“Blippi literally filmed himself taking a shit in another man’s butthole in like 2013 and put it on YouTube.”
“Yeah, Google Steezy Grossman, dude.”
“Fuck, look at that, that’s fucking wild. Why’d he do it?”
“Clout, I guess.”
“That guy’s an asshole anyway.”
“Yeah, just in it for the money, plus, he’s awkward as fuck whenever he has to interact with an actual kid.”
“I honestly don’t think I’d let him around Charlie, like, if we saw him in the wild.”
“Still, 45 minutes of peace is 45 minutes of peace.”
“Oh, for sure, Charlie can still watch his videos, can’t take away The Excavator Song now, but like, you know…”
It’s 3:45 PM on a Tuesday and the bartender sees their empty glasses and asks them if they’d like another and they both look at each other and do the math on how long they’ve been gone from the office and how much longer they think they have before anyone notices their meeting should’ve ended already.
“Yeah, probably not.”
They head out and walk the block or two back to the building in which they work in silence, girding themselves for the end of the day and the return to the homes in the nice neighborhood in which they both live with their wives and their children. The one holds the door open for the other and makes an after you gesture.
“Next week, after the Bronson Account rundown?”
Scott Mitchel May is a writer living in Vermont with his family. You can follow Scott on Twitter @smitchelmay.