What is the fatcat thinking. "What if God was one of us... just a slob like one of us...?" is what I imagine rings in his ears on an endless repeat.
Or perhaps he's contemplating his ever expending collection of Sasha Grey videos. "Two terabytes isn't really that big, after all. It's just a few external harddrives. My wife seems repulsed to look at me, but I am a man. A normal man. A working man. I still have thoughts, loves, lusts and desires. I've got to sit next to these two freaks day-in and day-out. This chap to my right with the glasses, jesus. You were supposed to take after your dad's legacy, not be his fucking replica. He'd be ashamed of you. And this lad, gasping to my left, good lord. Straight as an arrow. No personality. Not a hint of jolly disposition in his soul! That's why he's in such good shape. He's still using a wrist watch in this day and age. Get with the times. It's gluttony or bust, stupid motherfucker."
What does this obese man dream? Does he feel his life is absurd or has he managed to lie to himself? "I'm not even that angry a man. I don't belong in politics. I wish I could travel the world, for once. See new world. See America! Cowboys and Indians and the like. I could drive through the Trail of Tears I've heard about in the history books! I'm so enthusiastic here when I'm killing time. Parliament, more like just lament! I lament stupid grey wigs with curls. I lament these tools next to me. I lament these bus station benches. I wish I was home watching I'm Alan Partridge."
Does he question existence obsessively? "Why can't I ever just stick to a decision. Perhaps I should end it all. Why go on living. Life is tedious. I'm tired of having to cut my nails to use my smartphone's touchscreen. Life's a joke. I'm tired of my paperwork. I want to be at home in my pajamas watching Terry Gilliam's Brazil and contemplating the expending universe. Tedium. Tedium. Even my boredom bores me. Perhaps I should steal my son's video game system and play that, yes. Shooting aliens. What's it called? A Playstation Box? Those damned controllers are so frustrating."
The man is certainly hungry. "That food I ate once. That food. A food. Several foods from several locations. Warm pizza made in grocery store delis. That Asian food I had once, soupy and meaty both at once. The Phily sub I had, not bad for fake meat. Meat, meat, meat. I'd like to try it from a deer. Perhaps a reindeer. Reindeer meat supposedly tastes like baconbits, but I imagine it must be healthier. Yes, yes! That is how I will lose weight. I'll eat Rudolph meat regularly. You won't be Reigning over me, Deer. You'll reign only in the kingdom of my open mouth!"
He yearns to be better. "That phrase, a watershed moment... I wonder what it means. Is it a shed people walk under to avoid water? Keeping life's tumultuous storms of nonsense at bay. I wish I were the roof over a loved one. I wish I were the rainstopper, and the gutters, driving the murky waters away. Myself, a total cover convincing the bad weather to go away. Rain, rain, go away, please come back another day. Or never. Let me be the umbrella, sheltering the storm of negative intent from the ones I love. Let me be nothing but a peacemaker, with the stability of a rock."
Or just ordinary. "Did I leave the gas on? Gas has no smell, so they add some scent to it. I'm pretty sure I didn't. My life's going to leave me, I know it. My wife's going to leave me, I meant. A Freudian slip within the thoughts in my own head. Love is the lowest common denominator. That's why I'll tell her I'll kill myself is she goes. Life isn't about morality, or who's right. It's about who's willing to be a plague onto others to get their needs met. I'll cry to her, sopping wet. Stay with me. Do it for our children. Change I cannot handle. Like a dog I'll cling on to any bit of kindness for dear life." So the fatcat thought.
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