Marty and Philippe were happy little freeway loafers. They thrived on great debate as cars whizzed by dangerously close to them on the shoulder of the freeway entrance. Today’s debate? Who was the more sexually frustrated confection: lollipop or candy corn. Philippe suggested “Let’s argue as though neither candy is consumed. In that scenario, candy corn would be far less frustrated as it always has other corns around it.”
“Alas, what if it was the last corn in the bag?”
“He still would have spent time with others whereas the lollipop, being individually wrapped, is forever in a condom-like case so its candy flesh never touches another, and therefore makes it the more frustrated of the two.”
Marty grew angry, unable to come up with a response. So when the beemer ran over Philippe, dragging him all the way down to the end of the ramp, Marty didn’t need to say anything. He was pleased that he won the debate, even if it was by violence.
Marty mourned for precisely twenty-eight seconds before looking around for something new to bug. His options were limited. A tattered $3 umbrella, a plastic bag filled with seven week old sushi, or a Violent Femmes CD. Marty didn’t like his options, they all seemed beneath his intellectual bar.
Philippe cried out silently as the pain was far too great. Were it not for his triple-stitched insole, he would be completely in two parts from the silver monstrosity. His upper leather was ripped entirely apart, his outer sole left behind six feet up the ramp when it snagged on some metal garbage. He desperately tried to calm his breathing, telling himself “It’s only a few cuts and scrapes, it’s not that serious.” But it was quite serious. He wasn’t really a shoe anymore, more like a poor man’s clog. For an italian loafer, such as himself, that was pretty much a death sentence, definitely the end of any prestige in his social world.
Marty said “Fuck it.” He didn’t need anyone to talk to, he could talk to himself. He started counting red cars, “1,2,3- burgundy…Hm, Should I count that?” He missed several crimson cars as he debated what should fall into the red category. When another car came extremely close, he realized he found himself boring and started wondering how he and Philippe could have been friends all this time. It wasn’t his charm, and it wasn’t that they were a pair; Marty was a Target bargain-buy. He suddenly felt ashamed of himself. Philippe had been true to him, never looking down on his status in the fashion world, just accepting him for being there.
The truth was Philippe was almost completely blind. Would he have talked to Marty knowing he was faux leather? There was no way of knowing that, but Philippe did figure out Marty wasn’t Italian and still didn’t pass judgement on him. Philippe was so sick of hearing nothing but pomposity that he found Marty’s banter quite refreshing. He didn’t mind that Marty lacked certain vocabulary and logic because Marty had a diehard passion that he expressed with every word. Philippe agonized over his quickly fading self and wished Marty was by his side to say something irreverent. Final breaths nearing, Philippe did all he could to pull himself together and die with dignity.
Marty looked around hopeless, wondering what he was supposed to do now. Luckily, a drunken Hyundai ran over Marty at that moment, so Marty rejoiced until he was ripped to shreds, dead before ever making down to Philippe. The plastic bag looked at the umbrella with a sigh of relief and the umbrella cried “I still think the candy corn is the more frustrated candy!” The Violent Femmes CD just shook its head in disbelief.