Let me tell you somethin’, cocksucka... I’ve been on some weird fuckin’ trains in my day. I once sat next to a guy eatin’ a full raw chicken on the D line, and I didn’t flinch. But this... this was different. This was cosmic punishment.

I get on the subway, thinkin’ it’s gonna be a normal ride home. I grab a seat, pop in my headphones — and then it starts.

First guy on is Beady.

This dude’s got the neck of a periscope and eyes like he just saw the end of time. He’s talkin’ to a shoebox. I think it’s his friend? Maybe his lawyer? I dunno. He smells like rust and soup bones.

Then we got Troy.

Oh Jesus. Troy waddles in with a bag of cheese and no socks. He’s mutterin’ baby talk and complainin’ about “haters” like he’s been wronged by the concept of mirrors. He sits across from me and starts moanin'. Just... moaning.

Then it gets worse. The subway doors hiss open and in rolls J-Tard.

He’s fused to an ergonomic office chair, wearin’ a Formula 1 hat with a blonde wig on top. He points at me and says, “You’re afraid of my power.” Cocksucka, I’m afraid of you leakin’ on my shoes.

Then Babs shows up.

Nobody knows who Babs is. He slides in like a damp suggestion — holdin’ a phone with a million blurry photos of a model he doesn't even like. He talks like he’s tryin’ to flirt and sabotage you at the same time. Like, “Oh you’re cute, by the way everyone thinks you’re fake.” A real parasite.

He tries to chat with J-Tard about numerology. J-Tard screams about prime numbers and calls Babs a “triggered austistic pedophile.” Beady’s now pissin' in the shoebox and Troy’s singin' nursery rhymes to a shitty diaper. I’m sittin’ there wonderin’ if this is real life or some kinda psychological punishment handed down from my ancestors.

I got off three stops early, walked twenty blocks, and took a shower with steel wool.