Yes, I am addicted to being an asshole. These words fit the situation pretty well. Its just like any other addiction possible: drugs, alcohol, work, sex, you name it. The intoxicating state just does it for me. The sweetness of anger and the bitterness of well...bitterness, makes a cocktail far more potent than any piss-tasting beer.

Some people will say, oh they were born assholes, its just their nature and "hey man, just the way I am". Bullshit. I know exactly where my path was born. I can pinpoint the exact moment it became a part of me. It started, like so many other things, with a thought. A bad day was the midwife to that thought- dogs barking, construction everywhere, traffic jams, detours, coffee shop being out of my favorite donut, bosses on my case, and people just pissing me off general. And then the final contraction, a telephone call from a salesperson. Just then, as his background noise of a voice droned on, I say it.
"Im a very busy man, I dont have the time for your shit."

And it was alive! A beautiful, healthy baby that was all mine. The second I said those words, I genuienely thought I was busier than all other people. Why didnt anyone else say it? I never heard any friends, co workers, or my wife- other than just casual, meaningless conversation- sincerely say it. And the festering thoughts just grew and grew and grew, until it became an energetic, rage-filled adolescent. It became the holy armor I wore in my crusade against everyone around me. Neighbour wants to chat? No time! Waiter taking too long? Im a very busy person! Kids want to go on an outing? Yeah right, on whose time table! Everyone felt the sting of my attack and the more I said I was too busy for everything, the more I felt like I was the busiest man in the world, and the more annoyed I was with everyone around me.

The last day, I was at the gas station. Naturally, I was unleashing my fury about gas prices on the attendant (an evil Masonic being who controls the worlds economy) and her being a few cents short in the change (theif!). As I start walking outside she runs out of the store and starts yelling "Sir look out!!". Obviously the stupid girl was trying to sell my something, so I turn around at my latest victim, and release the mantra: I dont have the time.

Well, neither did the truck driver who fucking ran me over!

Next thing I knew, after the initial shitshitshitshitwhatthehellisgoingonwhathappenedshit, I was in a dully lit, gray-walled room. A hospital? There were no life support machines you'd expect from a place like that. A fat man walked in (from where?) without a word, carrying himself around like he didnt need to say anything. Maybe some sort of celebrity or something, but hey, Mr-Busiest-Man-In-The-World had no time to follow up on such things. He took a paper from his expensive looking suit, nodded and looked at me with an authority as if it was supposed to mean something to me.

"Well well," he flashed his lions teeth. "Seems like youre quite qualified for the job."

Oh what the hell? Did I black out all this time, some sort of mental fart, during an interview? The more I think about it, the more the truck incident seemed like a distant memory of some sort. "So I have the skills for the position, sir?" I try to fake it.

"More like an anti-skill."

He seems satisfied with my confused look. "Mr. Johnson," he said. "Youre in hell."

"No way!" I protest, the walls seem so much closer now. "I pay my taxes and take care of my kids, I don't deserve this!"

"Congratulations," the man-demon spat out. "So youve done the very basic minimum to not be thrown in jail. Think that actually means anything? It doesn't really fly in these areas. Mr. Johnson, not at all."

I try to resist the urge to run around and try to claw my way out of the suffacating room. This was it. Fire, sulphur, brimstone, anal raping demons, all the things you see in medieval paintings and Saturday morning cartoons. But wait--

"Job? You said job?"

"Oh yes," he said. "Since you havent exactly killed anyone, except basic human decency, or any other major sin, youve been given a task that will help you redeem yourself."

"What is it?" I say, calming down.

The scene changes. Well, actually, to be more precise, items materialized into the room that seemed to expand as if it were taking a really deep breath. I see a cubicle, with a computer screen, headsets, and a phone that kept beeping.

"Oh youve gotta be kidding me..."

"Yes, Mr Johnson, as a valued member of our company we count on you to further our interets for our mutual benefit and the harmony of everyone."

"What do I have to sell?"

"A very special product we only sell to certain people, a once in a lifetime offer."

"So what is it?" I said dryly, eternity didn't sweeten my mood about having my time wasted.

"Life insurance."

"Cut the infomercial crap man," I say. "Im not the person youre selling to. Whats so special about life insurance?"

"It insures your life."

"Of course it ensures your life, that's what they all do."

"No, Mr. Johnson, it literally insures your life. You simply cannot die with this coverage on."

So basicly, all I have to do to get into heaven is to offer to make someone immortal?

Great! Piece of cake!

Mr. Boss-Devil handed me my script told me "one sale, thats all you need", then vanished, leaving me with my first (and I assumed final) call.

"Good evening," I start.

"Hello," said the voice of a weary young woman.

I try to read from the script. "As a valued customer I would like to inform you about a very special, flexible, adaptable and easy-to-use product that is only offered to valued members such as yourself. And as a valued member we feel you could find value within this beneficial and advantageous coverafe within the protection we are offering.."

The automnated sounding redundency of the script made my throat hurt.

"Oh!" Said her voice, now very angry. "Listen I dont--"

I knew that war cry all too well. "Wait, maam! If you would please let me..."

"I dont know who you think I am," she yelled. "But Im a very busy woman. I dont have the time!"

click

And so it went on. Sometimes I managed to read more of the 5-page script, sometimes less. Either way, same results. They always went on about how busy they were and how I was wasting their precious time with my offer of fucking immortality (which, for some weird contract loophole, I'm not really allowed to tell them in such words).

I, myself, have completely lost all sense of time. Waiting for the elusive one sale was a distant fantasy after a while. Callcallcallbeepbeepbeep. I dont know how many ages have past since I started "working" here. Im stuck in this cubicle, callcallcallbeepbeepbeep. Languages gradually changed- people in the phone first used new slang, then after that came people who used different dialects, then after that were people who spoke with a completely new form of vocabulary and syllables. But the results were always the same: No, I dont have the time. My only comfort was knowing quite a few of those people would join me in my happy work place.

Monotonous colors became aggressive in their numbness. Whatever was called myself became a prisoner, trapped deep inside my nervous system, crying to get free. Those cries of freedom eventually became nothing but occasional twitching. The walls, the phone, and my self have blended to become one entity, with a very vague, very distant, sense of complete panic and terror, which just became the never ending wail of the telephone. Beepbeepbeep.

God, I am so fucking bored.

Author's Notes: I wrote this during a slow weekend at work and distributed it around for people to read, sort of a fairy tale stress reliever thing XD

Yes I worked as a cashier at a gas station and a call center person thingy. I'm not bitter :D