Let me tell you what haunts this guy:
Yes I am aware that he has no morals, no depth, no intellect, no nothing: he is as close as you can find to pure Id in the human population, although “some people say” that he’s subhuman. Perhaps “many people say that”.
In the depths of the quiet night, in his bedroom which only he occupies, amidst the smell of his sweat mixed with his unwashed folds of flesh, with faint odor of cologne, his mind races: he is going to someday die, and all the verbiage vomited from his pursed lips will not change that. No entreaties from his red hat wearing “base” will be able to help him. He knows that he is obese and terribly ill: he can feel the changes. His strength is waning from the Studio 54 days, his bowel movements and urinary patterns have become that of an old, sickly man. His erections depend upon medications and although that is not a problem for most men to handle, for him it is a terrible weakness which no one can know about. He thinks about all the women who no longer exist in his sphere, whom he believes loved him desperately and because of that he needed to pay them to prove his worth. In short, he is a man who looks only on the Deposit side of the bank statement ignoring the huge debits opposing them: a narrow field of view. He scratches the itches in various places and reaches for his phone in order not to communicate with the worldfor that is meaningless to him, but to stave off the dark spirits which are consuming him, each day being one day closer to the final day. This is his fate and he is alone in a fashion which almost none of us may conceive of. Friendless, loveless, vacuous of mind, he descends into this abyss nightly.
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