisers, and was generally compliant when on appetite suppressants and Pilates three times weekly.  But he desperately wanted the snacks it could produce him, even though it said it wasn't "ready" to pop out any snacks just yet.  He re-read its instruction manual and realized what he'd been doing wrong.  First, he'd have to stop pouring martinis and whiskey sours down its hatch for it to function properly.  Secondly, it also recommended that he isolate it at home by itself for a while.  And lastly, it suggested that he sedate the machine with Xanax, and for himself to go golfing in San Juan for at least one month to allow time for the machine to reset.  Upon his return home, Lane discovered the snack machine had taken up gardening and had started a snack machine Bible Study with other snack machines in the cul de sac.  Within nine months or so, it finally produced him three delicious snacks.  A year later the machine began to make whining noises, so he had his attorney in conjunction with the American judicial system have the snack machine physically removed from his home.  But Lane was happy as could be, because he could now coach little league and not look like the community weirdo. 
  Lomnevum Cordialities, being the only retail establishment in a twenty-mile radius from the GPB&G didn't have much to offer, in terms of goods or services anyway.  It was mostly a dirty salvage fabric depot, posting liquidation signs that never seemed to come down and just stay there year after year;  a creepy farming community's way of saying:  Visitors and Travelers Not Welcome!  Stay Out!! (or else...) 
  Seeder Flatfish put on his overalls with crusty hanky in pocket early that Monday and dropped in on the Puss Snatcher's little operation.  "What y'all up to in here?" he'd say, Pippa doing arts and crafts, smoking crank every ten minutes or so.  She wondered if he was ever going to pop the question 'cause she was really in the mood for another one of her trashy Arby's ceremonies, complete with a tossing of a month old collection of L&M menthol cigarette butts while leaving the premises.  The stretching exercise went on for a few days before the demolition and the Platypus Wreckers put on the corny music from the pumpkin festival they had cut live on and old reel to reel recorder from the 70's.  No one appreciated their sound or song structure, still, the snapping turtles and fireflies made their way four by four to the Ornery Deli with all their funny questions, toting confused interpreters and narrators with bluish and yellowish hair.  Their corn beef and pastrami was fair to midland, but they did have the best sauerkraut around.  The pickle jars were a little dirty, but that seemed just fine for such an establishment.  The Platypus Wreckers kicked, whined, and fussed all over the linoleum because the soda fountain was out of order.  No blue hair people were going to plunk down two seventy-five for a minuscule bottle of Cola & Berry New York Seltzer.
  "Why don't you have any deals percolating?"
  "All the ISO's in the lead pool have been used and abused way too much. I keep hearing stuff like, 'Oh, you guys call us ten times a day and I'm just sick of it,' or 'Put me on your Do Not Call List.'  I have a feeling many of these conversations have ended confrontation-ally, and in my opinion, that's just no way to do business.  People want to build collective trust with similar goals and purposes.  That's what I'm driving at.  Up at 5?  Try 3:33.  Eesh.  Even though I'm not going to tell a prospective client what they want to hear, because ultimately, that's an exercise in futility.  I'm not a pitch artist.  I'm a consultant."
  "Well whose money are we talking about?  Hey... who's ready for lunch?"
  "You're kidding me.  Do you know how many golden nuggets I have in my pipeline?  (sniff) I'm not going to lunch.  A working lunch maybe, but I'm not leaving this desk if that's what you're asking.  You don't get up and go for gas station sushi when these prospects are finally giving us the time of day.  Can't you feel the energy in the room?  Why the hell is everyone leaving?  Didin't you feel how fast the day went?  Remember the old adage:  Time flies when you're having fun?  Well baby, it's fun time!!  Who want's a cot?  A coffee pot and radio for entertainment?  (sniff) Why the hell everyone isn't sleeping here is unbeknownst to me.  Can't you see the money you reps are leaving on the table?  Apparently not!  You're going to throw the middle finger to an opportunity like this?  Do you know who you're talking to?  Me!  Listen to the pitches in here.  The echo test.  The way the mics work.  The background noise.  (sniff) Again... hey... this isn't a coded message.  What blows my mind right now is that some government official hasn't meandered in here under false pretense bragging about coffee rights when he should just be bird watching from this tower.  This here tower.  (sniff) The one in my hands.  Geesh... I'm running out of things to say here.  Where's the symbiosis in this sales force?  That's my ultimate question for all of you new guys.  That's directed to you new guys.  You're new at this (sniff)."
