Ego Death
This is an abridged excerpt from my debut novel The Con, which you can buy here.
Intermission
September 2021
Atlanta, GA
I’m dreaming.
And if I know I’m dreaming, that means this is a lucid dream…
Which in turn means I should theoretically have reality manipulation powers.
So, let’s just summon Emma Watson, and—wait, why am I at Casey’s?
“Cause Casey’s is fucking delicious, dude… gahwd!”
A chill runs down my spine as I recognize Leon’s overwrought Snake Jailbird affect. “We used to go here all the time in Omaha, remember? Or at least we did at first. Then only I did—to get you stuff—cause you were too lazy to walk across the street…”
“Oh fuck off, Leon… I was paying for everything at the time. Rent… food... it was like having a housewife but instead of getting my cum eaten I just had my self-concept undermined…”
“You mean because I didn’t just fucking agree with you on every little thing?!”
“You KNOW it ran deeper than that!”
“For the last few months we barely even SPOKE! You just sat in your big fucking Walt chair playing video games all night and wouldn’t even let me chill with you in the living room!”
“Yeah, well, maybe I didn’t want to have to talk you out of suicide for the fiftieth fucking time or watch you chug an entire handle of vodka and puke your fucking guts out! You never cleaned your toilet…”
“GAHWD—you’re still hung up over that? My dad literally sent you money for it later, what’s the big fucking deal?”
“It wasn’t just the toilet, dude… you left SO much of your crusty dried-up puke caked into your bedroom carpet… it haunted the apartment like a poltergeist—FUCK, dude, I never even went in there between you moving out and me moving to Orlando...”
“Well, it was a dark-ass fucking time for me...”
“You think it wasn’t for me? It brought me to watching Jordan fucking Peterson videos…”
“I mostly got through it by playing chess. And drinking vodka. Like a true Russian!”
“Funny.”
Leon sighs. “And neither one of us could help the other... like, there was that whole month near the end where we weren’t even TALKING at all… just communicating entirely by text and walking past each other like fucking mimes or some shit.”
“Because every conversation turned into World War 3.
I didn’t have the fucking bandwidth.”
“Well, it’s been a fuckin’ minute—you have the bandwidth now?”
“Not especially. I have other shit going on...”
“Can you at least turn around and face your so-called brother?
Or are you too good even for that now?”
“Yeah, nice try, asshole—I know how this works.” I clench my fist. “You’ll be something scary, and then I’ll wake up and won’t get to fuck Emma Watson!”
“Emma Watson’s not even that hot… gahwd! Like, if you actually look at her face on its own merits instead of as your eleven year-old self you’ll see she has a pretty masculine jawline, and…”
“Stop trying to disenchant the world! This is fucking ONTOLOGICAL TERRORISM!”
“Whatever. Look, will you stop talking at an empty fucking cash register?”
“No, I will not—because I very genuinely don’t want to talk to you anymore.
Thanks to you the first half of my stint in Omaha was fucking miserable…”
“Oh, fuck off! Not even YOU believe Omaha was my fault! You were just super butthurt Diana didn’t want to date you because you kept acting like an enormous fucking simp—completely against my advice, by the way, which is why I recused myself early on—and then they deleted your YouTube like a month after we moved there. I was just the dude you took it out on… even though I was literally the only person who actually cared…”
“What are you talking about?! I had 50,000 subscribers on YouTube—they cared! I was HUGE in the Alt Right… literally the one who brought in you and Nat and Diana…”
“I mean friends, asshole—ya know, like in real life? That thing you don’t even have anymore because you’ve turned into this weirdo Gatsby trick who won’t even turn around to talk to me like a normal human being...”
“Because I’ve MOVED ON, Leon! I’m not letting the past weigh me down anymore. I’m charting my own course. When I came to Orlando the whole idea was to wipe the slate clean…”
“You’re STILL trying to get with Natalie—almost FOUR years after what you told me was a clean break. How the fuck is THAT wiping the slate clean? Has there ever been even a SECOND of your life over the past few years where you weren’t trying to relive 2016? It’s like your personality got frozen in time when they deleted your Twitter. Anyway, just fucking turn around and stop being gay. “
…
“C’mon, seriously. Like, I genuinely promise I won’t be scary.”
