There is a day-to-day mirage that sets the standard. Where the arc of existence is measured by promotions, marriage, children, and the net worth of your final moments. Where decisions are encouraged by those of rational predecessors. Where the winners earn it and the losers deserve it. Where smiles and civility remain the true color test. Where those who work the hardest reap the greatest benefits. Where those we love remain faithful, and the few we idolize reward us with blameless perfection.
Underneath it all lies the world of Lucky Saurelius. Where the broken and the bewildered gather by the glow of barback bottles. Where abusive men stalk their women towards mistaken destinations. Where a six figure executive trades his career for one last evening underground. Where the denizens of an after hours bar measure their moments under the watchful eye of a Great Dane. Where celebrity doppelgangers use their resemblance to craft sexual dominance. Where a collection of alcoholic super heroes await their unwilling savior. Where the deed to a derelict pool hall changes hands in a thirty six hour gambling streak. Where crumpled receipts are the only clues to a blood soaked awakening, marines sell love in a bottle for $3.99, and friendship remains a myth.
On the bright side, stay long enough, and there might be a free drink or two in it for you.
So pull up seat. Buy one more for the doomed looser, two hours before the end of the world. Curl up in the booth of an eleven am tavern. Stare out of a lonely window overlooking the rooftops of a wounded city. Say goodbye to perfection before corrective surgery steps in to ruin it all. Take a chance on the stranger tuned to every last person’s most base perversions. Mark the final words of a suicidal never-was. Use your poetry for toilet paper. Laugh with the stars. Drink or swim.
There is always a second chance to make a worst impression.
Short stories from the world’s most celebrated unknown.