A Monster Confession: A One Man Show Of A Flea Market Entrepreneur (First Draft)

Published November 14, 2013 by Larry Fisher

( Stage Direction: One stark light comes on. A man sits with his legs crossed.He only has one shoe on. In the background are the sounds of zombies eating brains…they are satiated and simmer down.)

I created Brooklyn. Oh sure, you could laugh, but I did create Brooklyn. If you are from somewhere else, and don’t know where Brooklyn is, well…where have you been? Now, you heard of it. You should come and eat some meat at my flea market, and then my partner  can sell you a brownstone  to shit the meat out.

Brooklyn is the coolest place in the world, and I created the bubble of cool. Without me, Brooklyn would not be here and it would not be my kind of cool.  I am trying to trademark the name. The Supreme Court will decide if I can put the little c with a bubble around it.

Oh sure, there are people in Brooklyn who call me the little c because I am close to owning the name Brooklyn, but I did right by them, even if they don’t see it. I made a safe bubble for them. I created the bubble around the c, and so I should own it! The little c is for cool, but I know some people want to call me the little cunt.

Brooklyn, the old Brooklyn was filled with blah…crime.. and when I showed Brooklyn the great white way with the flea market I started with my Real Estate Partner…(I call it the great white way because of the Broadway musical  P.T. Barnum element I brought to an otherwise  very dark moody neighborhood. )

There were blahs everywhere, and I made ecological sunshine throughout the borough. Sure, it costs more here but that’s how you get rid of the blahs. You have to price the blahs out. You have to distill what is good, and get rid of the fermented subtrates…I think that is what garbage is called by moonshiners.

Anyway, sometimes the people who hate me, and there are many if not most…I mean nobody hates me to my face. I have too much power…I almost own the little c in a bubble next to Brooklyn, but people do hate me and I don’t care about being hated in my day to day living. I hate being hated in my dreams. I don’t mind being hated in my nightmares, that’s to be expected, but I hate being hated in my dreams.

My nightmares…they are dark. I lose Brooklyn, I mean my Brooklyn with the little c and the bubble. Global warming, hurricanes come and I can’t charge people for their flea market spot, because the Mayor declares a nightmare. That is my nightmare. I won’t be able to charge people for the spot they reserved at my flea market. Fucking pussies. Come out and sell in a little rain. Get your boat and get to your spot and sell your meat. Sell it. Make people eat your sausage. Ram it down their hungry throats!

That’s my nightmare… the city is closed due to a hurricane or a nuclear blast and I can’t rent out my flea market space and get my money.

That’s why  I keep trying to convince my partner to go into politics . I am going to be his speechwriter when he becomes mayor. “Yes, there is a combo hurricane flooding and dirty bomb in New York, but you must all go about your business. Pretend nothing happened. Vendors need to go to their Flea Markets and customers need to eat their meat. Owners need to collect their money and gain more power.”

I used to be a speechwriter for a Borough President. I can spin a dreidel, it’s like a top, but you gamble on a dreidel.  Once, before owning Brooklyn, or a speechwriter, I was just a Writer, a journalist. You can’t survive in this city as a Writer, and then I hooked up with wealth in my Real Estate guy…and he said, “If only we could get rid of the blahs, we could make a lot of money.”

And I said,”If we create a flea that had no blahs, it would make a safe bubble for all the people frightened by ecological hazards.”

We shook hands…and now Brooklyn is going to be my little c with a bubble around it. I own it. I trademarked my life to own this and no one is going to stop me.

(Dergby stands up and starts pacing on one shoe)

My dreams kill me…not when I am dreaming them, but when I wake. In my dream, I never became a speechwriter. I never knew how to twist words and ideas around till I believed them. In my dreams, I never hooked up with a Real Estate guy. I never wanted to own Brooklyn with a little c and a bubble around it. I didn’t care. In my dreams, I write about what is in my heart. I try to deal with the pain of life and love. I deal with simple things. I survive by waking up early in the morning and writing about my dreams and nightmare. In my dreams, I write and then I go to a dark open space and set up to sell books and records and knic knacs that I love and want to share with my community. Whatever I make I make. Whatever I earn goes back into writing and loving the people in my life and my passion for writing and getting to understand this world and what is real for me in my life.

And I get to that point in my dream of what is real for me in my life, and I am emotional and I am always in tears, and I feel sorry for myself and the pain and suffering for all humans in a heartless world of greed where people lose themselves…Where they “don’t want to know the truth,” because the truth is pain and the truth will never set you free. The truth is just misery… and so we try our best to just live with distractions and little bubbles, and we try to scab over those bubbles, so they become hard and impenetrable…

(Dergby sits back down, out of breath)

And then I wake from this dream and I am relieved. I can go back to living my nightmare like it didn’t exist. I can go back to owning Brooklyn with the little c and the bubble around it.

(Zombies eating brains again)

The End

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