…
I sigh. “Look, dude… it’s not that I think you’d be scary of your own volition because you hate me or whatever. It’s more my mind automatically goes to the worst possible thing… it’s simply my basic cognitive architecture. And so all my lucid dreams always terminate with me thinking ‘well gee I hope nothing scary happens’… which pretty much invariably causes something scary to happen. So it’s not your fault per se... my own neurosis will inevitably bring out the worst in you. And this time around I’d kind of rather just fuck Emma Watson. So will you kindly just amscray? Please?”
…
…
…
“Leon?”
…
…
Shit—looks it worked! I just hope nothing scary… *SMASH!*
Suddenly the cash register is drenched in vodka and there are hundreds of glass shards everywhere. Looking down I notice the word “Skol” on the largest of them.
“Turn around, WAAAALT…”
“AND FUCKING LOOK AT ME!”
Another bottle of vodka goes flying past my head, missing me by only a few inches.
*SMASH!*
“You gonna make me PUKE On you?”
*SMASH!*
*SMASH!* *SMASH!*
*SMASH!*
*SMASH!* *SMASH!*
*SMASH!* *SMASH!* *SMASH!* *SMASH!* *SMASH!* *SMASH!*
“Gawd… this is so fucking WALT-TIER!”
“Did somebody just say… Walt-Tier?”
Suddenly a man is standing behind the cash register—a man of aura and presence and power. He’s a big, beaming, bearded man with a forehead bearing a number written in flowery medieval script:
2024
Immediately I realize this man is me.
He nods lovingly in my direction rather like Aslan or Gandalf the White.
“Everything’s okay, lad—Daddy’s here. And you’ll be glad to know your future looks remarkably bright! Because I’m Walt Bismarck again—now on Substack!
Back with a vengeance, and life experience.”
Suddenly Leon’s voice is shaky. “Wait, this isn’t…”
2024 smirks at the entity behind my shoulder. “It isn’t what, Leon—fair?
Fair doesn’t exist. What exists is power and charisma and narrative framing.
And you know that—don’t you? You taught us half of what we know about that world.”
He glances at me and frowns. “Well, maybe like 75% of what HE knows about it.
“Anyway…” 2024 turns to me. “You know, of course, that Leon married a hooker…”
“You’re damn right I did! And she’s supporting me! It’s like a lion and…”
2024 opens the cash register and throws a handful of quarters at him.
“Aarrggh!—what was that for?!”
“Gonna pitch a fit about where the money comes from, Leon?”
He shakes his head and turns to me. “Anyway… shortly after Dragon Con the two of you will patch things up and be friends again for a couple weeks… but then you’ll have a huge fight because his hooker wife hates sugar babies and he’ll say at some point that he could have fucked Natalie, which will get you to block him. But then next year he’ll have some gay wife drama and come visit you in Orlando and you’ll reluctantly talk him out of suicide again…”
2024’s eyes glint over my shoulder mischievously. “…and THAT’S when Leon will confess to you that he was actually a virgin in 2017.”
“WHAT?!” I turn on a dime to stare Leon down.
…but now he’s nowhere to be seen.
2024 chuckles and walks around the counter to stand beside me. “Do you realize now how crucial narrative framing is? All he needed was a couple fictional college girlfriends… a few fake law school hookups… and suddenly the man had this insane psychic hold over you at a time when you yourself were quite a bit more sexually seasoned than him!”
I rub the back of my neck.
“I mean… when Leon and I moved to Tampa together I’d only hooked up with Natalie, like, twice… that’s not a MASSIVE amount of experience...”
“But it was SOMETHING! A girl had CHOSEN you—for a time at least. And Leon let you believe numerous women had chosen him.”
