>>24847054
Crime Report

Suspect is a white male in his late 20s, average height, average build, with a bowl-style haircut and a pencil mustache. First spotted in the McDonald’s on King Street. Suspect entered into an altercation with another customer, accusing said customer of breathing on the back of his neck. Suspect then exited the building with his purchase.

Suspect was last seen at the bus station on first avenue. Reports indicate an accomplice was informing him that his zipper was undone.

>>24847054
Biblical

He came to the vendor of meat and bread; and his hair fell in the perfection of its roundness.
He accused his fellow man of persecution, for afflicting his flesh with an unholy breath. And having gathered his goods, he fled therefrom.

And in the day his brethren said unto him, “be warned, brother, for thine garments revealeth that which must be kept hid unto the eyes of the Lord.”

>>24847054
Angry

I was in that dirty, rundown McDonald’s on King Street, of all fucking places. This fucking idiot at the front of the line had the dumbest haircut I’ve ever seen, I swear to fucking Christ, and this pathetic little mustache too. This dipshit turned around and yelled at this dumbfuck behind him, saying he was breathing on his neck or some stupid shit like that. Then he picked up the most disgusting nuggets and fries I have ever seen and ran out of the restaurant like a pussy.

>>24847062
Later on I saw this same faggot by the bus station on first avenue, with some retard next to him telling him to zip up his pants. Fucking pathetic.

>>24847054
greentext

>be me
>at McDonald's, King street
>guy in front of line
>bowl cut and pencil mustache
>accuses guy behind him of breathing on the back of his neck
>grabs nuggest and fries
>leaves the restaurant quickly

>be me an hour later
>bus station, first avenue
>see the same guy
>friend telling him his zipper was undone
>mfw

>>24847054
Haikus

McDonald’s King Street
Strange fellow with a bowl cut
And a thin mustache.

An accusation
Of an impolite exhale
Quite a tense moment.

Nugs and fries in hand
He flees from the McDonald’s
In a show of haste.

Later, afternoon
At the station with a friend
His zipper - undone?

>>24847054
NEET's personal diary

I went to McDonald's today. I haven't gone anywhere in quite a while and I felt like I should. I guess McDonald's didn't feel as threatening as a proper restaurant, so I went there. I like that they have those screens, so you can kind of take your time when ordering. I don't really like being outside, or maybe I do, but I don't really like being seen.
Anyway, what I was actually going to say is that there was this weird guy there, at the front of the line. He had a bowl cut, a pencil mustache, a bright neon shirt, and some plastic sandals. He stood out quite a bit, looked like a cartoon character, but he seemed comfortable, at least for some time. There was this other guy, all sweaty and breathing heavily. So the bowl cut guy says something like, "Man, could you stop that with all this breathing? Ever heard of personal space?" or something like that. I think the other guy just went, "Huh?" And the first guy just takes his order and runs off. And somehow it all made me feel a bit easier, as if everyone there just saw this small scene with me and we all became this tiny community for just a moment. I don't really like judging people. I think it's not fair to judge, since I don't like being judged either. But at that moment it was like that guy was the weirdo and not me, I was with everyone else there.
What's important is that an hour later, as I was going home, I saw that same guy. Unlike me, he was with a friend. They were laughing about something and then the friend tells him that his zipper was undone. I thought: "How embarrassing." But, out of instinct, I also checked mine. It too was undone.
I didn't like how today went. Honestly, it's probably because McDonald's just sucks.

>>24847238
Kek

>>24847054
Forgetful

I think I was at the McDonald’s, or maybe it was Burger King? I don’t remember. Anyway, it was on King Street. Actually it might have been Washington Avenue. No it was definitely King Street, sorry. So anyway I see this guy at the front of the line with a weird haircut, it might have been a pompadour? Or maybe it was an afro. I don’t really remember. But he had this mustache too, it could have been a fu-manchu or a goatee. So this guy yells at the dude behind him, but I forget why, I feel like the dude rustled against him or sneezed on him or something. After that he grabbed his burger, no wait it was a chocolate shake and fries I think. Then he left.

Anyways I think it was an hour or so later, or maybe it was the next day, but I saw him again at the station on First or Second ave. I think he was with someone and they might have been telling him something, but I forget what it was.

>>24847054
Malapropisms

I was in the grandiose McDonald’s on the corner of King Street. A man was abounding at the front of the line, and I notated that he had a very mellifluous haircut and a calculated mustache. He couldn’t help but perturbate the guy to his anterior, inquesting that the guy had inspired on the back of his neck. The other guy was tacit, so he just absconded his stuff and languished out of the restaurant.

Later I saw the same guy with a colleague of his, who seemed to be accosting him that his zipper was depleted.

>>24847054
Declarative

I was in the McDonalds. The McDonald’s was on King Street. A man was in the front of the line. A bowl cut was on his head. A pencil mustache was on his face. Another man was behind him. The other man’s breath was on the front man’s neck. The front man was talking to the other man. The nuggets and fries were in the front man’s hands. The front man was outside the restaurant.

I was outside the bus station. The bus station was on first avenue. The man was with another man. The other man’s finger was pointing to the first man’s zipper. The first man’s zipper was undone.

