Baben sat there, steaming, red-cheeked in pants spattering fury at the email he was reading. He couldn't fucking believe this, and he knew it , yes, it had to be a joke. He got up, his lumpy ass suddenly sagging majorly, hardcore, onto the floor, it was amazing. He knew not what to believe, and he looked around his room for the anchors to life, the things that kept him out of the constant gloom of an existental crisis. He had those, and he thought about death a lot. One day, his fat ass would jiggle no more, and he would be buried in a piano casing or a frieght container, as they would be the only thing that could contain his fat ass. He thought of the paintings that hung in his room that he bought from WalMart that had various sayings and wisdoms about cooking and things of a homely nature, all printed in French. He thought he should translate what they said, but no, he enjoyed the mystery of it. Maybe that shit meant nothing.
He thought about the email. That shit was a joke. He'd been doing those surveys for jack shit, yes, nothing at all. Well, nothing good. That shit was for the deepest and darkest, he was giving info about his day-to-day to the mafias, to the gangs. They'd busted their website, the government did, and Baben had no one that would pay him for his time. O! Hark, my Baben! No reinsbusrment for your jiggling roll! I am sorry my son. Baben thought of the evils that would be commited, and he found himself reaching for a nearby kitchen knife at the thought, but no, "get back here you lil bugger," he said, slapping the rogue arm with another, laughing at his own paranoia in that pathetic little giggle he always emitted when he was nervous. He sat on his couch for the rest of the day eating chips with Salsa as he waited, yes, waited as he knew that the Mafia would arrive any moment to fuck him up.
As the night fell, he grew even more anxious and hoary than usual, arming himself with random blunt objects from around his house and tiny garage. He’d found a crowbar that he’d glued some nails to, but he swang it around for practice a few times and ended up knocking all of the shoddily glued nails off of it, the majority of them landing either on his dicky or on his feet, which made him jump like ninjas. A tear fell, and he hid under his couch, waiting with his clubbish instrument, thinking of all the information he’d given off to the mafia. His address, his name, his life, man, the mother’s maiden name, the grandmother’s maiden name, all the maiden names, his fathers name, the brothers name, his kind of car, what color his house was, how old his dead dog was, man, did he ever fuck up. He really did. He’d absolutely fucked himself over and he knew it. He was all alone, his family far dead and he was alone alone alone alone. He tried to punch himself in the head to dull the emotional pain, and possibly knock himself out, but he just flailed around like an idiot due to the pressure of the old, musty couch that sat on his disgusting frame. He sweat, he cry, and then he sleepy. Sleepy deepy he a-go-go, off into the dreamworld. Goodbye O’ Baben, see ya in ta morn’. Be’s prayin’ for ye.