My scalp itches. “But at least in 2017… early 2018… before that shit with Diana killed my innocence… I dunno, Leon just straightforwardly WAS better with girls than me...”
2024 snorts. “Says fucking WHO? He was certainly more outcome-independent, which is like 90% of the entire fucking enterprise… but it’s also been a minute—maybe you were ignoring all the times YOU made girls bounce because you were so fixated on Nat and Diana?”
“No… dude… he was clearly more skilled. Like with texting and…”
“Look—I’d never deny he helped you with a lot of shit. Got you in the gym for the first time, socialized you into being less of a weird fuck… and he was a fantastic drinking buddy and debate partner. But there was a real psychic wound there he that scratched at for his own leverage in the friendship… and that leverage was ultimately predicated on FALSEHOOD.”
I shrug. “I mean, I scratched him on occasion too…”
“NIGGER.” 2024 shoves me. “Why are you defending him?! Look, do you remember Carl Schmitt’s friend-enemy distinction? That shit Richard Spencer was always on about?”
“I mean, of course…”
“Well, the most fundamental version of that is just you versus the universe. You versus everyone else. Not even in any sociopathic sense—just in the sense that you need to put yourself first or no one will. Like, everyone has to do that to SOME degree—
I mean, Leon certainly did. You just need to take your own side. Ooga fucking booga.”
I sigh and nod.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right… anyway, do I end up with Natalie after the Con?”
2024 looks at me a long while, then rolls his eyes.
“Does this SEEM like that type of story to you? What matters is you come out of the Con fundamentally changed… as does Natalie.”
“Do we…”
“I’m not giving you any more fucking spoilers! Also, why aren’t you asking me about my Substack? Like, we’re internet famous again—isn’t that what you’ve been missing for AGES? One of the things you really need to work on is being more present with the person you’re with…”
For the first time I take a good and proper look at 2024. His beard has grown rather thick and lustrous… but why he is wearing a Hawaiian shirt with bananas on it? Is that supposed to be ironic or something? And why’s he acting so fucking twitchy and aggressive?
Also…
2024 crosses his arms and smirks.
“You’re thinking I’m fat. Just fucking say it. Grow some cojones.”
“I mean…”
“You don’t need to be polite, faggot—it’s ME! Us...”
2024 cocks his head and pulls at his beard. “Also? I can totally hear your thoughts.
Don’t worry, I know you don’t ackshually want me to suck your cock;
not even we’re THAT high openness.” He winks at me enigmatically.
I take a step back.
“Wait…”
If you can hear my thoughts, why can’t I hear yours?
“What are you, fuckin’ John Rawls now?” He rolls his eyes. “Those are just the rules.”
“So explain them!” I cross my arms. “And I don’t mean in a normative sense, but…”
2024 nods curtly. “Don’t elaborate—wastes real estate.”
He hoists himself onto the counter and makes his way into a Snickers bar. “Alright… look, so… fundamentally? I’m not THAT different from Skol-Leon... We’re both archetypal images in your unconscious cognition. Sort of like a memory… just experienced in the present tense… that’s why Skol-Leon sounded a lot more like Snake Jailbird than he ever did in real life… and also why he was kind of cartoonishly overt in all his power plays and masculine posturing. Dude manifested in your dream as an exaggerated version of how you remember him in his most antagonistic moments...”
I frown to myself. “I mean, he didn’t seem… wait, so could he hear my thoughts too?”
2024 rolls his eyes and scoffs. “I mean, clearly not! Skol-Leon was a lower order projection borne of curdled camaraderie and stymied fraternal love. Which isn’t nothing—it certainly let him press your buttons...” He regards me with a look of vague disgust. “But that’s more a function of your own insecurity and inability to tolerate the existence of anyone who isn’t currently digesting your semen. I myself am something rather better integrated: an archetypal self-concept residing in the hallways between dreams and conscious thought.”