The joint on King Street was a grease palace, all yellow lights and the smell of yesterday’s oil. I was nursing a black coffee that tasted like it had been filtered through a mechanic’s rag when the bowl-cut character at the counter started barking. Pencil mustache, eyes like a ferret on bennies—he spun on the poor sap behind him and snarled, “Quit fogging my collar, pal.” Grabbed his nuggets and fries like they were the last evidence in a murder rap and blew out the door before the cashier could count the change.
An hour later the city had turned the color of a bruised nickel. I was leaning against a lamppost outside the First Avenue bus station, watching the lost souls shuffle in and out, when I spotted him again. Same bowl cut, same rodent mustache. His buddy—tall, cheap suit, cigarette dangling like a bad punctuation mark—was giving him the lowdown. “Your barn door’s open, genius,” the friend muttered, nodding south. Bowl-cut glanced down, face going the shade of week-old oatmeal, and fumbled with the zipper like it was wired to a bomb.
Some guys carry their trouble in a holster. This one wore his on the fly.
t. [Grok Chandler]

>>24847054
Curious

What would you do if you found yourself in the McDonald’s on king street? How would you feel if you saw a man with a bowl cut and a pencil mustache waiting in line? What would you do if you heard him accuse the guy behind him of breathing on his neck? How would you react if you saw him take his nuggets and fries and rush out of the restaurant?

What would you do if you wound up at the bus station on first avenue an hour later? What would you think if you saw the same guy talking with a friend of his? What would you say if you overheard his friend telling him that his fly was down?

one day you will find yourself in the mcdonald’s on king street. you will see a man waiting in the front of the line, and he will have a bowl cut and a pencil mustache. he will turn around and accuse the man behind him of breathing on the back of his neck. then he will take his order and hurry out of the restaurant.

one hour later you will be at the bus station on first avenue. you will see the same man as before, this time with a friend. his friend will point out to him that his zipper is undone.

you have been warned.

I’m in this obscene temple of surplus-enjoyment, drinking my coffee without cream, and there’s this guy—bowl-cut, pencil-mustache, pure ideological symptom. He screams at the guy behind: “You’re breathing on my neck!” *Sniff* This is not about air; it’s the Real of the Other’s jouissance invading his symbolic coordinates. He grabs his nuggets—phallic substitutes, crispy ideology in breaded form—and bolts.
One hour later, bus station: his friend, the superegoic jester, whispers, “Your zipper’s down.” Ah! The truth erupts: the earlier rage was just displacement. The real lack was there all along, gaping, obscene, undone. The mustache twitches. The system hiccups. And so on.

And I saw a house of feasting upon the street called King, its twin arches as horns of scarlet.
There stood one crowned with a bowl of bronze, his lip a single reed of night. The breath of the second beast—fiery from the pit—touched his neck. With seven thunders he cried: “Woe, thou wind of the abyss!” He seized the sealed stones and salted rods, and fled into the night.
After one hour, at the gate of iron steeds on the avenue called First, his fellow raised a sword-finger: “Thy veil is rent; shame lieth bare.” A great zipper thundered from the throne, sealing the breach.
Hear, O churches: gird thy loins, lest the dragon prevail.

Socrates: Come, Glaucon, let us walk a little further along King Street and consider what we have just witnessed in the house of the golden arches. Tell me, did you mark the man with the bowl-shaped hair and the thin mustache who stood first in the line?
Glaucon: I did, Socrates. He seemed ill at ease, as though the very air oppressed him.
Socrates: And when the youth behind him exhaled—merely breathed, as all men must—our bowl-haired friend turned and accused him of assault upon his neck. Is breath not the common gift of nature?
Glaucon: It is. Yet the man seized his paper box of fried fragments and fled the place as one pursued by Furies.
Socrates: An hour later, by the station of the iron omnibuses on First Avenue, I spied him again. His companion pointed to the man’s trousers and said, “Friend, your gate stands open.”
Glaucon: A small thing, yet he blushed as though the whole city gazed upon his shame.
Socrates: Consider, then: in the first scene he guards the back of his neck as though it were the pass at Thermopylae; in the second he leaves the front unguarded as a child. What does this teach us of the soul disordered by the polis?
Glaucon: That men mistake trifles for invasions and neglect the true breaches.
Socrates: Just so. The city trains us to fear the breath of a neighbor yet blinds us to the zipper of our own making. Until the soul learns measure, it will rage at shadows and stumble through open gates.

>>24847055
made me kek, nice one anon.

>>24847486
From The Hammer Speaks, § 47: “The Zipper and the Snarl”
...the city “blinds” us to true breaches, as if the noble spirit should whimper for symmetry and self-mastery. Bah! The man who snarls at breath on his neck and forgets his zipper is no stumbling child; he is the overman in larval fury, Dionysus half-awakened, tearing at the Apollonian veil of order. Let him rage at shadows! Let his gate gape! Only through such chaotic excess does the herd-animal shatter its chains and birth the creator who laughs at gates and measures alike. Socrates wants the soul trimmed like a tame olive; I say let it grow monstrous, let it howl, let it stride into the abyss with trousers aflame; there, beyond the stench of the polis and its “just so,” the hammer of the eternal Yes will forge the sovereign individual who needs no zipper, no neck-guard, no Socratic nurse.

