World domination is all a matter of interpretation

They say that I need a plan. Who­ever they are. I say that I have a plan. A twelve-step plan, I say. They ask if I am an alco­holic. I recon­sider my reply.

They say that I need a plan. Who­ever they are. I say that plans are for career­ist swine, for cap­it­al­ist scum, for face­less and spine­less tools of the sys­tem. I say that I will get wherever I am going — not that I know where I’m going, or even where I am — by stead­fastly refus­ing to do what The Man tells me. By rebelling. They ask me what I am rebelling against. What have you got, I answer. For a moment, I feel just like Mar­lon Brando. Except alive, obvi­ously. For another moment, I feel just like a spiky-haired, phlegm-spitting, safety pin-wearing punk. Anarchy. anarch­ist, ana­chron­istic. I feel like Johnny Rot­ten. Before he star­ted wear­ing tweed and selling but­ter in prime­time ad breaks, obviously.

They tell me that I need to sell myself, push myself for­ward more, put myself out there, spread myself around, open myself up. I tell them that I am not some kind of cheap whore. I am not spread­ing for any­one. Though moment­ar­ily I con­sider offer­ing sala­cious pic­tures of myself, albeit fes­tooned with black strips to cen­sor the most dis­turb­ing parts from inno­cent pairs of eyes.

They tell me that I need a line — a single line — which makes people stop. Stop and blink. Just once. Stop and think. More than once. Stop and think — yeah. Or wow. Or wow and yeah. Or gosh, if they’re posh. I tell them that, finally, they might have a point. A clue. They might be talk­ing sense. That sounds like a plan, I say. A good plan. A line. I need a line. A line to add at the end of my words, after my sig­na­ture, dymo taped to my fore­head, writ­ten across my hair­less chest with a cheap, leak­ing ball­point pen.

“An Unre­li­able Wit­ness is cur­rently work­ing on his first novel.”

No, they say. Don’t be ridicu­lous. Or pretentious.

“An Unre­li­able Wit­ness is cur­rently work­ing on his first navel.”

Bet­ter, they say. Cer­tainly more achiev­able, more real­istic. Though argu­ably, you have been work­ing on that navel for some years, and gazed at it endlessly.

“An Unre­li­able Wit­ness is cur­rently work­ing on his first anvil.”

That’s rather too lud­dite, they say. Think of the white heat of tech­no­logy, they add. The future. Look to the future. I am short-sighted, I respond.

“An Unre­li­able Wit­ness is cur­rently work­ing on his first duvet.”

Yes, that’s it, they say. That’s the one. That’s the mother­fuck­ing one. That says everything. All that we need to know. All that any­one needs to know. Forever. And ever.

But I don’t answer. I am too busy. Under the duvet. Shiv­er­ing. Laugh­ing. Not laugh­ing. Gasp­ing. Hold­ing my breath until I can’t. Hold. My. Breath. Any. Longer. And.