Part of what I love about being a “chicken” is upending expectations. I’m never going to be the bird that’s going to fly into a room and sweep everyone off their feet. That’d be a pterodactyl. Instead, I prefer topping from the bottom, and by that I mean being a massive bitch to everyone around me. Much like Courtney Love (a friend), I’m a practitioner of female chaos magic: if I set my sights on you and I have my love light on, you’ll be blessed for life. If you’re naughty and stray from the path of righteousness like a rat, you’ll die a very painful death. You’ll suffer because I’m the God of this land.
This is the incantation I’ve developed for my morning rituals up on the balustrade of the food court in Wannado City. I think I’ve finally found my niche in this hellhole: a deity that no one asked for, a prisoner of none, ruler over a domain of few but one with total, complete control. I can make anyone do anything I want, and anything I desire is mine. So why am I so fucking unhappy?
Nothing around here is open anymore. All of the stores, even the real ones in the real mall, closed long ago. I’m not sure there were ever any working kitchens or bathrooms in this place. Potable water? We’re not sure. “Monica, stop digging around in the sewage system. You’re not going to find any souvenirs.” Everyone thinks they know what’s best for me. Luckily, Wannado City is big enough that I can just wander around and be myself, think thoughts, serve cunt at my own pace. There’s just no one to serve or spur claw here anymore. Why am I so tired? I’ve been having nightmares about life back at the cabin, in Massachusetts… I really don’t want to go back, but do I have a choice? We can’t survive here.
Bennington said he found food and even drugs at the movie theater with the ghosts. Why isn’t he sharing? Also, why hasn’t he come back to base camp in three days? We’re starting to think we should consider getting worried or something. Rooster is busy as always and I have no one to bully. I was walking around the galleria when a tree started talking to me: “You’re not gonna make it, Mon. You’ve got to get out of here. Bennington and your husband are plotting your downfall. Here are the coordinates to an attack vehicle that will take you a secure location. Monica, your country needs you again. It’s time to serve a new master: Brandon—I mean Biden, Joe Biden.”
I looked around and checked all the clocks to make sure I wasn’t sleeping or being drugged—but this tree was really talking to me, and I had to listen. I dictated this article into a burner phone with a blindfold over my head. I’m going back to mercenary work, and I’m never going back to Wannado City ever again.
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits
