By
Phil Collins
Craig
stood from his bed and haltingly paced across his room to open the
drapes. The mid-afternoon sun pierced his consciousness as it lit up
his space. Craig opened a mighty yawn, stretching his arms as high
into the air as he could.
“Looks
like another beautiful day,” he said to himself in an
indecipherable rumble.
He
took a seat on his black rolling desk chair. He flipped open his
refurbished laptop. The seasoned veteran sputtered and choked before
it began waking itself up. Craig stared into the monitor for a
minute. He shot up and headed toward the coffee maker.
“Drinking
black coffee, drinking black coffee,” he said to himself as he
entered the living room.
“Good
morning,” a cheerful deep voice said. Craig’s roommate sat on the
couch watching Elf.
Will Ferrell’s eyes had lost their lids.
“Just
three days until Christmas,” Craig said.
“Ho
ho ho,” Craig’s roommate said.
Craig
smiled, returning to his room with a piping hot cup of store brand
coffee. His desktop illuminated the monitor. He double clicked to
open Internet Explorer. Facebook loaded slowly. He took a sip. The
page pieced itself together. Craig immediately started typing. His
fingers flew across the keyboard, posting within seconds.
Craig
Mason Just
three days until Santa gets a thousand wood logs stuck up his fat
ass. What does he expect to happen sliding down rando chimneys? I
hope that stupid elf that decided to be a dentist takes up proctology
instead.
Scrolling
down, there was an endless feed of posts. An old high school
classmate posted a video of a cat spinning the wheel of a bicycle. It
autoplayed in Craig’s feed. He watched the black cat spin and spin
the wheel.
Craig
Mason
Looks like your cat is getting more exercise than you, you fat fuck.
Why don’t you give that poor animal some space and take a bike
ride. I hope the frame can hold you. Only one way to find out.
Another
sip of coffee tasted like heaven on Earth. Craig scrolled onward.
Someone with a last name he didn’t recognize posted an article
about a bombing in Not America.
Craig
Mason I
got BOMBED last night on Jaeger. There were three victims – the
Melvin I puked on and the two blondes I wrecked afterward.
Craig
looked around his empty room. He put on a light jacket and walked out
the front door. Snow tracked the sidewalk and parts of the street. He
walked across to the convenient store. His skin started to numb in
the short walk to the shop. He pulled open the door and walked
straight to the cashier.
“Two
packs of Pall Mall, please.”
“Craig,
how are you doing, man?” The white-bearded worker turned around to
grab the cigarettes.
“Can’t
complain. How are Sammy and Patty?”
“About
to be on Christmas vacation, so they are bouncing off the walls.”
“I
remember those days,” Craig said, thinking of his own time at
Middlebury Junior High. “Tell the whole family merry Christmas for
me.”
“And
a merry Christmas to you, buddy.”
Craig
pushed back out into the biting air. He lit up one of the cigarettes
and took a drag. He was feeling more awake all the time. He stepped
out into the street, headed back toward his apartment. A bell sounded
from his pocket – a notification from an app. Several apps used the
same sound. Craig slowed as he wondered which app the notification
came from. Just then a suburban utility vehicle sped through the
intersection, slamming into Craig as it screeched by. Craig watched
it fade into the distance as he drew his last breath.
During
the next few days, Craig’s Facebook profile page became a memorial.
Post after post on his timeline championed his role in his friends’
lives.
Rick
Lawson You
were the best babysitter. The kids loved when you would come over.
Sandra
Flynn I
owe my job to you. I never could have gotten it without your
advocacy. You were a class act.
Scott
Kelly I
can’t believe you’re gone. We’ll pour one out for you tonight.
This
was followed quickly by a new post.
Craig
Mason Merry
Christmas, slaves to the corporatocracy. I hope the talking fucking
furball under your tree was worth the new asshole Wall Street ripped
for you today.
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