I N F E R N O O F A N G E R 2READING BGM: 有誰知我此時情
Musings From a Label-Fable / Crossing Path With Pitt's Wraith
He was built like a big, bustling bull, albeit with a mop rather than horns. Yet he rode a dinky little bike, lime-green with the physique of a girl, named Suzee Pai, petite honker and tassels on the side to not blow your mind. The man rode his tiny bicycle under a stream of bar signs. Downtown air had a pleasant weight in it. It was stale with a taste of brine, hot and dense from the crowds of stumbling friends and lonesome trunks. So there he whimsically twirled his Suzee Pai around corners, dodging drunks and hooligans, mob-bachelorettes as well as mob-bachelors. The man’s a total hunk by the way. He finally parked his bike in a modest corner on the fourth level of a parking garage, praying to God Almighty that no one would vomit or piss on it. That would be shameful, not only for the perpetrator but the man himself, his bike, and his family name.
Blue strobes on blue eyes, the man took a sip from his dainty mojito. His consciousness was so swelled onto itself not even a flurry of demonic jerks could separate him from his mix of rum and mints and his cold meandering thoughts. Not even the man ten centimeters away from him, talking about jerking off like he was in high school. Oh, and how this mojito’s straw was a succulent muse for amuse-less brain-banter. How would he pay this rent’s due? Did he feed Galford (Galford is his cat) today? Was it the special prescribed food? Did his girlfriend really look like an Asian Marianne Faithfull? Who will be left and what will be left of them? What is God? How a man could waste his hours away with such provoking questions. You can be sure that Descartes, Jung, and Plato all did.
Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. The shoulder is one of the sacred body parts the person must immediately divert attention to if touched, along with the crotch, buttocks, face, and hands. Everything else is probably accidental, though that’s less probable if you’re a woman. The man shook his head toward the point of his harassment to meet the gaze of Tyler Durden. At least that was probably the most efficient way of describing the guy from his hair to his jacket, from his mannerisms to his ramblings.READING BGM: Who is Tyler Durden?
“I bet you’d be fucking fit for a girl’s bike,” the Tyler Durden quipped.
“I am trying to enjoy a mojito while probing my mind for universal truths,” the man replied, “Please do not bother me in this intimate moment.”
Tyler Durden’s forehead creased and he repeated what he said.
“You’re not one of those louts who get plastic surgery to look like your favorite characters, are you?”
“I have his looks. I have his voice. But I also have his passion. I am Brad Pitt. Whoever told you that there can’t be more than one of the same thing is a tool. Western philosophy is always about breaking down things to the atom. And why would you argue against that,” the Brad Pitt impersonator stretched out his arms like a spokesperson, “You’re in Western philosophy.” Both of Brad’s palms squashed against the man’s cheekbones and brought the head closer to his own face, “In a race of ideologies, you take the one that keeps you living.”SOUND EFFECT
“I wasn’t talking about that,” the man said.
“What’s your name, hotshot?”
Brad Pitt vaulted his hands off and almost fell off his seat. Bulging eyes like the sign of a botched surgery, it took him a few seconds to regain his calm composure. He massaged his neck like he took a hard shot.
“You’re the Pan who did that nasty work at the Shandar Industries factory back in 2042, aren’t you? Tough guy, you are, if not a completely brainless chav. What kind of goon does that sort of artwork with no follow-up? What? Got spineless in the aftermath of glory?”
Brad Pitt crossed his arms and grinned, “At least you look nice.” Pan thanked him for the compliment.