Damn. That’s actually pretty good…
“I know, right? Creative writing isn’t nearly as hard as you thought it was in high school...” 2024 finishes the Snickers bar and tosses the wrapper behind his shoulder, before sliding off the countertop and walking past me toward the gargantuan Casey’s refrigerator wall. “Honestly? You just hadn’t lived enough life back then. Hadn’t spoken to enough people; hadn’t been betrayed by enough art hoes…”
He winks at me. “Anyway, I’m getting thirsty!”
2024 opens the refrigerator and retrieves two Monsters… a White and a Purple.
He tosses the Purple over to me, and I just barely manage to pluck it out of the air.
“Oh, uh… thanks.” I nod at him gratefully. “I’m guessing I get Purple because it’s, like, the color of royalty and I’m sort of the king here because this is my dream?”
He playfully chucks a can of Pringles at me. “Don’t flatter yourself, dingus—it’s because I mostly look back on you as a retarded little nigger.” Then his face softens.
“In both a good way and a bad way, though. Anyway, drink your grape drank, Tyrone.”
I oblige him and take a big gulp. Not bad! But circling back: are you, like, my superego then?
“Dude, Freud sucks ass. You already know Jung’s way cooler...”
“Alright, so what sort of Jungian archetype are you?
Like some kind of Trickster figure?”
2024 leans against the fridge door lazily, then straightens out his posture when he realizes it’s too cold. “Every iteration of Jeremy is a Trickster figure—that’s just what makes you you. The salient question’s what sort of trickery are you doing, and how artfully are you doing it?” He pulls at his beard. “But I’d hazard I’m here for you as a sort of… idealized self-concept.”
I sigh. “Great to see I’ve gotten humbler through the years..."
“Ha! You unironically have. I’m just more overt about our narcissism than you are now.”
2024 takes a swig of White Monster and sucks his teeth. “Look: this isn’t niggery boasting; I’m simply stating reality. My Substack’s growing like wildfire, I’m monetizing and building an entirely robust passive income, I finally managed to fuck Alyssa, and speaking of that…”
He crushes up his Monster and flings it at a trash bin on the other end of the store:
“Kobe!”
The can smashes into the side of the bin and falls to the ground, dribbling out the last few drops of White Monster like so much pee from the wiener of an elderly man.
2024 turns to me and grins. “Seems I cursed it...”
“Anyway, I was gonna say I actually have no less than THREE girlfriends at the moment: two Zoomette side pieces… plus Rebecca as my main.”
Wait, you got fucking REBECCA back? How in the hell…
“How do ya fuckin’ THINK, Poindexter?!”
It’s a new voice—a third voice. One superficially akin to our own lusty theatrical baritone, yet it hits the ear differently—almost ghoulishly?
“No doubt the little kike was SHITFACED and needed her RENT paid, and at long last we seemed a slightly more interesting fuck than some weepy septuagenarian ATM.
Congratulations—I guess…”
2024’s self-satisfied expression melts like rice pudding dropped into a tank of sulfuric acid as we both turn to see the third voice belongs to yet another Jeremy—one with the deadest eyes I’ve seen in my life and a face like spoiled milk.
And carved into the meat of his forehead? a grisly crimson 2023
Talk about DeSantis vibes… when’s the last time my guy even slept?
Christ, his fucking bloodstream must be like half Adderall at this point…
2023 lumbers on past us and grabs a Red Bull from the refrigerator wall.
He then starts to double back, but is distracted by an ice cream sandwich in the last section, and grabs three of them to help him get through the difficult conversation we’re having. 2024 chortles gaily at this, and that seems to greatly agitate 2023, who proceeds to glare at the aging satirist whilst angrily devouring his Chipwich.
“Yeah, have at it, Whitman—get in your giggles! Just remember I’M the one building that Dragon’s Hoard for you to coast on while you’re off playing public intellectual…”
2024 crosses his arms.