>>24847505
To the vulgar eye, Nietzsche here merely inverts Socrates: where the dialectician seeks “measure,” the prophet of Dionysus celebrates the snarling, unzipped man as a larval overman. Yet the esoteric teaching, legible only to those who read between the hammer-blows, is far subtler and more perilous.

The Bowl-Cut Man as Philosopher-King in Disguise
The “plebeian” Socrates is the exoteric target; the true object of censure is the polis itself, whose laws and customs enforce the very “measure” that Nietzsche pretends to scorn. The bowl-cut fool—hair shorn in servile uniformity, mustache a faint parody of aristocratic grooming—represents the philosophic nature compelled to hide within the democratic herd. His rage at the breath on his neck is no petty irritation but the noble lie in action: a deliberate provocation to escape the queue, the McDonald’s, the entire apparatus of mass feeding. The open zipper is not accident but sign: the philosopher’s private parts remain unguarded because his true “gate” is the mind, which no city can close.
Dionysus and Apollo as Political Code
When Nietzsche cries “Let him rage at shadows! Let his gate gape!,” he signals to the adept that the apparent chaos is ordered excess. Dionysus is the mask for the philosopher’s esoteric destruction of the city’s Apollonian order; the “trousers aflame” are the burning of the laws—a veiled allusion to the Platonic guardians who must appear mad to the many while ruling in secret. The hammer of the “eternal Yes” is not affirmation of chaos but the philosophic legislation that replaces Socratic dialectic with the sovereign decree.
The Final Reversal
The closing image—“the sovereign individual who needs no zipper, no neck-guard, no Socratic nurse”—is the ultimate esoteric joke. The overman is not the unzipped savage but the philosopher-king who has transcended the city entirely, dwelling beyond its gates (which is why he needs none). Socrates is mocked not for seeking measure but for seeking it openly, among the many. Nietzsche’s true teaching: the noble soul must appear to scorn measure while enforcing it in silence, zipperless yet impenetrable.

Thus the paragraph is a double writing: exoterically a hymn to chaos, esoterically a manual for the philosophic conquest of the polis under the guise of its destruction. The adept who laughs at the gaping fly thereby signals his fitness to rule those who merely blush.

>>24847054
I was walking through the doorway of the McDonalds on King Street when the drugs began to take hold. The whole room was breathing and multicolored Aztec patterns laced every surface. I noticed an abstract blue fog toward the front of the store, it seemed like it was rotating, not through space but rather through time. It suddenly occurred to me that language itself is what constrains us within the conceptuality of the blue fog suddenly turned red, and rotated itself timewise toward a green hypercube floating behind it. The blue gas suddenly dispersed itself in a way that made my stomach feel slightly uneasy.

Everything kind of shifted around me in a wash of multicolored pixelations and then I was in this loud metallic hell-dimension. I saw the same blue fog from before. There was this ever-shifting writhing mass of wormlike strands floating next to it. It was folding in on itself from every angle at the same time. Heavy, man.

>>24847054
Having lost his tail, sgt. Gary "Skinny" Seymour plunges into the seedy side road. About as Kingly as They are relenting. A horrid smell wafts down the street, yet Skinny is insatiate enough to check his pockets. A few quid.
He enters the establishment. A quick scan across the room, no fairer sex. Oh shit, the man at the front is Bola Stilus. Hide behind the trash can. The odour is somehow even worse than Bola's hairdo, still bearing that awful Juggernaut hairdo and that ghastly pencil above his lips.
"What exactly do you think you are doing?" he sez. Heart stops. Then settles down when he addresses the man behind him in line. Like lambs to slaughter. "You're breathing down my neck, man!". The man only harhars in response.
"Your order, sir", Bola grabs his bag and leaves, missing Skinny. Nuggies and chips, Gary reckons. Or it could be drifting from the bin. Famished regardless.

When he drifts down he first avenue like the lunch he just let loose down the sewer, in the biological mouth and down the porcelain in record time, he spots Bola again. Waiting for a bus with his pal. Is he with Them too? Doesn't look the part, seems more of a fairy than a fed, but you never know.
He points at Bola's crotch: "Y'know hun, I have never done it in public yet, but if you insist..." he makes a ring with his fingers and yo-yos it back and forth from his mouth. Stilus recoils and zips his fly back up. "Definitely a glowie", Gary thinks.

>>24847054
Subjective

I was feeling pretty snazzy that day. I’d just gotten my hair trimmed and my mustache touched up. I decided to treat myself to some McDonald’s. The one on King, with the good ketchup packets. Somebody there might learn a thing or two about style, too. I winked at myself in the mirror and headed out the door.

I was at the front of the line and had just ordered my usual. That cute girl was working the counter today - I think she noticed my hair. I was about to say something to her, but then I felt this disgusting moist warmth on the back of my neck. I turn around and there’s some greasy bastard standing there, polluting my neck with his breath.
“Dude, manners? You’re breathing on my neck.” I said.
He just looked at me. Suddenly I got a really bad feeling, my heart started to beat faster. I noticed my order was ready and grabbed it and got out of there.

