Silhouettes danced across from the fire. It was like the Collectivists pranced about to the glory of their own dysfunction. Socialista twirled and gyrated. Common Man jostled about almost in a feminine manner. And Fascinder just stood there. He took a swig of the vodka and pointed at the screen.
“Three hundred forty thousand views in two days. Thirty five hundred comments.” His voice seemed raspier and more pointed somehow.
“It’s what you always wanted,” Socialista mentioned with a flair.
“We’re going to win over the world. Just the three of us have the power to move mountains,” Common Man related. “I know that sounds like scripture, because it is. But we take from the world of the bourgeois believers and make it our own.”
Socialista continued to dance and hop around, bunny-like to the rhythms streaming in her own mind.
Common Man pushed Fascinder’s shoulder.
“Goddamnit, man. We’re on our way up,” he snatched the bottle and let the clear liquid invade his liver as well.
“There’s a problem,” Fascinder blurted out.
“They’re trying to block it because it violates hate speech. It’s not hate. It’s the truth. All my views have been suspended along with the comments. Son of a bitch!” Fascinder threw the laptop to the ground as if it were set ablaze and ready to burn down the house.
“We can’t stop now. Don't be discouraged or dismayed,” Socialista reassured.
“Now you’re sounding like clergymen. Out of my way,” Fascinder announced, his coarse voice cut through as he grabbed the bottle of vodka.
He paced. “Every time! Every time we get ahead on something, something topples our efforts!”
“What the hell, man?” Common Man asked. “You just fly off the handle and…” he snatched the liquor from Fascinder’s grasp.
“We’ve got this,” Common Man reminded them.
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Skyler Saunders
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