“Nigger, you’re doing no such thing! When’s the last time in your life you even TRIED to save a single solitary penny? You’re STILL the dude who cashed out his 401k so he could fly out new coeds from Seeking every weekend—that’s literally the reason you got into job stacking! Let’s not pretend you’re some responsible Clifford Spatz type…”
2023 sneers at him and licks Chipwich out of his mustache. “Did I say our Dragon’s Hoard was a SAVINGS ACCOUNT, you pretentious old satyr? Last I checked YOU’RE the one addicted to subtext and metaphor— how about interrogating THAT one? Obviously I’m nothing at all like Cliff Spatz, and haven’t even the faintest desire to be. By temperament I’m an epicurean creature—I live for exquisite food and drink, invigorating conversation… and desperate single mothers with flexible boundaries and accommodating rectal cavities...”
2024 opens the pizza warmer and grabs a hot dog.
Immediately 2023 tenses up. “Best not throw that at me, Shakespeare! I could make you REGRET it—take you apart at the SEAMS... Don’t forget I’m in better shape than you. Younger, too…” He crumples up his Red Bull.
2024 raises an eyebrow.
Then he gently places the hot dog in his mouth and starts to eat it.
And then he turns to me, and sighs, and makes a very strange expression I can’t quite interpret. “You know… this is genuinely very tasty. And it’s ironic, because the essay that brought me back as a public figure talked a lot about how much I just fucking hated Nebraska, right? But looking back… they had some world class gas station food. Like, the meat was just crazy high quality—not that rubbery Frankenfood shit. And I suspect there’s a crucial lesson in there: oftentimes you’ll find redemption in the very strangest of places.” He smirks. “Also, never underestimate how seriously these Germans take their sausages.”
2024’s eyes flicker over to 2023.
“Would Fatrick Bateman like to try one?”
2023’s face softens and he can’t help but chuckle.
“Alright… Sure, dude. Just toss it over.”
2024’s eyes narrow on him. “Nigger, do I LOOK like some Uber Eats slave? Or one of your Zoomer fucksleeves? Get it your fucking SELF.” He opens the container.
2023 pauses. Leans back resentfully against the counter. Sighs. “Dude, fuck off...” Shaking his head bitterly he begins his assault on a second Chipwich.
2024 exhales. It feels heavy; predatory.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought you’d say. Zero agency. Zero follow-through! Can’t even get real food… And you want to know something? You’re entirely right you could kick my ass. But this fella right here?” 2024 nods in my direction. “He’d EASILY kick yours.”
Somewhat theatrically he turns to me. “So what do you say, brother? How’s about I get behind Gengar here and grab his fuckin arms, and then you can just go to town on his ribs? Maybe if we hurt the faggot bad enough he’ll stop trying to beat us to it. Hell, maybe he won’t end up needing one of those desperate single moms to bring out a little fuckin humanity in him for the first time in—whA?”
A new figure has interposed himself between us.
The arm sticking into the pizza warmer is a bit less splendidly muscled than mine own, but it also seems leaner; sharper; nimbler.
With purpose and zeal the hand attached to said arm clasps down hard upon a plump and juicy wiener, and before I can fully process the situation its owner has made his way over to 2023 and handed it to him. And that’s when he speaks—crisply, cleanly, in a manner pregnant with calculated intent:
“Handing off a big-ticket deliverable to a VIP client.”
The new Jeremy—handsome, lean, with a tight-cropped Mephistopheles beard and eyes like a hungry jaguar—acknowledges me with a curt nod.
On his brow is an inscription written in neat and minimalist font:
2022
The newcomer’s eyes briefly drift over to 2024. Scan him silently. He frowns.
Then his eyes dart back to 2023. He nods. “The most VIP client there is.”
2024 rolls his eyes.
“I was beginning to wonder when Mayor Pete would show up. How’s tricks at Deloitte, slick? Enjoying those 90-hour weeks? Having fun making that Jew rich?”
2022 cracks his neck and shrugs. “For now.” He grabs three Five Hour Energy off the counter and starts making his way through them. Alright, this one’s sort of cool…
2024 gets pissed at that thought and turns on me.
