When you were born, you were called Humble Arturo. Humble indeed.
Generous, kind, you spent your earliest days helping the
elderly in your village carry groceries to their homes. You asked for nothing in return.
When the war came you were the first to step up to the
challenge. You bravely signed on to join
the most suicidally brave regiment in the entire army in the small,
insignificant country you live in (it’s called “Brazel” or some shit). And when the time came, you threw yourself in
front of commanding officer, knocking him to the ground and saving his life,
but horribly scarring yourself in the process.
Thus began your existence as “Hideous Arturo.” You worked in a bar after you left the military. They let you drink and, occasionally, a
kindly prostitute would take you to her bed and listen to your stories of
comraderie and growing up in the country.
The next morning, she would always leave, but the importance of the
gesture, of the physical intimacy she provided you, was never lost upon you.
Over the last eight months a bill has been in the process of
passing. Championed by the military
officer you saved, who is now a significant representative in government, it
will provide restorative care to all those injured in your weird fucking
country’s war for independence. On the
day of its passage, he specifically sought you out and, during the press
conference, kissed your disfigured face, thanking you for your service. It was a wonderful, touching moment, and,
until today, the last time you ever expected to be on camera.
Because today, you see, you wake up from your surgery.
Cameras will already be set up around you when your nurse,
smiling, welcomes you back to the waking world.
A sexy news reporter will be seated next to you. She’ll turn her microphone towards you and,
in your weird fucking language, ask you how it feels to be the first hero to
benefit from this plan.
“Uhm, okay,” you’ll respond in the indecipherable drivel
that passes for speech in your country.
The room will erupt into applause. Your face will be so gorgeous that everything
you say, every simple, dumb syllable, will be received as gold. The interview will end then, but later on,
after all the well-wishers have cleared out the sexy reporter and the nurse
will stay to have sexy foreign sex with you.
Later, the reporter, flush with her dozens of foreign
orgasms, will pitch the idea of a talk show hosted by you and her on a major
news network. The show will consist of
the two of you chatting it up with guests in front of the camera about current
events and, behind the scenes, her getting railed in a dressing room by you
while her personal assistants watch.
It’ll be picked up immediately. The show will be nearly unwatchable, but you’ll
be so god damn beautiful that it will immediately become the highest rated
television program in your incredibly weird country which, in turn, will begin
a slow boiling process that will resolve itself in the ruination of your life
in about four years time.
Congratulations Handsome Arturo!
No comments:
Post a Comment