An hour later, I was telling my buddy at the bus station how close I’d been to getting her number. He chuckled and told me my zipper was undone. What could I say? Envy always tries to downplay other people’s success.

>>24847561
Nice

>>24847486
>>24847505
>>24847519
Kek, brilliant.

>>24847054
McCarthy
He turned the horse down King Street towards the building at the end of the promenade. When he arrived, he grabbed hold of the saddle curl and loosened his boot in the stirrup and swung his leg over, dismounting the horse. The building was large in front of him and the two yellow swoops intersected like paling beams of dusky sunlight and where they crossed they marked an unintentional destination before him. He hobbled the horse to the paloverde pole and lifted the hat back on his head and walked towards it. A small Mexican with hair fashioned like a monk and a thin mustache stood at the front of the line.
Deja de respirar en mi cuello, he said to the man behind him.
No te estoy respirando en el cuello.
No tenéis el aliento de Dios, sino el de los demonios.
The monk then grabbed his pollo and his papas a la Mexicana and turned around and walked towards the boy.
Caballero.
He said as he smiled and tipped his hat to the boy and walked out.
An hour later he saw the monk standing, waiting for something to come that was late in the coming. His brow was furrowed in contemplation and he looked beyond in the distance at the sun dripping like candlewax below the peaks of the mountains at the edge of the horizon. His friend pointed to him a zipping motion, but the monk furrowed his brow yet more and lifted his hand to smooth his mustache and ignored him and looked on.

I stood in the automated queue at McDonald’s on King Street, one of the last physical fast-food establishments still in operation—though modified, of course, for the times. The walls were lined with self-cleaning nanobots, and every table was embedded with digital interfaces that allowed you to adjust your meal to your precise nutritional requirements. Even the fries, made from a synthetic bio-crop, were curated to your taste through an algorithm that predicted your ideal flavor profile.

I was studying the menu when I noticed the man at the front of the line. His appearance was jarring—an anachronism even by the standards of the 23rd century. A bowl cut, which had once been a symbol of mid-20th-century rebellion, and a pencil-thin mustache, more a sign of pretension than style. He stood rigid, eyes flicking nervously, as if the algorithms in the air were reading his every thought.

He suddenly turned toward the man behind him, his voice cutting through the sterile hum of the restaurant. “You’re breathing too close to me,” he accused, his tone both strange and familiar, like something out of a history lesson. The man behind him, a younger figure with augmented eyes that glowed faintly, looked stunned.

There was a moment’s hesitation—an awkward, irrational pause where the laws of logic, reason, and the TechConscious should have smoothed over the situation. But no. The man with the bowl cut, his face flushed with some ancient primal discomfort, grabbed his tray—nuggets and fries—and fled the restaurant in a flurry of movement. The precision of his exit was almost too swift, a performance of a man unprepared for the unpredictability of human emotion.

An hour later, I saw him again—outside the First Avenue Bus Station. His movements were more erratic now, as if the nerves that had once propelled him from the restaurant had not settled. His friend, standing just slightly too close, whispered something to him. I couldn’t hear the words, but the expression on the man’s face said everything. Then the friend pointed at him with a mock-serious air. “Your zipper’s undone.”

The man froze. His face shifted from embarrassment to horror, and his hands immediately reached for his clothing in a futile attempt to restore some semblance of dignity. But in a world of data-read, predictive algorithms, there was no place for such irrationality. In the quantum-accuracy of the TechConscious, a moment like this was an anomaly, a blip of human unpredictability.

My cherished strolls along King Street, had decisively changed in character, once these walks were punctuated by my hope that on them I would encounter the freckles of the Daisy’s girl, by which feature she made herself so endearing to me, or even a most fleeting glimpse of the coronal warmth of Dairy Duchess. Though these possibilities deeply excited me, none was more so promising was the thought of the delightful frothing that could be obtained only from the Stirbucks Siren.

Despite my utmost desire that they should do so, none of those I sought after appeared, and though the disappointment caused by my failing to find those who had most occupied my thoughts for several of the preceding hours was devastating, it was yet too early to return home, for I could not bear to see my mother’s sorrowful face upon seeing that my insulin was peevishly low. I instead entered into an exceedingly popular restaurant at which many of the most estimable of that time had dined, despite their otherwise most scrupulous expressions of distaste for anything of that nature.

Within McDounagh’s, I received a waft of a saturated ether. The scent so familiar to my childhood, and which was so overpowering that I was later throughout life helplessly drawn to any branch that I found across the many cities and suburbs I occasioned.

At the front of the line, I observed a man identifiable by the style of his umbrally dark hair which, while still commonly adorned according to the prevailing style of Hispanics, in those days called an ‘Edgar,’ had in fact already since reached the height of its popularity, due to its being prohibited in El Salvador. The rest of the world followed its aesthetic example in the following years marked by the on-going rise of various sects of Nationalist pride, a demonstration of the ever-changing kleidoscopic patterns of our preferences, influenced in untold ways by the changing tides of sentiment.

