This Transient Solution

You can't kill your old body; that's dangerous ground.  There must be a way you can turn this around.  After some thought, you have a vague plan.  In minutes, you've run it by the other man.

The solution is clear; and quite soon, he agrees.  Within weeks, you’re both sharing the mansion with ease.  He’s your bodyguard now, and a coach of sorts; even says you look great in his basketball shorts.  The old Chris, now called Bob, is remarkably nice—you’re just sorry you can’t sell your only soul twice!  With no downsides at all, you and Bob become pals, until one night you go out a’scouting for gals.

Only there as a wingman, you’re with what’s-her-name.  Together, you’ve got astronomical fame.  And she’s got a hot body, a porn-star-esque face; and her panties resemble a string and some lace.  Also, she doesn’t want men who are ‘tamed’—so for love on the side, she gives you free rein. 

But then . . . you spot someone else, on that Saturday night.  Without even trying, she does everything right.  She looks like a schoolgirl, plus 4 or 5 years, and her sweet face and voice almost move you to tears. As she talks, she’s polite, she’s thoughtful and kind.  She corrects your bad manners, and you don’t even mind, and you realise, in only a few heady months, you’ve forgotten what real girls are like—what a dunce!  Now that you’ve seen her, there’s no time to waste.  You want a nice girl, now you’ve had just a taste.

So you make your big move, as suave as you can.  But she doesn’t like you, you’re not part of her plan.  She doesn’t want fortune/vicarious fame, and she thinks of your antics you should be ashamed.  She bids you go home, and then turns to that slob—are your eyes playing tricks? She’s flirting with Bob!

And soon she’s moved in, right under your nose.  You can’t tell Bob no, and their love only grows.  But you love her too, and in your distress, you call someone you think can help sort out this mess. You dial 666-Satan, and ask for Big L, but a succubus tells you it’s busy in Hell.

With one option left, you look to the ceiling.  If memory serves, now’s the time to start kneeling.  Your prayer’s begun while you’re still on one knee; then a voice above booms, “Are you talkin’ to Me?”

The End

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