What do you know?

What I think I know.

What do you want?

What I feel I want.

What are you?

What I think.

What do you think?

What I don’t know.

What do you not know?

What I want to feel.

***

Chickens are fascinating things. They’re bred like all other cattle we eat. Beef, pork, lamb, snakes—oh wait, Americans don’t eat snakes. In the end, are animals not just food? While they can be pets… I hate the idea. Hypocrites.

But it is entertaining.—enough to quench my endless boredom day after day. Maybe it is the human instinct to kill and to make a mockery of the weaker creature. Sometimes, I wonder how fun it must have been to live in a hunter-gatherer society. But it will only get boring once I’ve experienced enough of the thrill.

Food is disappointing. It disappoints me. But it also presents a challenge for me. How hard can I fuck up today? How edible will the food be? Surely, homemade food tastes better than school food, right?

Why do we even call it food? Why is food considered food? Can’t we walk around in the wilderness and eat some dirt off the ground? I suppose I should stop complaining. The chicken should be done boiling by now.

Lifting the covers of the pot, I grabbed a long-ass chopstick that was as long as my forearm. Without hesitation, I penetrated straight through the chicken carcass.

I had already cleaned out most of the insides, so the chicken was perfectly hollowed out. As for the head and the neck, I could have kept them to make stock, but I don’t want a bird head sticking around in the fridge. Its neck would either look like a skinned penis or a bunch of bundled up foreskin.

Someone on the internet would definitely call the cops on me for cooking chicken like this. But boiling was much healthier than frying, roasting, or baking it. Bland as it may be, I’m just going to cut it up and dip it with soy sauce if necessary. I’d eat plain old chicken meat though. Food is food after all. There’s no reason to add unnecessary condiments when you aren’t the chef of some fancy French restaurant. As long as the white and dark meat were edible, I could care less about its blandness. Boiling was much healthier and I stand by this. Maybe if I was cooking for medieval kings and aristocrats or something, I’d be adding as much shit as possible. Those guys were fat enough, it mattered not if they died of obesity or some sort of health problem. Granted, the life expectancy back then was around the thirties or forties so they’d die either way.

After running cold water over the chicken, I put it back into the boiling water for another half-minute and repeated the process a couple more times. It’d have been much more efficient to chuck the damn thing in an ice bath, but I was too lazy. The thing about home-cooking: no matter if you fuck up, you’re still eating it either way. Although I say this, I’d rather continue fasting than eat burnt shit so I have learned to at least make my food edible.

Normally, I do exactly that—just toss a bunch of random shit into a pan and stir-fry them. Asian cuisine made life so much easier. That is if you exclude the fact that you needed many side-dishes. But since my body was especially fatigued today, I had to make food that satisfied me. It’s been a whole week since I’ve actually eaten anything which is why I chose to cook an entire chicken today. If the chicken can’t be finished, then I will use the leftovers and stir fry them tomorrow—if there was a tomorrow.

8:39

The time of the digital clock on the range(oven and stove) was only relative. The actual time should be 7:39. Does it even matter if I changed the clock? Probably not. When daylight savings time ends, the clock will return to normal either way. I don’t see any reason to manually adjust it. Besides, my phone will tell me the conventional time either way.

Once the chicken has rested for about ten or twenty—Nah, fuck it. It ain’t steak, and I don’t care as long as it is edible.

Taking out my trusty cleaver, I proceeded to break down the chicken despite how hot it was.

Butt. Greasy fat. Wings. Drums. Thighs. Feet. Straight down.

No one wants to eat the butt or the greasy fat so I chucked them into the trash can.

Since I was using a cleaver and not a thinner knife, I couldn’t pop the breast meat out. To solve this, I flipped the chicken over and cut down the middle

Using my oh-so-clean hands, I slid my finger along the cartilage and pulled the breasts out. Thanks to the cartilage, the breasts were taken out without damage. I was going to cut up the carcass into small pieces so they could be used for future stock...

Into the trash it goes!

Now that I think of it, there was still some meat on the other side. Well...

Anyway, I cut up the breast into fine rectangles and did the same for the drums and drumettes(small drumsticks). It wasn’t too hard to cut through the bones when you had a fucking cleaver. It was both badass and strong. With how heavy and thick a cleaver was, I slammed down, and a job well done it was. If some part of the bone was still there, I’d either smash it again or sawed through it like a tree. While the wooden cutting block could get damaged, the damn thing was as thick as a tree so it should be able to last. If I were using some flimsy plastic cutting board, it would break—well, I don't know what'll happen since I don't use those.

