Clark knew three things in life: 

  1. Global warming was a hoax. 
  2. Spit could be a good substitute for lube, but only if he was in a pinch. 
  3. He needed to fix that damn gas leak in the kitchen. 

Emerging from the filthy pile of old pizza boxes he liked to call his bed, was the even filthier pulp of an utterly grotesque behemoth of a man who believed he was the incarnation of a sex god. Clark shared many similarities with a pear, firstly, the shape. His chest was flat, with an enormous beer belly planted firmly beneath it, and every day Clark was sure to feed his poor liver at least five cans to keep the belly’s prosperous shape. Secondly, his head was engulfed in unruly, dirtyblack hair, much like the stalk of a pear. Thirdly, he loved green clothes, not to signify a love for nature, quite the opposite, he believed that wearing green clothes robbed the poor trees of their colorful splendor. As his most beloved t-shirt says: “Fuck the trees!” And lastly, if a pear is left to its own for too long, it will start to decompose, and Clark had been decaying for 33 long years, becoming completely rotten all the way to the core.   

He looked in the bathroom mirror, flashing a crooked smile. It was an utter miracle the mirror hadn’t broken yet or tried to commit furniture suicide. It would be so easy, if it only nudged itself off the nail it was clamoring unto. Nevertheless, the mirror kept reflecting the terrifying image of Clark on its surface, probably pondering every day why it was here only to suffer.  

Clark found toothpaste to be overrated when you had the obviously superior solution, gum. For a normal human being, this would only be an acceptable substitute if no other solution was applicable, however, Clark did it out of pure laziness. And the gum was quite in fact bubblegum, meaning that not only did his breath smell of horrid cheap candy, it ensured his dental hygiene’s looming demise. Today was artificially-sugarblast-of-disgusting-watermelon-day. 

He considered if showering was a necessity but concluded that that he could probably wait two more days, it had “just” been three since the last time after all.  He continued his morning routine on to the kitchen. Even a blind person would recognize this kitchen as a biohazard. Clark was not blind, but something way worse: stupid. He searched between many moldy plates in search of something edible, luckily for his stomach, even he understood that moldy food was bad for a person. Unfortunately, this took approximately ten years, 79,5 food poisonings, and the mental breakdown of his doctor. He looked into an old yogurt bowl. It had seemingly become a new civilization when left to its own accord for too long, and these bacteria were already more cultured than what Clark could ever dream to be. 

He made an attempt to turn on the oven to heat a steak which had laid uncooked on top of a pack of ice cream. The logic was that the ice cream would keep the meat cool, which might not be the stupidest thing ever proposed. However, this is only true if the ice cream retains its frozen state, something it did not in room temperature. And thusly, the ice had melted, and the meat had gone from a delectable dish, to a shrunken travesty of its former glory, much like a raisin. He flipped the switches numerous times in a desperate attempt to conjure fire, however, no amount of frantic twisting allowed this sorcery. In retaliation, he kicked the oven, yet, as the oven always does, it won, and Clark was left the loser of the fight with a stubbed toe. 

“Oh right, the damn gas leak,” he reminded himself.  

He had unplugged the oven, the single smart thing his lackluster mind had been able to produce in his 33 miserable years of living.  

“God, I am smart!” he thought to himself, like a chimpanzee congratulating itself for figuring out how to peel a banana.  

With one nasty and unruly hand he scratched the wickedness that was his bum, and with the other he munched on old cereal that he thought was flavored, but the different coloring was actually mold. Hopefully for Clark, his doctor’s office would have a “get every 80th food poisoning treatment for free” campaign.     

He found some old cardboard and what he thought was a pencil, but in actuality was dried licorice gum with a few resembling characteristics of a pencil, and scribbled down a to-do list: 

  1. Haier someone to fix that dam gas lik. 
  2. Get som proper breakfast. 
  3. Buy some cigaretts.  

He looked proudly at his horribly misspelled list, coupled with a handwriting even a doctor would have trouble reading. The old cereal had not quenched his hunger, and as his oversized tummy was rumbling, he decided that food was the top priority right now. He wobbled out the front door of his run-down apartment, the effect of old cereal wreaking havoc on his intestines. Unluckily for the other occupants in the apartment building, this meant that the oven wasn’t the only thing leaking gas, Clark did as well while taking his sweet time down the many flights of stairs. Old Miss Coot passed by him and almost passed out in the trail of stench he left behind. After taking approximately thirty minutes getting down from the third floor to the first, he finally got outside, and the outside world was now the victim of his gassy powers, unleashing in every direction the wind blew. According to a New York Times article released two days later, about two hundred birds were found dead outside Central Park around the same time. Coincidence, or a massive genocide launched by the gassy terrors of Clark’s intestines? The world would never know.  

He drove his truck into town, almost running over: four birds, one squirrel, a chihuahua and its owner, two school children and a gay couple he deliberately tried swiping because those “fags” dared to hold hands. There was unfortunately a victim; a Barbie in a pink sportscar a little girl had played with on the sidewalk.  This all happened in the span of a five-minute car ride. Darwin must have been rolling in his grave if he knew that several million years of evolution would produce the absolute imbecile that was Clark, and he somehow hadn’t been hit by natural selection…yet.  

Like a month to a light, as soon as he saw the golden arches of the McDonald’s logo, he gassed through a red light, believing that if he did not get something to eat within the next three minutes he would combust. He did a crooked parking, taking up two spaces instead of one. When a family of five tried arguing with him, he flipped them all off and went on.  

“I’m a man on a mission, to fix that damn gas leak, but a hero can’t do his duty on an empty stomach!” he screamed after them.  

He entered the McDonald’s. There was a line. 

“Of course there’s a line,” he sulked like an insufferable brat.  

“I’m more important than any of the other dipshits here,” he thought to himself.  

He wasn’t. Even the drug addict standing closest to the cashier, who skinned rats and tried selling their sown-together fur as masturbation tools was more valuable to society than Clark was. He was at least an entrepreneur, in contrast to Clark, who lived off his hard-working parents’ money and the mercy of the state. And yet, he still didn’t manage the money properly, as if he did, he would have already fixed that damn gas leak.  

“But DAMN, does this girl have a nice ass,” his mind wandered. 

It was a nice butt, but for the successful businesswoman who was just going to enjoy a girls-day-out with her friend Megan, she probably did not appreciate Clark’s ogling. He couldn’t keep himself for salivating even, and the woman noticed this.  

“What the Hell is wrong with you!?” she rightfully yelled.  

Clark never could handle confrontations, and he just whimpered a bit, like a child being yelled at but not fully comprehending why.  

“Are you deaf!?” she continued. 

“Karen, it’s not worth it, I told you Wendy’s was better anyways. Let’s ditch this dump,” her friend argued, and they both exited but not before sending Clark vicious looks. 

“Fucking uptight bitches. If they didn’t want me to look why do they wear such tight pants? They’re practically begging for it,” Clark deluded himself.   

The line went excruciatingly slow, and Clark considered whether a tantrum or a call for the manager would make it go faster. He landed on something way more impolite, every time someone even stepped slightly out of the line, he shoved them aside.  

“You snooze you lose,” he harked mockingly.  

He finally snuck his way all up to the entrepreneur drug addict who had yet to decide on which burger he desired. Mostly because instead of seeing a menu, he saw flying dragons and exploding heads. The cashier was equally absentminded, but not by drugs but by sleep deprivation. The entrepreneur finally decided on a milkshake, whether that was his intention or not, only he knows, but nevertheless, Clark finally had the opportunity to order a super-sized meal with everything included. He calculated that he would still have enough money left to fix that damn gas leak.   

Eating would be the wrong word to describe what Clark did with the food. Devouring might be more appropriate or rather pigging-out, as he did faintly look like a pig fattening himself up for Christmas. Clark would probably be prettier with an apple in his mouth too, so he wouldn’t be spewing so much bullshit. He looked at the TV, hoping something fun might be on like a sitcom to fry the very last of his brain cells with dry humor. Unfortunately, they only showed the news, which the very concept of was an abomination to Clark. He never watched news, he hated them.   

“All this bullshit. Little, dumb kids telling me not to eat meat, politicians using fake news to manipulate the masses and that dumb Black Lives Matter thingy. All lives mattered, why didn’t those dumb apes understand that!?” he ironically thought, despite his being clearly of less value than others. 

He believed himself to be more “sophisticated” than the masses. He understood the world in a way that no one else did, saw it for the lies, or so he believed, much like a goldfish in a fishbowl which thinks it knows more of the ocean than those who swim in it. If only people like him were in charge, oh, how a paradise it would be, he so idiotically believed. Men would restore the natural balance to the world again. 

He was planning on finding a firm which could take care of that damn gas leak, but he felt the urge for nicotine in his body. So he made the executive decision, that cigarettes were more important than that damn gas leak.  

He found a supermarket in the middle of town, which not only had cigarettes but also other sweets which served as dessert to Clark’s already bloated belly. The term “like stealing candy from a baby” is an obscene one, as no tangible human being would ever be crude enough to even think about doing such a heinous act. Yet, this is exactly what Clark did, as there was only a single lollipop left of a certain flavor, and before the mother could pick it out for her hopeful toddler, Clark snatched it right up, laughing as if he had just conquered a worthy foe. However, if any other battle form was chosen, the odds were in favor of the baby, even if it was a fistfight.  

“I’m looking forward to election day, can’t wait to get that Cheeto out of the White House,” the cashier tried making conversation.  

Clark was practically appalled by this; he did not want to be reminded of the absurdity he thought the election was. Clark loved criticizing society but being a participant in it was not on his to-do list. Much like a friend “borrowing” one’s Netflix account, they’re nothing more than parasites who suck the benefits from others.  

He became increasingly aggravated by this, and even smoking a cigarette before entering his car didn’t calm him. He raced home, still aggravated, with the intention of letting the world know of his dumb rage, through a platform which gave people the illusion they were more relevant than they actually were: Facebook.  

He bobbled up the stairs, not even his anger being able to accelerate this process, it still took him thirty minutes, and he even met Miss Coot on the way, who despite having survived horrible circumstances under the Cold War, had a PTSD attack triggered by Clark’s deathly gas.  

Clark logged into his highly secure account with the immaculate password: “Clark1234”. It might not come as a shock, that Clark had also been the victim of many internet scams, but in his defense, he was technically married to three separate Nigerian princesses, they were all just awaiting their green cards.  

He wrote a bunch of posts, ending each sentence with three dots, and exclamation points in all the wrong places. But he was visibly proud of his “sermon” hoping that he might inspire the “sheep” to see the world for what it truly was.  

But he had the sense he had forgotten something. What was it now? He lit another cigarette, hoping that when he ignited the dried tobacco that it might jog his memory. And to everyone’s surprise it did, however, not in the way he expected. Just as he was about to put out the flame from the lighter, he was reminded what it was he was supposed to do today.  

As his entire head blew up into a bloody pulp, he finally remembered: 

He needed to fix that damn gas leak.  


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