I feel like I’m a kind of low poly model but in the real world. I’m a low poly render of a being. I am five feet tall and I don’t need money because I stole everything I own. If I clip through the wall behind the dumpster I can grab a figurine right out from the box and nobody will see. They’re worthless (essentially) without the box, as they have no resale value. I am not just a reseller though because money is the root of all evil. Thinking about money makes my skin itch and forcibly suckles the joy out of thinking about little beings. I have an addiction to the little beings.
I make them fight when I want to, and they bleed hot liquor tar that remind me of the vats were they were made. Round little heads and smooth legs and flowing dresses and clear power bursts that add exponential value. I earn money and I turn it at the bank into gold coins and pile them around as decoration. I can make peace with money when it’s gold, and someday I’m going to work with a manufacturer in Vietnam to make a Hatsune Miku out of pure gold. City living is getting me down sometimes, and I have a nasty habit of kicking dogs when they go past on a little leash.
I left my little room at five o’clock and go into the store which is also like my home because they have my little people floor to ceiling and also on the ceiling and they have mod podged manga pages to the floor so you can pretend. They let me be there, but they don’t like it, but they also can’t prove its me stealing. I got there and they’re still opening up. I don’t think they love it when I touch the display figures, but I don’t think they can stop me either. I run my nails over the vinyl skin and pretend that they are grabbing at my finger like a newborn baby, and some of them have swords (and they are plastic) but in the store I imagine them drawing blood.
I go home with a few in my pocket and walk up the steps and walk up the steps and walk up the steps until I am at my apartment and I close the door. The door has girls the walls have girls and the ceiling has then suspended like angels. The lights make them cast these long drooling shadows and the fan makes the shadows change. The floor has my mattress and my clothing and a big circle painted on.
I spent hours and hours on the circle, because an imperfect circle is the root of all evil. This is not imperfect though and I shake gently with excitement as the shadows curl and twist over the circle. I cleaned the floor with bleach and broom last night and I stepped around the circle carefully until I got to my bed. I set down there and chatter my teeth and wring my hands. When I can’t stand it, I open my coat and pull out the girls I lifted. Their boxes are in the store still sealed, my hand clipped right through. They are from a new show I haven’t seen yet and one of them is taller than the others.
She “screams” when I lower her over the circle edge her joints twisting and smoking with the power. The ring works by magic. Her plastic body doesn’t bounce when she drops in the ring, it sticks and slaps in a strange way like real skin, before she stands in her pose once more. I place the other two quickly, and they grow and stretch diagonally, their polygons clashing until they snap back to normal and start undulating and moving like little army men. They look up at me. I smile and pick up the pink headed one and feel her tiny fingers moving against mine. Everyone wishes the tiny girls in the shops were real but to me (and only me!!!) they are.
I live in a graffiti and dead bushes and trash bags by the curb type of block. I live in a room next to other rooms next to alleyways next to other buildings. I am the most important person here though, because I am making rats real people, slow but sure.
Imagine that please. A little mass of dresses and vinyl hands and legs teeming out of the shadows as you pass. I don’t mind rats, but I am sculpting the world into a better one, starting with the rats. I draw my boxcutter and watch the little women run and hop and explore their new bodies. The girls are brilliant beyond belief, and know that I won’t hurt them, although I easily could (I never have though, and the thought makes me sick sick sick, (sometimes however, I do make them hurt each other)) I crack off little blades from the boxcutter, one for each of them, before I nudge them over the edge of the circle, and into the big city.
Here is my grand plan, my motivation and anticipated outcome: My rats (my girls) will fill every alleyway and scramble up every wall. They will find out where to go to descend on the businessmen. I will send my girls after them with the boxcutter shards and scratch them up. It won’t kill them, but it will be hurting every morning when they wake up. Eventually, (and I will be okay with this, as I have planned it) it will become a symbol of status among businessmen to sport scratches. Imagine that though, imagine working at a money job and every day everyone is a little more scarred and scratched. I always thought it would be funny if everyone was hurting a little bit more. My focus is on the men in the funny little suits though, because as everyone knows, they deserve it the most. Every day I picture them hurting and bleeding (just a LITTLE! Just BARELY!) and that wakes me up just a little more, like a good strong cup of businessman coffee.
My girls slip under the door. I laugh, and set the broken boxcutter aside. I look at my low resolution low poly feet. I scratch apart the circle. Outside, a rat screams.
Some text about me in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim..