I like people. I want them to be alive and not treated like shit.

　　Mr Popularity`s platform on immigration, racism, healthcare, and foreign relations

　　2 Hours Later - Megacles - The City

　　I can`t move. I scream like a crazy person. I struggle, but I can`t budge the weight on top of me. I give up. The weight crashes down. I lie motionless. Then I wiggle out of the bench press machine. Oh, hello everybody. Why are you all staring at me? Never seen a crazy person before? I wave away their nonexistent offers of help and exit the gym.

　　Well, that was terrible. I remember why I stopped exercising. I take a shower. That`s my list finished, I guess I`ll wander around the city for a bit.

　　Downtown is desperate to sell me something. Clothes and booze mostly, though phones are everywhere too. I don`t really want anything. Like most people, I spend most of my time on the internet. I like looking at the buildings and the people. I stop for a drink here and there. I guess I do want booze.

　　As my one woman pub crawl picks up steam, I pay less attention to architecture and more to boys. I don`t remember them being this young. Man, I`ve been out of the game for a long time. I have no idea how to get one naked. I think they`re supposed to chat me up. That`s always been step one. The only guys talking to me are bartenders. And they`re paid to. And they`re too young. The little lambs. Holy fuck, I`m invisible. I have to find a bar with older guys. Or, at least older bartenders.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

　　Several bar hops later, I`m still in kiddie land. I slide into a table full of young girls and ask some pointed questions about how to get laid in this town. They are not interested in giving up this information. So, rather like a TV detective, I ply them with liquor to loosen their tongues. It works really well. Unfortunately, their information is garbage. They know less than I do. Their entire operation runs on tight clothes and hope. I move on.

　　I hustle through more bars, pausing only for beer and sexual advice from girls my daughter`s age. I learn one interesting fact - fancy hotels often have a "guy". Normally, that wouldn`t interest me, but I happen to be "sleeping" in a fancy hotel tonight. Maybe it`s time to "head" to "bed". I have a bit more liquid courage and do so.

　　At the hotel, I amble over to the front desk. I discreetly ask if they can send their "guy" to my room. I use my fingers to make air quotes so there`s no confusion. The desk clerk has no idea what I am talking about. I try again, supplementing the air quotes with a wink to send a foolproof message. I stumble and almost go down. I forgot how dangerous blinking is. I mean winking. My footwork wasn`t that distracting, but this fucking chick is stupid. I say "The fucking guy. Send me the fucking guy." And now I`m talking to the manager. "Let`s go to your room." He says. Alright.

　　On route, he informs me that the hotel does not have a "guy". Apparently, it`s an urban myth. I inform him that this conversation is a downer and does not meet my service expectations. He`s holding my hand and guiding me in gentle curves through the lobby. Without looking, he snags a club sandwich from a passing room service cart. He whisks me into an elevator and gives me a bite. It`s good. He`s good. I feel safe.

　　"While we don`t have a guy, our head waiter is very friendly." He says. "I`ll introduce you tomorrow." This guy is the best. I invite him into my room. "Alright." He turns on the TV, sits me on the bed with the club platter on my lap. "Sleep well." He`s gone.

　　Where the fuck did this club sandwich come from? It`s good.