Why Good Self-Expression Matters

Day 4 of Five Stories in Five Days 2

Enjoy the five stories from the first round of Five Stories in Five Days, all for free:

When Mr. Fusion Finally Arrived
A Tale of Ass
Telekinetically Yours
Alien Life
Very, Very Bad Erotica

Thank you in advance for reading Day 4 of Five Stories in Five Days 2, a new campaign of mine. Normally, this sort of creative writing appears in my paid Substack (under Creative Stuff), but this week, I’ve decided to give a partial preview to free subscribers and the general public to see whether anyone might be interested in joining my larger world. 10% of my Substack is free in my Bad Online English section—just me ranting about the sloppy, slovenly English I see (and no, that doesn’t mean that I make myself out to be Shakespeare or Hemingway—I can admit that with no problem). 90% of my Substack, though, is content that’s available for only $5 a month—the price of a single, halfway-decent burger. Like my Amazon ebooks, which I’ve committed to sell forever at minimum price ($2.99 for now), I’ve made the same guarantee here: $5/month or $50/year is all I’ll ever charge you, no matter what new things I do on Substack. So, please: Enjoy the story below, but think about joining. Think about joining the dark side. We all float down here.

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Rangel was a goddamn slob, one of those dumbasses who littered in parks at lunchtime while saying that someone would come along and take care of the problem. Rangel was American, but he knew there were entire countries and cultures of people out there who thought the same way he did, polluting their own home regions, taking no pride in where they lived, just being lazy fuckheads. What Rangel was doing wasn’t a big sin, he knew, and he resented anyone who told him otherwise.

This was also how Rangel, who fancied himself a writer, treated language. Spelling didn’t matter; punctuation didn’t matter; grammar and style and eloquence didn’t matter. For Rangel, all that counted was getting his point across. If he managed to do that, then what else was there to worry about, right? The message mattered more than the sloppy execution.

So when Rangel saw something clever online, like a meme that aligned with his political views, he’d smirk appreciatively at the wit, nearly oblivious to the meme’s inevitably retarded spelling, grammar, and punctuation—the problems that sucked all of the dignity and conviction out of the attempted wit. But why miss the forest for the trees, right? Rangel thought. Just get the point across. That was Rangel’s cardinal rule as a writer. Be as sloppy as you want; just make sure you get your point across. Fuck the details. Details were for pussies. And sloppy language could be cleaned up by decent editors and proofreaders, just the way caretakers at a park picked up litter.

Rangel had an unlit cig dangling from his stubbled lips when there was a hard series of knocks on his apartment’s door. He heaved his blubbery self up, remembered to belt his bathrobe around his girth, and lumbered over to the door. As he got to the door, there was another series of knocks, more insistent this time. He opened the door with some asperity.

And found himself staring at a gorgeous woman with intense black eyes, wearing tight jeans, a tank top, and nothing else from the looks of it. Rangel instantly felt that he would do anything for those eyes, those lovely lips, those fucking curves. But he somehow managed to keep a straight face.

“Yeah?” he grunted, using his voice for the first time in a long time.

“Hey, I just moved in next door. And frankly, I’m not all moved in yet. Been unpacking all day, and right now, I’m tired and not in a mood to go rummaging around for stuff I need but can’t find. So—got any sugar?” It felt like a classic line. But her stare, deep as a well, was hypnotic.

Rangel paused like an enormous pachyderm. He could hear the sound of his own labored breathing, and he was suddenly conscious that he was in his bathrobe, a tee, and his boxer shorts. He wondered how he bad he smelled.

“Yeah, sure, come in,” he finally said as noncommitally as he could. He turned and lumbered toward his kitchen. The woman, slim and petite but also trim and athletic-looking, followed through the chaos and clutter.

“Nice place,” the woman said neutrally. Rangel grunted. In the kitchen, he looked around and found the sugar. He knew he’d better be careful not to get a boner. Who knew how the woman might react if he turned around with tented boxers bulging out of his bathrobe? Women these days were paranoid about everything.

“How much you need?” he asked. Some inner voice was telling him that he really ought to say something more, something to engage this lovely creature in easy conversation, but he was honestly at a loss for what to say.

“Enough to get me through today. I’m a heavy coffee drinker, and I like a lot of sugar.”

Rangel couldn’t tell whether she was lying. A woman that athletic-looking might not consume much or any sugar at all. He found an empty plastic container and poured a cup and a half of sugar into it, then clipped the airtight top on. No boner. Rangel thanked Cthulhu for that. He turned around and handed her the container.

“Hope that’s enough. I like my coffee with a lot of sugar, too.” Why’d he say that?

The woman looked around. Looked at Rangel. Held the container in her left hand and extended her right hand. “Kris,” she said.

“Rangel,” Rangel replied, shaking her delicate hand. They walked back out of the kitchen toward the front door. She looked around as she walked.

“What do you do, Rangel?” Kris asked casually.

“Write,” said Rangel.

“Anything good?”

“Working on a book, but I send articles to magazines. Pays the bills.”

There was a pause. Kris said, “Lemme see something. I’m trying to decide whether I’ve moved next door to an axe murderer.”