As he turned his head, a moustache was revealed so thin that it could hardly be observed, except when under the precise illumination of florescent bulbs. I was without doubt that this was in fact none other than Bizon Julliard (a last name which he erroneously pronounced with a “Hoo” mistaking the origin of his own patronymic, thus pronouncing in in the manner of ‘Julio’), the stepson of, Senor de Puella, one of the largest purveyors of non-organic fertilizer in the country. He did not appear to notice that I was behind him in the line, and I did not approach to greet him, and ask to cut in line so that I could procure the chicken nuggets that my mind had then begun to consider, because I knew him only indirectly, through an extended conversation with his father about the water table, of which the only thing I could remember was his momentous interjection of languishing epithets about his stepson’s objectionable tonsorial choices which I had with him an inter-industry conference organized by my father, as representative of petroleum in the southern district. Rather, Bizon was engaged with the man immediately behind him, his face contorted in the most unbecoming crimson, the presumed heir to the large industrial fortune and whom from others, such as the daughter of my dentist, who attended Horace Mann in overlapping years with him, I had been informed was a person of great cultivation, and dazzling witticisms, accosted the penitial man:

“Excuse me, if is not the result of my coiffure leaving my nape too exposed to an atmosphere which may or may not be humidity controlled, I could say, while I have waited patiently like Selene for the blazing sun, for my order, you have let aerosolized droplets from your unknown gullet drape my neck with what I can assure you is an unwanted dew.”

I was dismayed by the coarseness of Bizon’s words to the man whose face I did not yet see. But more offensive to me than the lack of courtesy that he showed while queuing for his deep fried refection, was his apparent confusion of the character’s in Ovid’s Metamorphosis, for it was of course not Selene but Persephone who according to mythology, was interred for part of the year in the underworld. Besides this, what he counted as a turn of phrase lacked any genuine elegance, and the reference was contrived, his strained metaphor was rather like the way a nubile sophomore, still developing and hence still short of her matronly expectations, covers his slight bosom in ornate lace brassier which leaves an unflattering floating gap between the fabric and flesh because of the misfitting of the cup and her chest. These misfortunes of the jejune, when they do not give way to improvement generally affected upon us by time, whether for want of effort or a defect in latent capacities, nonetheless do sometimes persist, and the gap remains.

Before he continue to further disgrace the man, who was in fact still but a youth, and though relatively short of stature, was with a developed muscular build, a not-unattractive mullata girl, whose skin was like the de-saturated milk-laden brown, was but the support for a desire for the whipped cream topper that was the chief aim of any caffeinated dalliance that my soul contained, tired of calling out his order number, addressed Bizon directly.

“Sir, are you going to take these nuggets?” Bizon was interrupted in his tirade, and coming again to his senses, snatched the brown paper bag from the girl’s hand—it made a delightful crinkling of which even my best stationary was not equal to—and quickly left the restaurant.

When Bizon passed me, still ignorant that I had observed the entire seen, upon seeing the stark line where the electronic razor had so divided his skull, by the appearance of the outgrowth of the lower section, not more than two weeks before his present appearance at this restaurant, upon which a bulging capillary flexed under tension of his inexplicable anger at I was reminded of the manner in which certain landscapes painting by Manuel Cabre, whose paintings I had observed on an extensive but pleasantly aimless perusal of Google Images, during one of my daily ‘Hours’ of prescribed internet downtime which had then been prescribed to me for the sake of my health. In those paintings, the harsh abrasions carved out by nature from the rock faces over untold centuries contrasted with the habitual tilling of the lowland plains, erased and created in the pattern of seasonal agriculture. As I had once remarked to Senor Buenomento, that what I found in Cabre’s works differed so much from what I had seen the previous summer of the French digestion of similar scenes, in which what is considered the ‘top’ and the ‘bottom’ were hardly distinguishable. However, unlike Cabre’s paintings, which left me aghast with their severe edges, Bizon’s haircut could have cost him no more than sixty dollars, and was not so much worth mentioning specifically to a stranger.

These thoughts were prematurely curtailed when, hearing the clear voice, confidently ordering a Mig Bac with an extra large fries, I knew immediately that the man whom Bizon had so unjustly regaled was in fact the son of an extraordinary professional golfer, known on tour simply as “Bomber” and who later through remarriage of his mother, would be related (by law) to the President.* Thus his attempts to join the nearby Belleview Palms, a country club whose membership he had for the past several months been petitioning and for several years before that prospectively coveting was unbeknownst to him doomed then and there.

[ft. While certain similarities to the biography of Charlie Woods suggest that the author intended Bomber to be a simple insertion, careful reading of his opinions and temperament suggest instead that the character is in fact a synthesis of several prominent junior golfers of the author’s time, though mainly of Woods and Little John Daly II.]

After Bomber left, it was finally my turn to order. Excursions to the burger joint, though different from the upscale American dining couture that I was accustomed, in which patties were “smashed” rather than fried, and between the two patties, rare Liliacae were pressed into the meat, permitted reprieve nonetheless from my restrictive diet of lightly de-frosted breaded chicken tenders, which my social worker dutifully prepared each evening inbetween her intolerable and almost ecumenical repeating of much circulated but highly dubious mantras endorsed by new-age influencers, which she was anyways hardly equipped to herself understand.