As for the chicken feet, I didn’t think they were worth the trouble. The amount of time taken to bite through the cartilage of every individual bone for a small spoonful of skin… Eating these was a waste of time. After cutting off the nails, I placed the two chicken feet on the platter.

With everything done, the platter looked like a plate of yellow skin from a bird’s-eye view. It looked ugly seeing the layer of skin on top of each piece of meat except for the breasts. Eating the skin should be fine though since it contains omega-6 fatty acids which are good for the body. While there is saturated fat, there’s also monounsaturated and polyunsaturated fat present in chicken. So the question of whether it was healthy or not depends. Either way, the breasts were the leanest and most packed with protein. Since dark meat had more calories and white meat had more protein, I’d have to eat a good amount of both to replenish my body.

Caloric deficits were great and all, but after a certain point, it just becomes self-induced starvation.

While I haven’t eaten in days, my body was completely used to it. I wasn’t exactly slim either. Having a little bit of fat around the body is good. When your body has no fats at all, then fasting will make the body lose muscles. The quality of the nutrients in your body matters as well. When fasting, water becomes the only best friend that can fill the void in my stomach.

I wonder why I’m thinking about fasting all of the sudden.

Anyway, I should probably wash my hands with cold water. Breaking down a chicken that came right out of the pot is the same as drinking soup while it is simmering. My heat tolerance is good, but that didn’t mean I was immune to burns.

With that out of the way, I guess I can boil some vegetables and make some Korean steamed eggs.

I was planning on using the water that cooked the chicken to cook the other two side dishes.

After straining out the impurities that floated to the top of the water, I dumped some of it into a ceramic pot and started boiling the water on high. With the rest, I put it into a saucepan and got it to a boil as well. I dumped the rest of the water into the sink.

I already had the bok choy cut up and sitting in a washbasin filled with water.

After whisking the five eggs, I poured the scrambled egg mixture into the ceramic pot.

Moving back to my cutting block, I used the same cleaver I used to cut the chicken and chopped up a bunch of spring onions. I tossed half of it into the eggs and kept the rest on the cutting block.

Most of the dirt and sand in the bok choy should have sunk to the bottom by now. Pouring out the water in the washbasin, I dumped the veggies into the saucepan...

Why is it called a saucepan when I’m using it to cook vegetables instead of sauce?

Anyway, I took out a wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer and messed around with the eggs. It was akin to cooking scrambled eggs: I had to scrape the sides of the pot so they will clump together and not burn. Once it has gotten to a nice consistency, I added some freshly ground black pepper. Putting the lid on top, I moved my attention back to the saucepan.

I added some vegetable oil, sugar, and salt into the water. I then covered the lid so that the bok choy could cook.

After about a minute or two, I opened the ceramic lid. The eggs immediately struck at me with its aroma, seducing my own two nostrils with their scent—I forgot to add salt, damn it.

I tossed the rest of the spring onions on top of the steamed eggs to make it look nicer and added a sprinkle of salt on top. Taking it off the fire, I brought it out to the dinner table and placed it on a trivet(the wooden layer that protects the table from hot objects). I made another trip back to the kitchen to bring the platter of chicken out.

I also brought the bok choy out and—wait, what lunatic eats out of a saucepan? I circled my way to the kitchen and poured the contents into a large bowl.

Once I got my bowl of rice fresh from the rice cooker, I took a seat at the dinner table...

I guess it’s time to eat?

I had already set up the table beforehand so I took a seat and started eating. I tried to get some of the eggs but it would keep slipping out of my two chopsticks. This dumbass over here should’ve used a spoon!—oh wait! I got it!

Without questioning the physics of how I was able to get a scoop of steamed eggs with two little sticks, I brought my bowl out to retrieve the eggs. It tasted like scrambled eggs—but hot. And it was watery. The spring onions added a nice and sharp texture to the eggs which stopped them from getting boring.

Maybe it’s because I have been eating rice since I was a child, that I am able to eat rice with anything. Rather than side dishes being a condiment for the rice, it feels like the rice is a side for the dishes. The main dish was not the rice, but the side dishes. And the rice only served to compliment them even further. At this point, I don't even know what I'm talking about.

