Today a young couple is going to arrive to look at one of
your apartments. You’ll arrive at the
showing with Ratskull, Dogbone and Wishfort in tow. They’ll be revving their bikes while you
dismount and walk towards the yuppies, hand extended.
“Sup,” you’ll say with a quick nod.
“H-hello,” the young woman will mutter, eyes darting to the
ground, then up to your face, then to the ground again.
“Hi,” the man will say, staring at the tattoo on your arm of
a unicorn raping a horse.
“Well, let’s get to it,” you’ll say before spitting on the
ground. You’ll lead them into the
apartment building, tersely nodding at the super as you enter. The super will flinch out of habit at your
gesture and you’ll laugh. “Guy’s a
fuckin’ cut-up,” you’ll shout back to your customers. They’ll look at one another uncomfortably,
but they’ll follow you in all the same.
They’ll step behind you into one of the most spacious and
well lit apartments they’ve ever seen.
The entire thing will be immaculate.
Spotless walls, flawless hardwood floors. The windows will face out towards the river,
catching the light that splatters up from the water, offering a dynamic view of
the ships and kayakers that spend their day traversing its once desolate
surface. The bathrooms will be accommodating,
and the kitchen will have both a full oven, an island and tremendous counters,
counters enough to cook a feast.
The only downside will be you. You and your massive, bulky frame blocking
the only exit from the apartment. You
standing there holding a tire iron, smiling.
“So where’s your deposit?” you’ll say to the couple,
slapping your palm with the iron.
“We wanted to look at
other places,” the man will say. Or
rather begin to say. When he gets to “other”
you’ll hit him as hard as you can (which is quite hard) in the face with the iron.
His mouth will begin spouting blood, and
he’ll drop to the floor while making a sort of weeping, gasping sound. The woman will back up against the kitchen
counter, terrified.
“Same question,” you’ll say, looking at her, iron lowered.
Her hands will tremble as she reaches into her purse for her checkbook.
“D-d-do you have an application?” she’ll all but weep out,
awestruck by both your violence and the gorgeousness of the apartment. You’ll nod and, after she fills out her
application, you’ll hand her a receipt on your biker gang’s letterhead.
Congratulations Riverside Motorcycle Gang Member!
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