I was not interested in the least by “mindfulness” and wished instead to completely give myself over to delights which I had experienced only in places like the front seat of a sedan idling in the car parking of a public park, with a vellum-like bag containing the escheats of the legacy of fast food. These ways had first been modeled to me in a chance “Review of the Week,” during a time when my parents, parsimonious in their disbursement of an allowance to me, would have anyways sought to deny me the pleasures over objections of future difficulties of the front-rise of my trousers. Thinking again of my parents original hopes that I might still one day obtain an athletics scholarship, I ordered nuggets and then left the golden arches behind me, knowing that this would be the last time that I would again satisfy the nostalgic olfactory pleasure.

Afterwards, an hour later and outside a bus station on first avenue, I was humming the words “corte no permitido” to the tune of Sebastian Aguilera de Heredia’s Pange Lingua, when I saw Bizon again. While I was once more shocked by that Bizon, who by reputation was a person considered to “have money” as people still said in these days, was waiting for public transit, I was thence thrice and finally shocked by his friend’s revelation that Bizon had forgotten to administer to his fly zipper, thus bearing to all the pattern of his underwear, which was of a type identifiable and even more so revealing as to the pretenses and more humble stature. Thus, this third strike against him reiterated and repeated that of the first that I had observed earlier in the day, and from thence onward I was of the impression that he was to be perpetually unequipped for the wiles of society life, and moreover he was unaware why in certain perpetually-online circles, he was condescendingly referred to as “Judgment of Anubis” because of his enduring habit to leave unattended the metal teeth of his pants which customarily would protect one from embarrassments such as his, on dual account that his doing so revealed firstly a pattern resembling to a high degree something from the Chroma 3 Collection, but also, because he was judged in the most respectable groups to be likely to coming only “low damage,” in each relevant manner.

In the sacred temple of golden arches upon the cosmic intersection of King Street, there stood a man—his hair, a perfect celestial arc, cut with the precision of divine geometry, and his lips adorned with the thin shadow of a mustache, as if etched by Hermes himself. He, perceiving a subtle disturbance in the ether, accused the figure behind him of disturbing the sacred flow of breath—of exhaling upon the back of his neck as though the very air were an offering to the unseen gods.

With the swiftness of a thought cast into the void, he seized his earthly sustenance—the nuggets, those golden spheres of the mundane world, and the fries, the elongated fingers of some forgotten divinity—and departed, as though his actions were guided by some hidden law of the cosmos.

But lo, the universe is cyclical, and the hour, as though it were a wheel, brought him back to the realm of flesh and stone. Beneath the cold gaze of the bus station on First Avenue, the hidden mysteries of the body revealed themselves: his companion, a fellow wanderer of the visible and invisible worlds, pointed to the unclosed aperture of his garment. Thus, the fabric of the world unraveled one thread at a time, and the zipper—forgotten, undone—became the final symbol, a key to understanding the eternal dance between man and his own oblivion.

Here Lies the Man of King Street
With a bowl cut, a pencil-thin mustache,
He breathed in the world, but could not bear its breath.
In the line at McDonald’s, he claimed the air
As his own, yet in haste, he departed,
Leaving nuggets and fries behind.
An hour later, the world revealed its jest:
The zipper undone, the smallest imperfection
In a world too keen on control.

1/ You won’t believe what happened at McDonald’s on King Street A man with a bowl cut & pencil-thin mustache just had the most bizarre meltdown… #McDonalds #PersonalSpace

2/ He was in line, minding his own business, when he suddenly turns around and accuses the guy behind him of breathing on his neck. Yes, breathing #SocialAwkwardness #Overreaction

3/ Without hesitation, he grabs his nuggets & fries and bolts out of the restaurant like a man on a mission. Was he escaping the air itself?? #Escape #FastFoodDrama

4/ But wait… An hour later at the bus station, his friend points out… his zipper’s DOWN. The irony? After controlling everyone else’s space, he forgets the most basic detail! #ZipperFail #LifeLessons

"Stop breathing up my well-toned ass!"
"I am not, you queer looking lass."
He ran with the nuggets,
Detailed every bit.
"I wonder how: your zip's opening reveals no mass."

INT. MCDONALD'S – NIGHT

The hum of fluorescent lights. JACK, tired and disoriented, steps into the near-empty McDonald's. VANCO, an eerie figure in his 40s, with a bowl cut and pencil-thin mustache, stands at the front of the line. There's something off about him. Vanco orders with a cold, mechanical voice.

Behind him, A YOUNG MAN fidgets too close, his breath audible in the thick air. Vanco stiffens, his eyes snapping to the man.

VANCO
(low, dangerous)
Did you just... breathe on me?

The Young Man recoils, confused. Vanco grabs his tray—nuggets and fries—without a word, and storms out.

EXT. STREET – NIGHT

The city pulses with neon. Vanco walks quickly, his steps sharp, precise. He disappears into the shadows, then emerges at a bus stop on First Avenue.

A FRIEND leans against the station wall, a smirk on his face.

FRIEND
(soft, almost amused)
Zipper’s down.

Vanco freezes. He stares at his pants, his fingers grazing the zipper.

VANCO
(flat)
It never should’ve been up.

