But This Man

“I like this guy…” I thinks to myself.

I watch him play reporters with their cushy leech jobs while he smiles glibly.

He is a glutton for their pained complaints.

A snipe here a quip there. A stinging nettle of words that they blunder into.

“I really fuckin’ like this guy.” I says to my buddy.

He makes me feel like victory.

I never could relate with the confetti that follows war. Of the dancing in the streets or the seas of smiling faces.

Everything has just been shades of gray up until now.

“But this man.” I says.

This man, like no other man before him, makes me throw my fat arms up in the air with joy. I feel the wheeled office chair beneath me totter and hardly care enough to catch my balance.

“He’s different. Mark. My. Words.” I says to my buddy.

I have never cheered.

Not once in my life.

I yelled plenty. I screamed on occasion.

I’ve hissed and booed and shouted and run my voice till it couldn’t stand on a whisper…

“But this man…” I thinks to myself.

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