Patrick Tomlinson, failure at life, hunched over the counter at his favorite bar, Hooligans, his porcine face illuminated by the screen of a smartphone. A plate of fried chicken and a glass of cheap beer sat ignored as he scrolled through his Twitter feed, grunting like a pig as he replied to each tweet made by his trolls. "No stalker," he muttered, sending a similarly-worded Tweet in reply to an online barb from his dying liver.
The door to Hooligans opened and shut. Patrick wouldn't have paid attention- people came and went, after all, giving him a wide berth (due to the aura of masculine toughness he radiated, he liked to think)- except the newcomer sat on the stool next to him.
Patrick stole a glance, and then another, and then another still. The man sitting next to him was a sable-skinned chad, a giga nigga, a negroid god. Thick, toned muscle the likes of which Patrick dreamed of nightly defined his smooth limbs; his dark barrel chest stood in stark contrast to Patrick's own pale breasts. His voice was deep, confident, and masculine, the kind of voice Patrick dreamed he had. Patrick licked his lips in desire, but then fought down the urge to submit. No, all he was thinking about was how if this man was a few years younger, Patrick would've turned him into pepperoni; nothing more.
"Bartender!" called the stranger. "One pork shoulder and a Dos Equis, please!"
The bartender looked apologetically at the stranger "I'm sorry sir, but we have no knives. We had to put them all away because..." He jerked his head towards Patrick, who flushed pink with humiliation.
The stranger didn't seem to notice. "It's alright, bartender. I brought my own!" With that, he pulled out a switchblade knife.
Patrick was already mentally composing a tall tale about how this stranger started a barfight that Patrick violently ended when the smell hit him. Beneath this black Adonis's masculine musk and debonair cologne was the unmistakable scent of Nikki's perfume- no other woman in Milwaukee would wear it, after word got around Patrick's wife wore it. Patrick's anger rose, along with slight arousal at the thought, and before he knew it, he was speaking.
"That's a nice knife you have there," Patrick said, his high-pitched voice cracking.
As the bartender slid the food across the counter to the stranger, carefully keeping it out of Patrick's reach, the stranger looked down at Patrick, acknowledging Patrick's existence for the first time. "Well, thank you for the compliment," he replied, before turning back to his meal.
Patrick smiled in triumph. "My wife has the same knife," he squealed triumphantly, hoping to belittle the stranger who, without a word, had humiliated him so completely.
The stranger looked back at Patrick, smiling. "Then I guess we know who wears the pants in your household," he replied before turning back to his meal.
The stranger's reply elicited chuckles from all in earshot, before they imitated the stranger by refocusing on their own lives. Once more, Patrick was alone, tears of humiliation filling his eyes. "Wrong, child," he muttered haltingly before turning back to his phone. He couldn't let this African-American beefcake distract him. There was work to be done.
His toilet was calling him mean names.
