*** THE FLESH ***

Life is an erratic dance. A chaotic ballet with no choreographer, performing a cosmic comedy that we all watch, not because we want to, but because we simply exist. Confined inside a vast stage — so arbitrarily vast and devoid of any profound substance. We ask, what is the meaning of this dance?

Surprise, be blessed with this dance! For they brand it as a divine gift given by the grand choreographer of it all. The very notion of meaning is a farce, a putrid devilish joke, and yet, why? Why am I perpetually ensnared in this quixotic quest to unearth it? Why does the specter of significance torment me so? Why am I compelled to chase a chimera in a world of erratic underworld?

"Great job on the call for shorting last month, Ethan!" A donkey said while imitating coitus over our table. His tongue was out, licking his fingers and passionately massaging an imaginary vagina. "We fucked them up!"

Passion, an alien emotion, I've wandered through existence without ever truly tasting its sweet yet acidic nectar. I drift through the urban jungle, weaving through boardrooms and banquets amid the ceaseless void of chatter and exchange of inconsequential trifles. The world of Finance, a grotesque play I've roped myself into, a cultist performance that worships the mundane and the superficial. The hollow smiles — the empty laughter! A relentless pursuit of opulence in a religion devoid of saviors.

"We didn't only fuck them up! We slit their throats to death!" A monkey said while drinking his red wine.

Disgusting. I believed, I truly believed, for I was naive — I joined the race thinking that I would use my uncanny ability to decipher patterns. In Corporate Finance, a realm of numbers and statistics, I hoped to reach the finish line with a promise of a coveted 'meaning.' However, the reality of it was a startling revelation — it was far from a virtuous endeavor. I ran, I tripped, and I got up. Only to see that the race was a labyrinthine maze, spiraling into the murky depths of greed, deceit, and cold indifference. The patterns I saw weren't the ones I sought. They were darker, more distorted, revealing the unpalatable truth of a track designed for the perverse pleasure of a privileged few.

"BAM, BAM, BAM! Thump, thump, thump!" The club screamed, assaulting my senses.

The kaleidoscope of lights reflecting in my shot glass painted an eerily beautiful picture. Pink, blue, and yellow hues dance harmoniously, mirroring the false pretense of ecstasy. They, too, seemed like a grotesque mimicry of life's absurdity, each color representing a facade we put on, each swirl a testament to the illusion of meaning we yearn for. The thrumming beats in the club echoed the hollow rhythm of our collective farce, the intoxicated laughter, the anthem of our existential comedy.

"All hail the Absolute King!" the donkey said.

"All hail the Absolute King! Hey whore! Come!" the monkey added.

This is my life. Our life. A world of absurdity, a universe that mocks us with its indifference — its randomness. But here's the rub: we laugh back. We dance in the face of this cosmic absurdity, ever seeking, ever questioning. We keep searching for meaning in a world that has none, simply because that is what it means to be human. And as I down the concoction, I realize that this, too, is part of the dance. The dance of the absurd.

"We did. We did fuck them up," I replied.

"How much for a blowjob?" The monkey said. "Oh wait, don't ask. I can write a check for any amount. We are Kings, after all!"

Their behavior was a spectacle of sorts, engrossed in the embrace of fleshly indulgence, notes fluttering like green doves in a sordid carnival. BAM, BAM, BAM! The club pounded a frenetic rhythm that trespassed into my senses, a relentless reminder of the animalistic pulse of humanity — a display of the sophisticated civilization we've built.

I recoiled from the scene, the taste of my oak, a refuge from their revelry.

"Don't use your fucking teeth!" The monkey screamed. "Now that's good. Are you honored, whore? Suck my dick. I am a King!"

I was cut from a different cloth. I never yearned for their brand of gratification, their distorted take on ecstasy. I am not a sociopath, the label they seem to wear with a perverse sense of pride. I could never don that mask, for the mere thought of it curdled my blood. Yet the structure of the world around me seemed to wrestle with my conviction, pushing and pulling, nudging me into a mold I vehemently resisted.

"Yeah, we are! Ethan, did you know that the competition's CFO killed himself?" The donkey asked. "He fucking drove their company to bankruptcy! Idiot! Pathetic. And he calls himself a man."