Without a word, he walks away into the city’s dark pulse. The Friend watches, his face unreadable.

FADE OUT.

>>24849378
Neon Pulse presents a sterile, detached take on masculinity, with Vanco embodying the tired trope of the paranoid, vulnerable man in public space. His reaction to a simple breath on his neck and the awkward zipper mishap is more a symptom of the film’s failure to engage deeply with the power dynamics at play. The scene misses the opportunity to explore how hyper-masculinity manifests in subtle, everyday interactions. Instead of delving into the emotional complexity or discomfort of the character, it offers an ambiguous moment that feels cold and incomplete.

In contrast, Quentin Tarantino would have approached this moment with much more depth and rawness. His style would have turned the scene into a charged, confrontational exchange that explores vulnerability and power dynamics with both emotional and physical intensity. Tarantino would have crafted a moment that made the audience uncomfortable—complicit in the male alienation—and forced us to confront the fragility beneath the bravado. Where Neon Pulse flirts with critique, Tarantino would have used this moment to unravel masculinity, offering not just an observation but a critique that would resonate and challenge the audience.

>>24849391
Title: Neon Pulse (reboot)

INT. MCDONALD’S – NIGHT

The fluorescent lights buzz, casting a cold, sterile glow over the half-empty restaurant. JACK orders at the counter, barely awake, as VANCO stands in front, his perfect bowl cut and pencil mustache stark against the grime of the place. He’s too clean for this world.

VANCO
(to cashier, with eerie calm)
I’ll take the nuggets. Fries. Coke—no ice. Got it?

The CASHIER barely looks up, nodding in robotic disinterest. Behind Vanco, a YOUNG MAN is standing too close, breathing down his neck. The camera catches Vanco’s eyes, narrowing, teeth clenching—paranoia setting in.

VANCO
(low, menacing)
You... you just breathe on me?

The Young Man freezes, trying to process. Vanco turns slowly, his eyes cold and calculating.

VANCO
(voice rising)
Don’t ever breathe on me again, you understand? I ain’t in the mood for some stranger’s goddamn air on my neck. What is this? Nightmare Alley? Are you trying to get in my head?

The Young Man stammers, but Vanco doesn’t wait. He snatches his tray—nuggets, fries, Coke—and storms out.

EXT. STREET – NIGHT

The city hums, neon lights flickering. Vanco walks fast, the camera tracking his every sharp, precise step. His paranoia is palpable. He looks over his shoulder, eyes darting, like someone’s following him. Maybe they are.

CUT TO:

Vanco arrives at a nearby bus station. The fluorescent lights overhead hum. He stops, staring off into the void. A FRIEND—mid-30s, wearing a leather jacket—leans against the wall, watching him with a smirk.

FRIEND
(laughing)
Hey, your zipper’s down, man.

Vanco freezes. He slowly looks down, the camera zooming in on his midsection. His fingers twitch.

VANCO
(eyes narrowing)
Yeah, well, maybe it should be down. You ever think about that? Maybe this whole world’s just one big fucking zipper that’s too tight, and the only way to breathe is to let it open wide. Like in Fight Club, you know? You think Brad Pitt’s character gave a damn about his zipper? Hell no. He was too busy punching his way through the bullshit. You feel me?

Vanco pulls up the zipper, his movements mechanical, deliberate. He doesn’t look at his friend, but his voice is sharp.

VANCO
(flat)
I never wanted it up in the first place.

Vanco turns sharply and walks off into the neon-lit streets, his steps echoing like a man with a mission.

The Friend watches him disappear into the night. He shakes his head, lights a cigarette, and exhales slowly, the smoke rising like the tension that’s still in the air.

FADE OUT.

Airport Novel:
Anon Anonson whistled cheerfully as he strolled toward the McDonald’s on King Street in South Carolina. It was a beautiful October morning, and the warm weather and technicolor blue sky put a dance in his step. Feeling the gentle breeze on his face made Anonson glad he had ridden the bus all night to this postcard-perfect town.
Anonson, a thirty-year-old office clerk from New York, was surprised to learn he had accrued fourteen days of annual leave that he had to use before the month ended. A new company policy required all employees to exhaust their vacation days before each contract renewal.
So fourteen days of paid leave plus the weekends meant he had more than half a month all to himself. Anon Anonson had not had this much free time since graduating from Baruch College in New York back in 2019. He didn’t even know what to do with himself.
Sure, spending the first four days lazing on his couch, going to sleep, and waking up whenever he pleased felt amazing. But on the morning of the fifth day, he was itching to do something. Anything.
“You should hop on a plane. Go see the world,” his mother had said over the phone.
Anonson did not have the heart to tell her that her son could not afford to fly to Maine, let alone go globe-trotting. He simply told her he wanted to see America in all her glory.
Judging by her enthusiastic “Oh, that’s a fantastic idea, darling,” his mother must have assumed he was going on a road trip with friends or maybe even with a special lady friend. Anon Anonson did not have the heart to shatter that dream of hers, too.
So now he was here, visiting a charming McDonald’s three states away, feeling like a kid entering Disney World. As Anonson approached the crystal-clear sliding doors, the commercial-grade Dormakaba ES 200 system automatically opened them, and he stepped through the invisible high-velocity air curtain designed to keep out pests and maintain indoor temperature.
He closed his eyes and took a moment to appreciate the cool breeze washing over him before taking in his surroundings.
This McDonald’s looked like it had stepped out of the 1990s, with a bright beige-and-yellow color scheme and earthy terracotta tiles that made him feel like he was entering an old friend’s house. It was a far cry from the sterile gray restaurants back in New York. Anonson took a deep breath and smelled the freshly brewed instant coffee in the air. That alone made the whole trip worth it.
Then, he noticed the people.

