Untitled - 040816

CHAPTER ONE

"What are you doing?"

"I only write when I'm naked."

I suspect that's the truth, as he sits there with his red boxer briefs, gray slacks, baby blue polo shirt, and burgundy tank top strewn about the floor. Most of my belongings are in their respective homes: TV, Playstation 2, modem,...yet I can't quite explain why this man is here.   I assume he's a man of few words, but the simplest words often remain true as the night is dark...so I'm better off asking him...I suppose.  In this world of dark, nebulous answers, it's refreshing to have one be so light in verbal and physical delivery.  Plus, he's as naked as the day he was born...in fact, more than that...because of the indomitable sin that's surely cast due to his actions as an adult man.  His clear eyes suggest, and against my better judgement, that I should trust this guy.  So, I enter my apartment, close the door behind me, and I ask him...

"Why are you here?"

"That's obvious.  I had nowhere else to go."

Here, we clearly have an interloper, and Saki would surely be disappointed by this man's appearance. Man A, roughly in his early 30s, a bearded, working man judged by the numerous scars on his knuckles, hands, fingers, and shins, was sitting in my living room...naked as sin...I know more about his life than this man most likely would be willing to tell.  But, the more pressing matter at hand begs the question, how do I get him out?  I've got some Japanese animation to watch...

"So, guy...what do you want?"

"What do I want?  World peace, free tuition for those attending college mainly to create an equal playing field that benefits those in favor of the eventual destruction of capitalism in The United States of America,  especially one that would ultimately balance the competitive plane for groups of various ethnicities, a homestyle roast beef sandwich with provolone cheese, a thorough understanding of how to interact with our humanoid brethren in outer space and distant lands...whether those lands be on this planet or beyond means little to me, and a thorough explanation with bullet points, and hopefully annotations, for the wild popularity of Donald Trump's candidacy in the 2016 presidential election."

'Fuck.'

I am now involved in this odd situation of nudity, one that begrudgingly does not include my own participation.  As he sits there, with his furry balls resting on the brown leather cushion of my favorite couch, I stood there for a few minutes contemplating about the next course of action and wondering how this interruptor of my personal entertainment would respond.

Frankly, I consider myself an intelligent being.  Yes, I'm progressive enough to state that nudity doesn't bother me...neither in film nor in the third dimension...yet most certainly, I'd almost always prefer the female body, in all of its wondrous shapes and forms, to be nude compared to men, but now, I'm stuck...with this guy...and his sticky balls... peeling away from my couch like velcro...to respond to me intelligently to why he's here.

"Better question, how do I get you out of my apartment?"

"That's easy, you just have to answer the right questions."

'Fucking guy.'

Somewhat mildly surprised with such a profound response, and curious about where the next question's retort would take me, I thought of asking him another more pertinent question.  Does he know who I am?  Worst yet, would I be prepared for his response, and would it ultimately floor me like none has succeeded in doing so before?