  "Well I'm here to make money.  Whatever that means."
  "Good.  I'd like to introduce you to someone Harris."
  "OK sure..."
  "Oh."
  "What's this ballet?  Have you seen this thing before?"
  "Yeah.  I seen that one.  Matter of fact, I saw that live on Broadway in '97."
  "OH.  I see what you're talking about here."
  "Firm?"
  "Naw.  Soft and moist.  Like the end of most M*A*S*H episodes."
  The intelligence in the room began to skyrocket, and Harris wondered why he felt like the top dawg, but seemed to be deconstructing like Harry and Tatiana.  They seemed rigid and licentious in their marketing techniques, and some of these fundings afforded the squad trips from the caverns in Ohio to the frostbitten nights in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Harris was out to lunch.  Out for crabs and future crush.  It was unbelievable how some of these ideas came about, but that was how the party continued.  Energy.  Unbridled focus and energy of book written about sales coaches and technical cassette tapes that talked about laser focus and attitude and farts and whack-a-mole.  You just had to be there.  The abominable talk, the ravenous verbiage, the pop and whiz of old old Indians games and favoritism.  For I might have the answer and the best rebuttals.  Who knows who's listening and Following the Leader in Rosedale?  We should have cut this deal yesterday because the sales process is divine.  An act of God.  Nothing short of amazing.  The cool thing about reading writing is how it helps one hone their communication skills; how to cut records from reel to reel tape and ow to take out punching bags of write and wrong.  Communicator skills for the last time because I have been craving a good sack of Tacos from the Beller and have started taking exhaustive notes on all of this.  Work is play at MY house?  MY house?  This house?  Walls with four corners of fun and logic and education and "we gave it our all?"  There is always tomorrow, because who knows? maybe we sealed the deal months ago and didn't even realize it because someone was balling their eyes out last night about how they loved coming to work with you and putting up big Digits for Broom Hockey and Red Face of obligatory energy."
  "Like I said though.  Your beats.  You need to watch out for that.  Holy shit."
  "What?"
  "Is Tony in?"
  "Shh!!!"
  "Shh."
  "Tony?  Fuck that guy.  I already talked to him."
  "Who?  Tony?  Nah."
  "What brings you back?"
  "Hmm?"
  "Oh yeah.  The interview... yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah..."
  "This is a suicide mission."
  "Well the tire is completely flat, the battery is shot, and we're stuck on the cold highway with no phone service and half-a-bag of moldy bread for dinner?  Didn't think so.  What are we gonna' do?  You got triple A?"
  "Nope."
  "Didn't think so."
  "My life is pure unadulterated torture - but what's with the scare tactics?"
  "I don't know - you tell me.  Lemme' ask you this then:  You got a funny feeling in your stomach right now?  Hard to put your finger on?"
  "Yeah.  How'd you know?"
  "I've been there before.  How are you going to make ends meet?"
  "Look - I'm too drunk to kill myself.  I'm having way too much fun to do that right now.  I think the only reason I keep myself alive at this point is to see how the story ends.  I'm dying to find out.  If they toss me in the clink, it's back to the drawing board.  And I can't believe these ISO's here.  Look at this Gary:  Are we all sure this is a funny name?  You keep punching names like this in the dialer before work and the cops'll be the ones drawing up the paperwork for everyone."