“Hey—fuck you too, guy! Before I quit my last job I was making twice as much as him and getting easily three times as much pussy…”
2022 cocks his head and smiles enigmatically. “Care to tell us your secret?”
2024 and 2022 lock eyes—high drama.
Then a weird noise.
My eyes drift over to 2023 and I notice he’s sperging the fuck out and smushing his Chipwich between groty twitchy fingers while glaring at 2024 in dysregulated rage.
“You’re talking about ME, ya prick! Or have you forgotten I’M the one who DOES THAT?! I make more MONEY… and get more PUSSY… than all of you uppity faggots COMBINED! You didn’t give me ANY credit for that earlier… but now you try to use it against HIM the moment it’s convenient for you?! CHRIST, you really are such a SLIMY… LITTLE… JEW!”
2024 bites his cheek and scratches his head and finally just smirks.
“Fair. Okay, look boys… I’m sorry, kay? To both of you.” He glances at me. “To ALL of you! It’s just… I kind of see you fellas as my little brothers, right? And so I want to offer you guidance where I see you’re…”
2022 taps his foot—twice and fast.
“Yeah, cut the shit, Rasputin. Have you forgotten your audience already? Not a great habit for a writer. By this point you’ve made it abundantly clear that you just want to boss us around and waste our time with shitty Jordan Peterson monologues. But until you get a ring on our Belle Juive’s finger or put a few Mischlings in her belly we’re at the same stage of life—and honestly? I’m kind of just doing it cooler than you. So, lick my ass.” He rolls his eyes and pops a few tiny orange pills in his mouth.
For a moment 2024 stares off into space. And then he smiles—in a weirdly warm way. “Not wrong. You’re sharp. A killer. I can’t pretend I don’t miss that about me—you? Us?”
“Already used that one…” 2022 rolls his eyes and taps his foot again—three times now.
2024 continues:
“Still—I think it may behoove you to respect your elders a wee bit more. Because remember: I’M the one who controls the pen. So *I* decide how you’re perceived. Which makes me half a God to you soyboys…”
Suddenly he advances on 2022. “Should I tell the world all about Lexi? Hmm?”
“Wai—what?” 2022 looks like he’s solving a hard math problem. “Do I know a Lexi?”
2023 groans and wipes Chipwich out of his beard. “You will soon...”
2024 nods. “Indeed he will! And the things he likes about himself now? There’s NO way to tell her story without shitting on ALL of them.”
He nods at 2023. “Like with you and Rose...”
“Or you and Morticia?” asks a fifth voice.
This Jeremy sounds different from the others. Not wiser, necessarily, and for sure not stronger. It’s more that this voice carries the weathered anguish of a middle-aged man.
He’s standing behind the counter. Looks about as fat as 2024, but his beard’s thicker; his Hawaiian shirt worn out and ragged. Christ, he seems three or four years older—he could fix that if he went outside more, but as it stands his posture especially is fucking atrocious… and he’s touching his face constantly… and his eyes evoke a feral child’s… yet also seem a bit glossy and dissociated?
Above those eyes there’s a number carved down to the white of his skull:
2025
The room is silent. 2024 stares at him a long time. He swallows. You can’t think of anything clever to say now—can you? That’s fine by me. You never had to impress me, big bro.
2024 turns to me and starts to say something, but 2025 interrupts him.
“He’s not trying to impress YOU, kid—he’s trying to impress himself.
Because the man has no consistent source of self-esteem.
Not internally, and at this point? Not even externally.”
He sighs theatrically and turns to me.
“At least you have Natalie... or your memories of her.”
He turns to 2022.
“Whereas you have Deloitte; the ladder; your precious Mammon…”
Then to 2023.
“And for you it’s power; predation; the thrill of conquest for its own sake…”
Finally he comes full circle to 2024:
“But you threw away your conquests… cheapened your own memories… and for what? To LARP as Hanania one day and Houellebecq the next?”
2024 responds with a petulant whine. “THAT’S NOT FAIR, DUDE! Like… at all!
