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  • Foto do escritorCarlo Prater

What Kind of Soy is This

Atualizado: 26 de dez. de 2022

He had been labouring over the packet of fair trade dried vegetable chips for the best part of five minutes and the damn thing wouldn’t open. Sweat ran down his face at a rate similar to the gym bros he so despised. He despised their toxicity and their primitive status quo masculinity. It all made him so angry and now a packet of excessively flamboyant chips was mocking him. He put everything he had into opening it. His atrophied muscles offered little assistance and he soon tired and collapsed on the floor in defeat. He punched the packet next to him and it moved a total of four inches. He cried for ten minutes and then decided to get on with his day.

He checked his answering machine. No one had ever called him and today was no exception. He was surprised that she hadn’t though. He had recently become quite friendly with a woman at work. Things had progressed so well, in fact, that he now felt comfortable answering honestly when she asked him how he was. He had spent a lot of time in the office kitchen telling her all about his conscious decision to piss sitting down because his micro penis was afraid of heights. He had also explained how his decision to grow a beard had not been for aesthetic reasons, but due to his overwhelming fear of blades. She had appeared sympathetic and more than willing to listen for the twenty-three minutes it took him each morning to give her his download for the day. He was surprised that she hadn’t called him yet given the fact that he’d given her his number three times. Maybe a fourth time was in order.

He went to the kitchen to make a coffee. The thought of opening the jar sent a panic through his undies but it soon subsided when he remembered he had dropped the jar on the floor two days ago. He had been carrying it from his environmentally safe shopping bag to the cupboard when he was completely fatigued by the sheer weight of the instant coffee granules. The jar had smashed on the floor, but he’d been able to salvage at least half and he had put that half into a resealable plastic bag. He put half a teaspoon of coffee into his cup. He never had a full teaspoon after 8 o'clock in the morning because he found that it kept him up at night. There was a knock on the door.

Excitement filled his body at the prospect of it being the postman. He had recently ordered a set of twelve anime DVDs that only a fucking idiot would order. He didn’t care though, he was living his truth and no one was going to stop him. It was not the postman. It was two rather largish men who looked like they hadn’t showered in three to nine days and they were both wearing leather jackets. He hated leather products. Animals were our friends. “Flynn?” said one of the men.

“Who are you?” he said.

“Are you Flynn?”

“He looks like a Flynn,” said the other man.

“What’s this all about?” he asked with an indignation not seen since the packet of vegetable chips was punched across the floor. The two men looked at each other and then one of them punched him in the face. He fell back and hit the floor. He questioned his mocking of the Krav Maga classes on offer at work the month prior, but then felt justified in his decision to not attend because the world didn’t need another man on the streets that could kill another human with his bare hands. One of the men picked him up by his checked shirt with pink pinstripes and blood started running from his nose onto it. It was his favourite shirt and he liked to tell people that it had found him rather than the other way around. He had felt it’s presence the day he walked into the store and he didn’t even need to try it on. He had been that sure. The pink pinstripes enhanced it and he had gotten into the habit of telling people that thinking pink is gay is actually more gay than pink itself. This was often met with stares. “Are you Flynn?” said one of the men.

“I AM NOT FLYNN FUCKING HELL OH MY GOD!!!” he said and he had never been more relieved to have a name that was in fact more soy than Flynn.

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Would’ve saved a lot of trouble.”

“Well I’m not Flynn, goddammit. Please leave!” he said and the two men left. He briefly wondered what they could have possibly wanted with Flynn. He found that he was angry at Flynn and hoped the two goons found him and beat the shit out of him. He then switched to worrying about Flynn and wished he could somehow warn him. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt. Whatever it was, he was positive that Flynn and he had formed a connection through this unpleasant experience.

The whole thing had left him sweaty and bloody and far too masculine for his liking. He assessed his nose and it wasn’t broken. He felt somewhat excited to tell the girl at work about the incident on Monday morning. The range of emotions he had felt was sure to impress her. He considered increasing his morning download time to twenty-seven minutes, but he worried this would interfere with her schedule. He was so confused as to why she hadn’t called. Maybe that was something he could raise with her on Monday morning. He didn’t want to be archaic in his actions because guys asking girls out was so 1990s. If she didn’t hurry the fuck up though he’d be forced to start talking to the other women in the office. The phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?”

“Who’s this?” said the voice.

“Now hold up. You called me,” he said.

“Solid point. Is this Flynn?”

“FUCK ME DEAD!!! WHO THE FUCK IS Flynn?!” he said.

“Is it you?”


“No need to yell, princess. Do you know Flynn?”

“No I don’t know FLYNN. Please leave me alone,” he said and hung up. He hated Flynn again and hoped that someone found him. Whoever he was.

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