  "I thought the way to actually go through with it was to just get all liquored up, take a ton of sleeping pills, and fill the bath up with ice water.  Right?"
  "You're kidding.  Right?"
  "Not really.  Why you ask?"
  "I don't know."
  "Alright.  So here's another way of looking at it:  Let's say I wake up tomorrow morning and money is no object whatsoever.  In theory, I would continue to buy, sell, trade, eat, screw, travel write - business as usual - along with any other activity my fantastical brain could devise.  I really don't think my life would be a whole lot different.  My desires and impulses would be the same.  I'd still want to live in God's country and dream of NYC.  The best of weather and best of shows.  You got a problem with that?  Because if NYC is the financial hub of the known universe... well hey... we all have to retire at some time.  Not that I'm ever going to retire Tom.  Everyone knows that a rolling stone gath... well hey.. alright... Come again?  YES!  The best of weather and best of shows.  You got a problem with that?  Look.  Here's what you're failing to realize about human nature:  God is pissed.  Make no mistake.  Well?  Wouldn't you be?  I would.  Hey... let's think about this for just one femtosecond.  Alright!?  The second you were conceived, you were brought into a selfish and corrupt world that is all about free will or choice.  Am I right?  Stay with me here Tom.  Good.  Alright.  The garden, the tree, the blame game, and so on.  I see His dilemma putting myself in His shoes. The Empathy.  The ball being in His court.  You feel me?  Can you wrap your brain ar... it's like Montel Williams opening up a can of worms to some pimp asking him, 'what if you DON'T die tomorrow?  Then what?'  Meaning:  Who cares if you've already 'had it all' and so forth... I hope so Tom... cause I straight up love the Lord.  Always have.  Always will.  Cradle to grave.  Listen... shhh... people take care of themselves and each other to a certain degree and that's the beauty of His idea - His original Heaven that we messed up.  True and pure love is next to impossible to find in my own opinion, and all the st... hang on a second Tom... (click) Who the fuck approved this SBA?  Huh?  This long term deal?  Who the fuck?  Oh.  Look... I'm not going to take the time to author an email when all you're doing is talking gibberish.  Let's talk marketing.  If you're looking to grow and I know you are Richard, that's where you need to invest the capital.  Marketing.  Yes.  I'm going to need all your docs first though.  ASAP.  Ahright?  Mk.  Ha ha ha.  Buh bye!"
  "Outside your professional life, you have a personal one as well.  Some folks are really talented at separating the two, and many intertwine them seamlessly."
  "Good point."
  "Success is a mindset.  You should be prepared to receive bad karma if you dish out insulting rebuttals that work - like when you question their intelligence.  This isn't like selling guitars at a pawn shop or hammers at a hardware store.  It's all about managing working relationships.  Building trust and fidelity - getting to know the family if you will.  It's selling your relationship to the client and feeling comfortable moving forward.  I'm a business analyst - an investigative reporter, collector of data with those who will share their goals on paper - how to move forward with business as usual on their end yet allow me to do my job as well.  Is this someone that I would want to do business with?  That's a question I have in the back of my head from the second we start conversing.  I don't know.  Maybe a few things were said that gave me second thoughts about fifteen minutes into the conversation that made me feel a little uneasy; like too much whiteout  or one missing piece of info that made me pound my fist to the table because it was right then and there I knew the deal was dead.  Look Craig, call me in a year after you've cleaned house.  This is a 24 hour job and I think your're starting to realize that."
  "I'm an industry man, but also a real vigilante of emotion.  Do people buy based on emotion?  Sure.  But I think it's more of a case of that the client doesn't have to like you, but they sure do have to trust you."
  "Absolutely.  Giving guidance.  And it cuts both ways."
  "Listen, I gotta meeting with my shrink in twenty minutes"
  "OK."
  "Remember - you don't have to be rich and confident, you just have to appear or sound rich and confident.  Go get 'em tiger."
  "Oi."  Slap.