>>24849561
(Continue)
There was a pretty blonde thing behind the counter, and two men were lining up to talk to her. The first man was of medium height, maybe five-foot-nine, Anonson guessed. He was skinny, with a swarthy complexion and a bowl cut. When he turned around, Anonson noticed he sported a pencil mustache atop his broad lips.
The second man was taller and heavier, hunched over with his plump face jutting forward. He wore thick-rimmed glasses and was breathing heavily through both his nose and mouth.
“Will you stop that?” Bowlcut said angrily.
Fatty blinked. “Huh? Stop what?”
“You’ve been breathing on the back of my neck, that’s what. Like, back off, man.”
“Have I?” Fatty said slowly. His cheeks flushed pink. “Sorry. But you smell so pretty.”
“Jesus!” Bowlcut snapped.
Quickly, Bowlcut grabbed his box of McNuggets and fries and pushed past Fatty.
Anonson stepped aside to give him room. As Bowlcut exited the building, he turned around and pointed at Fatty. “You’re sick, man. Sick!” he said before hurrying out of sight.
Left standing there, Fatty’s head and ears were bright red. He lowered his head and waddled toward the restroom. A moment later, Anonson heard the door slam shut.
Now, there were only Anonson and the blonde cashier.
“Well, that was exciting,” Anonson said as he approached the register.
Blondie gave him an awkward smile and asked what he would like. He ordered an Egg McMuffin with a side of hash browns and coffee. But when she handed me my items, he saw a phone number scribbled on the paper wrap.
Blondie winked. “I’m off at two. Call me.”
“Sure, I’d like that,” Anonson said, smiling.
After finishing his meal, Anon Anonson still had several hours to kill, so he took a stroll along scenic 1st Avenue. The rows of classical and Victorian architecture screamed Americana, and he imagined himself as James Stewart walking down a movie set.
But as he neared a bus stop, he spotted Bowlcut standing with another man, whom Anonson assumed was his friend. Bowlcut looked nervous. His eyes shifted from side to side, and his left foot tapped the concrete uneasily.
“Dude, your zipper’s loose,” his friend pointed out.
“Oh, right,” Bowlcut said in a daze.

>All these posts using —
what's the point? baiting for (you)s without effort?

>>24847054
I said it was growing in still, i wont shave, women love a 'stache man, stop saying it looks like your grandma's, where's she from anyway? All the women got mustaches there dont they. Once it grows in itll fit the cut. Stop saying i look like a peasant does your grandma have a bowlcut too or something? Its gonna be like an 80s thing its gonna be based. Lets see how you talk once i get my license and youre stuck here riding the same shitty busline up and down to work forever while im cruisin' in through the drive-thru, windows rolled down, hot chick on my side, chicken nuggets in the bag, fries on the side too, no lowlifes breathing down my neck, always too close, catching up to me, i dont want it, happened again at the Mac, they always get too close. I want to be alone, behind the steering wheel, the world an asphalt plain of rolling under my feet forever, she there too, finally, not talking, just listening to m- ow oops youre right its open.

Faulkner

The McDonalds sat squat and motionless on king street, as though having been erected over the concrete, it now owned the territory and every man that passed it must acknowledge it, in equal parts disdain and surrender. I entered the joint and stood in the line. Two men were already ahead in the line, one with a ghastly bowlcut, and the other afflicted with a constant slackness of the jaw that left the lips parted for whistling exhalations. Suddenly, the man at the forefront of the line turned around and drowned the succeeding mouthbreather in invective, as though he were a young military upstart and the man with bowlcut a longserving, nuisancehardened colonel. Then he grabbed his package of fries and nuggets and vacated the restaurant hastily.

Sometime later I would see the same man standing outside the bus station. His arms were folded and his mouth chewing, and his brows made him look as though he was meditating on the annoying trifle that he was subjected to an hour ago. Standing beside him, his friend apparent, was asking him to zip up his pants.

Hemingway:
To get: a portion of abandoned nuggets & fries for free between King street and first avenue - may or may not contain frustralingly nutted nut juice.

>>24847054
"African-American Vernacular English"

ayo hol up nigga listen ta dis shih listlisten so ya boi pull up ta Mickey D on MLK righ and dis fuggin geekass poindexta lugginass wy boi frunuhda lie wid he bo cut n he lil tinyass moustache nigga luggin fruity as fuck righ he turna roun n luguhda nigga behine im n tell dis nigga he breavin onda bagga he neg den he grab he lil nuggies n he fries n nigga run ow da stow den I see he ass sittin adda bus station on Firs n dis nigga fren tellinum he zippa down