pt. 3A

I still have scars from that night, a Morse code across my chest spelling a message of long nights and poor decisions. It’s my badge of honor screaming, “Yeah, I’ve been to county.”
Oh, I’m hard. I live alone, no car, no cable, not even a cat. Just me, alone with Abe judging me from the ceiling. The clock waves a rough 10:15. I have to work in forty-five minutes.
The recliner cries and moans as I pull myself up. You’d be thrilled for work too if you had my job. Every Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday and second Sunday I climb into a giant rat suit and hug toddlers. I have spent the last three years of my life getting kicked in the shins, punched in the nuts, and jabbed in the kidneys by eight-year-olds while their parents laugh and take pictures.
Did you know that in order to get a job as a corporate mascot you not only have to shell out an ass-load of money for a background check, but are actually required to take a polygraph test to be absolutely certain that you are not
A. Gay
B. A Pedophile
C. A Furry
The last thing my employer wants in some kid sticking his face in the leftovers of someone’s Chlamydia.

Imagine looking your future boss in the eye and describing every wet dream you’ve ever remembered. It’s like being in the clergy after the guy in the confessional next door got caught with kiddie porn.

My suit smells like rancid dog and pepperoni. The owners claim they send it to the cleaners every week, but I know for a fact that the boogers on my thighs have been there for at least a month. I feel like I’m living in Mexico, after a while you just get used to the stench. Besides, kids could care less as long as they have enough tickets to buy the cheap plush toys at the end of the day. I’m an overdressed baby sitter, an underdressed clown, and an all around joke.

I hate my job.

Eight hours later Randy is waiting for me in the parking lot, “Let’s go Mickey”
“Wrong trademark, jackass.”
“Mickey, Chuckie, Jerry, Itchy, Mighty, fucking Ratatouille, do you really think I give a shit who you’re supposed to be?” His sarcasm bleeds like a slaughterhouse. “Now do you want a ride or not?”

It’s cheaper than the bus.

James Hetfield croaks through Randy’s blown speakers. I hate this guy almost as much as Randy hates Tobey McGuire. Almost.