"What?"

"He did. Oh, how his mother cried when we left the hospital."

"What did you do?"

"We paid our 'respects.'" The monkey said. "Oh, that's good. Use more of your tongue!"

Another victim of the erratic dance, succumbing to the screaming encore of the audience. My kind, you kindred soul, may you finally rest and find solace beyond this perverse theater. In this macabre puppet show, society played the marionettist, demanding conformity under the thinly veiled threat of failure. "Transform," they screamed, their voices echoing ominously across the stage. "Adapt, or you'll be devoured by the system."

The message was clear, stark, and daunting: be a cog in their machinery of avarice or face a fate worse than obscurity — irrelevance. Yet, the repugnance at this ultimatum coursed through me, a venomous insult to my integrity. Their brand of success, laced with decadence and depravity, was a price too steep to pay for you, my kind.

"Fuck you," I replied.

"What? I can't hear you. Did you say Cash Accrue? Is there going to be a new accounting scam? The Absolute King works all day, no?"

Ignorant. The duality of people never ceased to amaze me. By day, these same individuals who now reveled in debauchery exuded an air of professionalism that bordered on the theatrical. In the heart of the corporate beast, they were the paragons of conduct, yet beneath the neon lights, they were no more than swine in a sty, basking in their own filth.

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"Hey sexy, do you want to touch me?" A female stripper said.

"No. I have a Fiancé," I replied.

The stripper hovered her body towards my pelvis and whispered. "It's okay, baby. All the secrets of the house stay in the house."

"Ooohh! I saw her, Ethan. She has a nice ass, alright! That was the intern, right?" The donkey asked, now vehemently exaggerating his coitus exercise. "Oh, I like me some of that Korean beauty!"

"You really move fast! Did you fuck her already? Was it still tight? She seemed like the party type." The monkey said while a whore sucked his core.

Copper. My gaze fell on my ring, its simple design a reminder of a different kind of beauty — it was a ring I bought from a beggar — it was the ring I gave to a kind soul, macabre enough to accept me. Yes! Oh, how wondrous the whirlpool of randomness and paradox spread. Life is absurd! Yet within its chaotic dance, moments of beauty surfaced, a sublime testament to the duality of our existence.

I hear a silence within the cacophony. A still point in the turning world.

The woman approached her profession etched into her every move — whatever its form. "Miss," I said, my voice gentle yet firm. "I respect your craft, but please move away." Her response was a raised finger, a rebellious salute as she sauntered away from our vicinity.

In my refusal, in my resistance, there was a brand of courage, a type of rebellion. I realized that my very existence might serve as a quiet protest against their norms, rules, and puppet strings. And as I continued to sip my whiskey, perhaps, in this absurd theater of life, my role wasn't to join the mindless dance but to disrupt it with my defiant stillness. Throwing rocks at the audience, dancers, and choreographers alike.

The chorus of voices around me continued a symphony of irrelevance that I barely registered. The donkey and the monkey, as I had come to regard them, spouted their usual trifles. Words that, to them, held profound significance but, to me, were nothing more than static noise. My eyes drifted to my watch. Midnight. The witching hour. A moment suspended in the heart of darkness, a gateway between the end of one life and the dawn of another — a thematic howl in the ever-taunted night.

I was, caught in the copper's embrace, a spectator in the theater of absurdity, no longer an audience nor a performer — bearing witness to the paradoxes and beauty that define our shared existence. Today, I won't look. Today, I will stop dancing. Today I will fucking spit — throwing rocks at the dance of the absurd.

"Donkey, monkey. Make jokes about my Fiancé again, and I will have you fired. No, I will have your throat slit. I will burn your house — your car to the ground, then I will piss on your fucking corpses while drinking tea."

"What is it about this merger?" the monkey asked as I left the jungle.

I met more patrons into the night, an erratic stream of pleasure-seekers. They swirled in and out of the neon-lit doors, a cascade of pulsing energy, laughter, and raucous shouts bouncing off the alley's walls. The grimy buildings surrounding the club seemed to sway slightly in the lurid glow, drenched in a mix of sweat, liquor, and fading dreams. Their shadows danced with the rhythm of the ephemeral nightlife, the darkened corners of the city witnessing the human spectacle in all its nude rawness.

