Ch. 2

What I have become at last is an ugly man. See my wide saddle nose and lopsided jaw like a jacked up bulldozer. Slouching cheeks riddled in moles. High brows hemmed-in on a narrow forehead. My right eye lower than my left–not enough to notice, just enough to make you feel uncomfortable without really knowing why. Chicken legs, meaty arms, blubber gut, sunken chest, wee neck, no chin. A cleft upper lip.

This body is a beguiler of women. Puzzled, dynamic women for whom curiosity and a penchant for the grotesque flow effortlessly into rapture at the parting of the veil. I have made women fall in love with me in under an hour, with that tormented desire just shy of understanding, that twisted pining of pity for the hideous object. Here, in ugliness, I have found more far advantage than in beauty.

I’m on my way to the Wooden Spoke, an American-style bar named after the peeling white bicycle that hovers upside-down over a mediocre selection of spirits—but they have what I drink so who gives a fuck. Through the glass I see a room filled with beautiful people. The only difference between them and a thing like me is that their allure heightens the dissonance between what’s within and what presents itself to the world. A dissonance only the ugly are fortunate enough to lack. My train got in at midnight and it was a short shot from the station. Place hasn’t really changed. Still one of the best for picking up easy meat. All the better if I knock them up. Someday I’ll see one of my deformed little monsters scuttling around this city. Revenge doesn’t give life meaning, but it’s a start.

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(rough draft: rev. 3)

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