Count

The Count is present. I think He’s a He. Or it. Does He prefer It? Whatever. It or He goes by a name, probably something like Joe or Randall or Geoff. A boss name and if he doesn’t have a beard, he sits cross-legged immaculately shaved in a mid-century chair somewhere. Everywhere. And you can tell He’s wise or at least confident beyond man. Big something energy. A fucking know it all in a suit. He crosses his legs where a lot of guys, but not bosses I mean, might start to sit and then catch themselves thinking, “shit, if I keep sitting like this they’ll think my balls are all crushed up or I don’t have balls. I shouldn’t sit like this.” The Count doesn’t get anxious like that. He owns the ball-crushing type of crossed-leg, doesn’t adjust the outside of his foot to the opposite knee to appear quote unquote manly. He can sit forever like that just waiting for your inferior consult. In any case, I’ve never seen Him, but He’s there. A good question would be How do I know? Eat shit is how. Believe me, ok? He’s there and who else would I be asking my endless questions to everyday? Excuse me: To whom. To whom do I wonder how many, exactly how many, golden Mycenaean bull rings have yet to be discovered by aging archaeologists and will they all end up in the ground before the rings come out? See that’s a good one for The Count because he loves jokes too. Picture him laugh. He’s a real cool guy. And if you can’t see the smile beneath his beard you might catch a glimpse of those false teeth, a hint of panic white against a black void.

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