Retreating from the revelry, I found refuge in my car, parked inconspicuously behind the club. The lot was a carousel of vehicles, their engines purring softly in the moonlit silence. Most were stationary. Some were moving, cradling — their fogged-up windows concealing amorous engagements, their faint rocking rhythm of ah-ah-ah.

Ignoring the hedonistic bliss enveloping the area, I navigated toward my trusty old companion. She was far from glamorous, a relic of the past amidst a sea of modern glitz. Her exterior was a palette of faded colors, the skin peeling off in patches revealing the bronze beneath. A testament to the relentless march of time — a silent protest against the ostentatious display of opulence. A proud soldier, accompanying me for nearly a decade, bearing her battle scars with dignity. She was half ghastly, half hypnotizing. Defiance was her name.

I opened the door and slid into the worn-out seats, instantly engulfed in a familiar scent. The sweet, artificially tangy smell of Walmart air fresheners, a scent that brought comfort in its sheer simplicity. It was cheap, yet there was something incredibly soothing about it. A caress of nostalgia and modesty.

I reclined in the embrace of Defiance, the faint scent of the air freshener filling my lungs. The comforting hum of the old engine reverberated through me, adding to the symphony of the night.

Cradling the copper ring in my hands, I was drawn back into the impulsive swirl of recent events. Valerie. A stranger, yet not quite so. She had accepted my proposal earlier this morning with an ease that was almost absurd. We were unacquainted, two individuals thrown together by the sheer randomness of life. Yet, she had taken the leap, diving headlong into the unknown.

Could it have been her scientific curiosity? There was a chance she had an inkling of intrigue over my psyche. Is that it? The clinical coldness of a psychologist studying a subject up close? But such a prospect raised troubling questions about the ethical boundaries she was willing to cross. Or maybe Old Brain was right. Perhaps she harbored a soul that reveled in the macabre, the shadows, the mysterious.

Regardless of her motivations, I shrugged. What could be the worst outcome? Death? It's but a natural part of life. If she were to kill me, I'd die. If not, I would live. The cliched adage echoed in my mind: Was mich nicht umbringt macht mich stärker. Either way, it seemed like a victory.

As enigmatic as she may be, I made a vow to myself. I would savor every second of this unpredictable waltz with her, bask in the beautiful jungle of existence. As the world outside continued its frenzied dance, I found peace within the confines of my rusty sanctuary, cherishing the absurdity and simplicity of the moment. I grasped my phone, crafting a message for V.

"Dear Valerie,

Lost in the labyrinth, drifting through the fog,

a phantom beat of absent joy,

in the shadowed corners, twisted waltz,

a tempestuous storm,

scalpel-sharp dissecting my veneer

of hope and dread.

A peculiar warmth unfurls,

a stirring tenderness, tender and surreal.

Perversion, a seductive aria that resounds

through the hollow chambers of my heart.

A tango of despair and longing,

in rhythm with madness,

in echoes chaos,

in burgeoning sentiment, once a seed of dread,

blooms into a twisted rose of desire,

in the garden of shared psychosis."

I emailed V as my phone screamed, "RING!"

I looked at my screen; it was another unregistered number. Yet, I had an idea of who it might be. The best of the best, the cream of the crop, my closest kin, my closest love. "What's up, Austin? I was resting."

"Heyo! Bro, bro! First, I miss you! Why don't you ever visit my office anymore?!"

"Your office is a mess; it's disgusting. Neon lights in daylight? Seriously. And there are too many adolescents on rollerblades. Isn't that dangerous?"

"Bro," Austin replied. "Despite being younger than me, you're the old man. But wait, listen to this. You won't believe it!"

"Why? Did the realtor cancel the apartment purchase? I thought our guy had the deal sealed?"

"No! And you paid cash, you idiot! Are you in your car again? Your secretary told me you left early. I told you to throw that garbage away."

"I won't. What is it, Austin?"

"Bro! This is fucking big. I ran a background check for Valerie Hyeon."

"Okay? Then what?" I asked.

"You married a fucking psychopath."