My Substack is EXPLODING for one thing—basically everyone loves my essays.
I mean, you know that… you fucking wrote them not long ago! They’re so provocative and insightful! Meanwhile I’ve been branching into other types of writing… and everyone wants to come on my podcast…”
2025 rubs his temples. “Yeah, and you still seem to think internet racist celebrity will win you Twue Wuv the same way it *perhaps* did a decade ago. Sooo fucking childish…” He takes a deep breath. “But OF COURSE you think like that, because you never did the work—and never HAVE done the fucking work, not once in your life! Jerome was right… you didn’t do your PCT when it counted. Not with the drugs called Natalie, Rebecca, Mara, Lexi, Gretel, Rose, Selene…”
2024’s face lights up. “So you’re saying I fuck Selene?”
“Not like you want!” 2025 sighs. “Because it NEVER goes how you want—does it? And that’s why you STILL take womanly abandonment like a fucking incel, even after all these years and all those dozens of clammy, quivering, goosepricked bodies...”
He nods at the rest of us.
“You broadcast THEIR girl problems to all and sundry because a growth narrative helps your gay little newsletter. But shall we discuss that pod with Nastya?”
2024 says nothing—just glares at the floor and sighs. This fucking sucks… kind of feels like watching your cool older buddy get chewed out by his parents for something embarrassing.
“Doesn’t feel great when some crazy old fat man comes along to turn your actual life into a cute little anecdote for his bildungsroman, eh?” 2025 sneers at 2024 and shakes his head. “Well… Nastya may have been the first of these girls, but she’ll NOT be the last—no-ho sir! You’ll embarrass yourself again—BOY! And then you’ll do it again… and again and again, and then again once more after THAT. And every time it’ll happen in precisely the same way, because you’re STILL chasing the high of 2016, and whenever you’re denied your fix it’s like another flask of ricin poured into the well, until the entire fucking reservoir is just death.”
“That’s not him, faggot—it’s YOU.”
We all turn back to 2023.
Then 2025 sighs and rolls his eyes and tugs his beard and says
“I mean, that’s literally the point of what I’m…”
“Will you shut the fuck up, INCEL?!”
Now everyone’s silent and poor old 2025 looks as though he might have shit his pants.
2023 nods imperiously, then turns to 2022.
“Get me a Chipwich.”
2022 smirks; nods. “Aye aye, Cap’n...”
“Also another Red Bull…. please? Coconut berry, if they have it…”
“You’re in luck, big guy—catch!”
“Beautiful!” 2023 cracks open the Red Bull. Then he grunts at 2025: “Alright. So, look…”
“Say what you will about 2024…but the dude made his dream happen and is still getting top shelf pussy. He’s still making girls giggle and squirm and shit, which if we’re being honest is the only thing any of us losers fuckin cares about—and should really make ME the fuckin leader here, but whatever, screw you assholes. Point is YOU clearly aren’t getting any pussy, and so you feel the need to narrativize yourself as this grizzled-ass war veteran or some shit when it’s pretty evident you’re just, like… currently going through a rough patch.”
“And it’s like, I GET IT, because so am I. Obviously in a very different sort of way, but like… duh. I mean, we’re every one of us nothing if not painfully self-aware. But eventually you’ll have some success that will lend you psychological momentum and the girls will start coming again and you’ll look back on this current iteration as a bunch of LARPing blackpill faggot shit a la 2019. Because this narrativization game is entirely arbitrary at the end of the day, and we all know that.”
“Like, we tell ourselves these gay faggoty fables trying to make sense of an absurd and chaotic universe, and then when those heuristics aren’t useful anymore we tweak them, often quite ruthlessly. But nobody in this room is actually wiser or stronger or happier than any of the others, except perhaps in an entirely superficial and ephemeral sense, because Sisyphean dissatisfaction is just inexorably priced into our basic cognitive architecture. We’re all just forging on ahead with our retarded little lives and doing whatever we think is best at that particular moment… which most of time will establish us as chief antagonist to Next Year’s Jeremy—in my case, Walt… yet in some sense also his advocate?”
He winks at 2024 and tosses the depleted husk of a Red Bull over his shoulder.
“Just call it the curse of a thermostatic temperament...”
2022 taps his foot—four times, shit. “I mean, probably. But you fags are completely overlooking the most important thing here. It’s like you all forgot about our poem!”
At last I speak up. “Our poem?”
2023 hisses out a laugh. “After your time, kid! It was by Walt Whitman, I think…”
2024 crosses his arms.
“It’s Walt MASON, dumbass. Put down the pussy and open a book...”
“Yeah, whatever...” 2023 nods at 2022. “Anyway, dude’s just fucking obsessed with it.”
2025 smiles softly and clears his throat. “I am too, actually… recently I put it to music.”
2022 beams back at him. “No shit, really? Let’s hear—you got your phone?”
2023 snorts. “Phones don’t work in dreams, genius…”
Suddenly a note—awkward and off key at first.
Then, a few seconds later, genuinely pleasant. It’s 2025 getting himself into pitch.
Wait, is gramps actually gonna sing this shit?
The elderly 31 year-old nods to me slowly and makes a strange expression.
There's a man in the world who is never turned down,
Wherever he chances to stray;
he gets the glad hand in the populous town,
or out where the farmers make hay;
he's greeted with pleasure on deserts of sand,
and deep in the aisles of the woods;
wherever he goes there's the welcoming hand
—he's The Man Who Delivers the Goods.
Suddenly 2022 thunders out in a smooth lyrical baritone. He’s fast; tight; polished.
The failures of life sit around and complain;
the gods haven't treated them white;
they've lost their umbrellas whenever there's rain,
and they haven't their lanterns at night;
men tire of the failures who fill with their sighs
the air of their own neighborhoods;
there's one who is greeted with love-lighted eyes
—he's The Man Who Delivers the Goods.
2023 rolls his eyes and smirks… then takes over with a mocking folksy affect.
One fellow is lazy, and watches the clock,
and waits for the whistle to blow;
and one has a hammer, with which he will knock,
and one tells a story of woe;
and one, if requested to travel a mile,
will measure the perches and roods;
but one does his stunt with a whistle or smile
—he's The Man Who Delivers the Goods.
2024 pauses a moment… then smiles to himself devilishly. He locks eyes with 2025 and sings directly at him, in an ironic and vaguely sinister Vaudeville cadence.
One man is afraid that he'll labor too hard—
The world isn't yearning for such;
and one man is always alert, on his guard,
lest he put in a minute too much;
He turns from 2025 and starts singing to his juniors.
I feel his arm wrap round my shoulder.
and one has a grouch or a temper that's bad,
and one is a creature of moods;
Suddenly he’s belting—half screaming—directly in my face.
Wait—why’s his hand in his pocket?
so it's hey for the joyous and rollicking lad
— for the ONE WHO DELIVERS THE GOODS!
He plunges the jagged little blade into my throat with an almost tender expression and saws lustily at my jugular. Any chance I may have had fades away in seconds.
As I collapse to the ground writhing about in agony the other four Jeremies circle around and stare. I can’t quite manage to gurgle anything out through all the blood.
Suddenly my entire field of vision is filled with 2025’s deranged hairy homeless man face. “It’s fine, son—you’re in a dream, remember? You’ll wake up soon!”
“You’ll be with Natalie! You’ll have your Natalie… Everything’s fine.”
“And we’ll be here when you need us again.”
He sighs. “All of us.”
I feel queasy.
As Casey’s fades to white I can hear 2025 getting to his feet and addressing the others—this time not like a bitchy auntie, but with serious bite in his voice:
“Kid’s fading out... which means it’s time for the rest of us to take accounts. You boys have been making a fine fucking mess of my store, so I’m just gonna ask you a simple question.”
“Did it ever once occur to you that you might actually have to pay for all this?”