While I liked spaghetti and all those other cuisines, they took way too much preparation… Well, spaghetti is easy, but making the tomato sauce takes time. Even if there was canned or jarred tomato sauce, I would never trust the food that came out of those containers. Who knows what kind of shit they put in there.

Perhaps it is a result of my upbringing. While I haven't ever met my father's side of the family, I have met my mother's side. And boy, my maternal relatives were more Asian than they were American—at this point, what even is an American? While my father is a white man, I've never seen him as anything other than an average human.

After three more helpings of rice, I pretty much demolished half of the side dishes alone.

With food out of my concern, I washed my bowl and set it on the drying rack before walking upstairs.

As I closed my bedroom door behind me, the sounds of a lock turning irritated my ears.

Taking a seat on my chair, I couldn’t help but recall that chair in that conference room. It was so much more comfortable to sit on than this chair in my room. Although it also had wheels, the cushions have already sunken in due to the amount of time I spend sitting on it... Something about this makes me feel like I am having an affair with a chair.

“...withdrawal from the contract”

Disturbing.

“He’s making us look like fools as we run around on his orders.”

Imbeciles.

“Ah, so annoying!”

Annoying.

“Why did he sign the contract if he’s going to withdraw?”

“Exactly!”

It’s Noisy.

“It was a waste of time and now, the company needs to cancel it. My reputation is taking a toll because of some random client.”

“Is that so?”

“Ugh, let’s just eat.” Sighed the man.

“The chicken is kind of tasteless. Should I get the soy sauce?”

“Sure.”

“You want some chicken feet?”

“...”

“I guess they’re all for me then?”

“Go ahead.” The man sighed.

Then came a short pause. One hoping to be broken.

“...but it wasn’t him. No, it can’t be him—.”

“There doesn’t seem to be any good television shows lately.”

“Well, that’s all because of the fucking government—”

“Let’s just eat.”

“...”

“You sure you don’t want some chicken feet?”

“You can have them, you know I don’t eat those things.”

“Al—”

I shoved the headphones onto my head and played some random rock song. I made sure to crank up the volume so I wouldn’t be distracted by unimportant things.

Closing my eyes, I let the sound of music breathe through my body.

“There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold.”

“And she’s buying a stairway to heaven.”

Heaven.

I wonder what heaven is.

Is my heaven the same as everyone else?

I wonder…

Maybe it’s better not to know…

I just sat there, looking through the empty window. Pondering… Pondering about what?

There it was beneath my feet. The stars themselves. There was nothing above it. Yet, I was above it. How?

The ceaseless chatter; the unwelcome honks, it was as noisy as ever. Even in a suburban area—this was a city after all... Disappointment? No. It’s not that. Sadness? That’s too simple. Frustration? Perhaps. It was not sorrow. And it was not somber either. Or maybe it was. I don’t know. What do I know?

To the unbeknownst observer, stars don’t exist—they never have.

***

The sun is bright today.

The sky is—well, it isn’t actually blue.

Such complications, what meaning does it harbor?

Is the sky blue because it is a fun and cloudless day? Is the sun bright because the angels are shining their smiles upon us? Does it signify that today was a special day? ‘Uh, let’s see here. What could the color blue possibly symbolize? Why does the author choose to write explicitly about the skies?’ Such stupidity bewilders me.

Now I feel like an English teacher rambling on about the most subtle things. The sky is blue because it is blue—why would there be any other meaning? It isn’t a blue book¹ for God’s sake! It’s not like God is using the color of the sky as a way of communication. And what the fuck does the sun have to do with anything?

While the sky can be a sort of foreshadowing for the weather…

It’s too fucking early for me to be fucking myself in the head.

As I was just around the corner of the train station, an old grey car stopped in front of me. It wasn’t anything too fancy; it’s your average run of the mill car. What I found strangest was the fact that it ran on gas instead of electricity. Most cars nowadays ran on electricity. But some people still used gasoline so it wasn’t too peculiar I’d suppose.

I walked up to the car and opened the door. What greeted me was an old man; a familiar one I’d add.

“You have everything?” He said.

“Yeah.”

As I got into the car, the awkward silence that occurred back in the conference room reinstated itself.

He was technically the driver so it made sense that he had no time to talk…

Interesting...

I wonder how well he can drive?

“Old man, what’s your name again? I kind of forgot.” I said in a purposely rude tone.

