One week earlier. By Cedric Bigglestone.

I am writing this while a grizzly bear humps my leg and a gallery of jacked up, steroid freaks films it. I shouldn’t have let it come to this, but I had to do it for the sake of my job, my life, and my country. How did I get here? That’s a whole thing. 
 
One week earlier:
As I enter my workplace, something seems off. Erika, who’s usually upbeat and friendly, won’t talk to me. I brush past her desk and accidentally rub against her shoulder. “Sorry,” I say, but she has no reaction. Is she deep into her work? Or did I do or say something to piss her off?
 
Next I go to my boss’s office. I peer inside but he’s not there. That’s odd. He’s usually not absent on a Monday morning. I ask his assistant if he’ll be back soon. She won’t answer me. Now I’m starting to get angry. 
 
“Why won’t anyone talk to me?” I scream. Everyone in the office looks away and pretends to be working on something but I can tell they hear me. Even so, I scream again. And again. And again.
 
One day earlier:
Outside my boss’s house, I am drinking a bottle of expensive wine—because I have class and also because I stole it from my neighbor who is a fancypants but that’s a whole other thing I can’t get into right now. 
 
As I finish the last drops and set the bottle down, I finally have the courage to approach the house and ask my boss for what I deserve. He answers the door. He looks surprised. I had a whole speech prepared but when I open my mouth, all that comes out is: “AAAAAARGGGH!”
 
He shuts the door. I pound on it. He says he’s called the police. I try to explain, but again, all I can do is say: “AAAAAARGHHH!” Then I add: “Motherfucker!” and I run. 
 
One hour earlier:
I look through Darrin’s fancypants wine collection and decide to take the bottle he said was most expensive. Stupid Darrin. He won’t miss it, right? Anyway, I take it and leave and walk to Erika’s. 
 
I sip my wine and get up the courage to approach her house. I walk up the cobblestone path that leads to her door. Then I knock. She answers. I have so much to say to her but then I speak and something goes wrong. I can only say: “UUUUUNNNNGGGH!” and then: “Master Blaster!”
 
In my heart, I know what that means. But the translation is off. I must explain and tell her that “Master Blaster rules Bartertown.” She doesn’t get it. I’m not sure I do either. I do a dance, because that is the last thing I can do to express myself. 

One minute earlier.
“UUUUUNNNNGGGH!” I say to Erika. “Master Blaster!” 
 
One second earlier.
“Master Blaster.”
 
Present time:
I am writing this while a grizzly bear humps my leg and a gallery of jacked up, steroid freaks films it. I shouldn’t have let it come to this, but I had to do it for the sake of my job, my life, and my country. How did I get here? That’s a whole thing. 
 
Question:
How the fuck does this even work? 
 
Cedric Bigglestone is a self-taught journalist who exposes things through exposés. He also writes other stuff, like this. Contact him at [email protected].

Buy this merch one week earlier than everyone else.