Auction: Short Story

The Sperg Box

An audience gathered in a smoke lit auditorium, whose dimly lit apertures seemed to pulse beyond the smoke and steam and sound of laboured, rasping breathing. The hulking mass of those gathered came in their uniforms, tailored for maximum social capital: sweat pants, track suits and yoga tights sheathed the quivering throng as they sat upon their Adirondack thrones.

There they sat with bated, uncertain breath watching the stage. There upon the stage whose laminate veneer had been scuffed by the shined soles of 10,000 basketball-american feet was a podium. There behind the podium stood the unmasked man. Dapper. A debonair.

Here was a man with his twirled moustache and pressed tuxedo, of slight build and loathsome, oozing charm. When he spoke it was with the practised diction of the television-american, perfectly rootless, sublimely indistinct. Designed, as it were, for perfect ubiquity. The new Everyman, sold to the crowd on…

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