“Pfft.” He let out a breath of air as if he had been expecting me to say something else.

“You can call me what you want, but the name’s Freud, Morris Freud.”

A James Bond hustle? I’ve seen those old movies too. I suppose this old guy isn’t as stupid as he lets on. Of course, my gauge for stupidity grades someone on how well they know old media. From my experience, people with an interest in old things tend to be more intelligent. But of course, this ‘experience’ is completely dependent on my mood and my preferences.

“How’s tomorrow looking?” I asked, wondering if he was ‘skilled.’

I couldn’t tell if the silence was him focusing on driving or if it was him processing my inquiry.

“Quite lively, doesn’t everyone know?”

Is that so? A prophet who can’t even predict the events of tomorrow?

“What is the code of conduct?” I shifted to a more normal question now, no longer looking for any double entendres².

“Whatever you want as long as you cooperate.”

“How bold,” I said.

“Whatever that is in my means.”

“Very well, old man.”

“Heh, I guess I’m around that age.”

“For someone nearing their sixties, if you weren’t old, what would you be?”

“Haha, you’re not wrong about that. I’m almost seventy and I don’t even have grandchildren.”

Strange. Was this the same person as yesterday?

He’s much too…

Composed.

What’s up with today—what’s up with yesterday. What is it that makes yesterday’s interaction different from today's? Is it because he is not looking at me while we are talking? What is the factor that determines his reaction? Why is it that he was intimidated by me yesterday, but not today? Why is he talking to me as if I’m an adult instead of a snobby brat? I’m curious.

“Did you know, medium-rare chicken has a rather exquisite taste?” I said.

“So I’ve heard.”

Yeah, he definitely shut his brain off or something. Or maybe it’s because he has prepared for this and he knows exactly what I’m going to say because he is the Prophet.

Or—there’s the unlikely possibility that he has actually eaten medium-rare chicken before. What breed of human would have the brains to do that? Granted, chicken sashimi is a real thing. American chicken has salmonella everywhere whilst Japanese chickens are properly cleaned, so it would make sense that Japanese people can eat raw chicken.

“You’re interesting,” I said in all honesty. If all my previous questions and statements were bullshit, then this single sentence was the most honest I have ever been.

“Thank you.” And he took it as a compliment.

Well, there’s no dwelling on what I don’t understand. Any more provocation from my side will make me out to be a fool and it will collapse this relationship. The old man was technically my ‘boss’ now since I signed the contract.

“Did you see the news?” He asked.

“Do I look like someone concerned with worldly matters?” I answered back while taking my phone out.

There’s no reason for him to reference the news if there wasn’t anything specific he wanted me to see.

As I scrolled around the internet, a certain article caught my eyes.

It was only uploaded a couple seconds ago but that small article was exactly what I wanted to see.

While I will be under investigation, there’s no reason police officers will look too deep into what happened. And my parents are too busy to care. After all, they’re too concerned with other issues. No one has the motive to investigate this.

~~~~~~~~~~

Another One Missing

By Arnold Garibaldi,

Journalist of Exon News

March 15, 2066

Young high school sophomore, Coeus Williams has been reported missing ever since yesterday. Classmates claim that he had been at school in the morning session but disappeared once afternoon classes started. An interview with one of the kids says, “Coeus? That kid? Oh yeah, everyone knows him. But he don’t look like he'd be close with anyone. Whenever we asked if he'd play ball, he’d ignore us and do something else. At lunchtime, he becomes a sort of ghost and he just disappears entirely. No one really knows where he goes. I once saw him walking around in circles at a park. Another time, he was just sitting at a store without buying anything.” Professionals suggest that there could be a correlation between young Coeus’ sudden disappearance and a recent serial kidnapper. Private Investigator, Mr. Livvy, says…

~~~~~~~~~~

This doesn’t seem too shabby of an excuse. A serial kidnapper is such a great way of putting it on the media. I technically am being kidnapped, am I not?—Kidnapped by money. That doesn’t sound too bad. While the only major issue I see with this article is the fact that this information is completely fabricated. My reported ‘disappearance’ has never actually been reported. And I have no clue what 'professionals' suggest there is a correlation between my ‘disappearance’ and a recent serial kidnapper. There’s also that interview with a supposed classmate that irritates me. But what can I say? Fake news is fake news. It's everywhere nowadays.