Big Sexy Satan

Night one.

This man has ample pizzazz

I was skulking. My middle finger fingered the magic mouse down and slick past my sister’s kids, past the third attempt by my college buddies to reach me for their ungodly too-many-years reunion. And then there he was. There was no punctuation and the diagram spoke for itself. He had a “functioning Inner Moxie coil” and “Hustle emitters.” It was clear he “deflects funk” and has “distal panache shafts.” It was clear this man had it all. It was clear that, I did not. But could I buy him? I don’t buy things on impulse. I don’t fall for the click-bait. Then I closed my laptop, dejectedly.

Night two

Learned that people from my hometown have a lot of memories of days and drugstores gone by. They’ve got pictures and newspaper clippings of events and tragedies and deaths that I’d rather leave behind. So Barnum used to be our home town mayor, in the god damned 1890whatevers. Yet, I was visited by "A Tree Made of Sad Megans" and they came bearing a gift or two: A soiled, oiled kimono or I could give my enemy dungeon rash

Again, no punctuation, but was it real? I WANT my enemy to get dungeon rash Should I could I buy?

No.

Night three

Hit right in the kisser by Big Sexy Satan! The algorithm pegged me hard on my scroll to page 2. A big red stitched patch – clearly for sale – clearly meant for my jean jacket. I’m not sure if it was his pendulous hermaphroditic tits or my pending unemployment (or having to tell Ritah about it), but I needed to buy it. Five dollars – Canadian!

My fingers were exceptionally cold; I’d been scrolling for over 76 minutes. I’d already passed on three different Bespoke Boxes of menswear for 2x size men like me. My personal shoppers had failed me before and I couldn’t believe after four unsuccessful subscriptions, arrivals, wardrobe montages, and sad face returns that any of these boxes would work for me. I was back to denim and plaid.

But Big Sexy Satan would fix it for me after seeing so much arcane bullshit in my social media feed. No, no, that’s the name of their on-line shop “Arcane Bullshit.” At first, little messages would appear claiming that I’d been “visited” by otherworldly goblins like Erasmus Horseveins and that I should select my gift (A bronze wig for a medium skeleton? A tray of cold white dips?)

Day four

I’d managed to skip most of my obligations and meetings that day so I could slip unnoticed into the occult bookstore downstairs from our tony workshare space. There was a friendly person behind the counter.

Is there anything in particular I can help you with?

No, I’m just looking.

Well, my name is Raven (his nametag said Eric) if you have any questions.

I didn’t have any questions, and Raven could tell I wasn’t buying. I wanted my Big Sexy Satan. I turned and headed for the door. At home, I let Ritah know I was looking for another new gig and popped open my laptop as she shut the bedroom door behind her. One click in and an ad for a carved long-horn skull. I had always wanted a circa 1974 convertible Cady with a big set of Texas long horns mounted over the grill. Half a scroll and

Night four.

“MISFORTUNE! Now you are CURSED! (a bright red banner appeared in my feed)

The barn had a ghost inside. The old man? Also a ghost.”

I took out my credit card.