January 9th, 2019

Is there anybody here? Hello? HELLO? AHHH! This book is unresponsive! What is so wrong in my life? AHHH! Let me read the manual. Oh, so this writing book is for me to write in and not for me to talk to. Ohh, I get It! Well, reader, I suppose our greeting was a bit unfriendly, but let’s start off with a good point, since you are going to be hearing about me for a long time. My name is Martin Malkin and I work as an assembly clerk at the electronics store Ripoff & Soups. What’s an assembly clerk, you ask? It means that I can be trusted for assembling lots of things like electronic clocks, electronic wallets, electronic credit cards, electronic cookbooks, fax machines, lightbulbs and others, including things like car batteries! It might seem like my life is dull but hey, at least I’m not a….uh…a button factory worker! You see, ever since the recession of 2014-2015 things have been semi-hard. I say that because while there are four castes, the Government, the Millionaires, the Monks and the Commoners. Wait, six castes. I forgot the Soldiers and the Homeless. As you see, I’m a Commoner. But there are no wars since the Great War and there are now 11 countries! There are North America, Europe, South America, Asia, Africa, Australia and Oceania, Antarctica, Britain, Central America, France, and the Moon. Also there are two Religions: Agu, and the Church of Good Hope. I’m in the Church of Good Hope. Last, there are millions of animals! But there are also billions of weapons in the atmosphere, most with either ice-nine or the Arctic Plague. Also most of those animals are genetically modified and there is not a single part of the ozone layer. But let’s have some good times and not get too melancholic! My job today was very annoying since apparently our work building is home to 2,000 labor unions. I don’t believe it, though. I had a very fun job. I assembled the minute hands of electric clocks. Again, it may seem like it was very boring but at least it wasn’t in a…what was that job again…ah…oh, a button factory, yeah a button factory. I left early to go to my personal ATM at my local bank in New, New, New, New, very far away New Harlem. I can’t ride a bike, so I took the subway. I got a new workers pass and shook the ATM to get more free money. I learned it from my dad. But I forgot my worker’s pass at the ATM in New, New, New, New very far away New Harlem. I rented a Honda and went back to the work buildin. Wait add a G. The work building. Why didn’t I pass my spelling exam? So Admiral Syria Jacks came up to me and yelled “Where’s your worker’s pass? It’s needed to come to the building!”

“Ahh s***!” I ran out to the nearest Corner store right on Elm street. There, a beggar came up and screamed in my ears, “The World Is Ending! Gather Yourselves For The End! The End Is Nigh! Bask In Your Existence While You Have It!”

I walked into the corner store with the highest expectations and I found a pass master by the frozen food aisles.

“One Worker’s Pass, Please!”


“Martin Marty Malkin.”

“Here you go.”

“Thank you.” I sprinted past the evangelistic beggar and came back to the Work Building. I gave my pass to Admiral Jacks and started constructing more minute hands, this time for a statue of Buddha Jr.

“Coffee Break,” yelled Admiral Jacks, and I was trampled by the footsteps of hundreds of children, women, old people, and middle aged men like me (well, I really don’t know how old I am because they stole all birth certificates, but I’m sure I’m middle aged). I went to my favorite coffee shop, Giribaldi, with my friends John Beese and Ibn-Louis. I tried to catch up with my friend Emmaline Mabatai but there’s a curtain everywhere that separates men and women in all public places, except for banks and parks (well, there’s only one park in this district, and that’s Clooney Park). I asked for my usual vanilla spicy decaf cappuccino, Beese got a bottle of caffeinated vodka, and Ibn-Louis got low-fat boba tea. The waitress asked for a tip and I gave it to her, enthralled. While she was walking away I told her I wasn’t done with my order.

“I’ll have a raspberry jam croissant with a cherry on top?” I asked. When she walked away again I asked if she could get me some crab soup. Then when she walked away I asked if she could come Saturday evening and she said she would have to check with her boyfriend. I said ok and was still wondering about meeting her when Beese started talking.

“Evaluations are in two weeks,” he said. “I already know who’s getting promoted and who ain’t.”

“Tell us,” Ibn-Louis said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Shut up Martin, I’ll tell you. I’m going to get promoted out of this dumping ground for people’s convenience. I’m going to get to the board of directors of Ripoff & Soups and be somebody, not s***.”

“Ambitious goal,” Ibn-Louis exclaimed, “but I’m going to be in Washington, getting this company votes in congress, and making sure Mr. Tweed doesn’t get arrested for f***ing tax evasion!”

“What’s so bad about tax evasion?” I asked.

“It’ll get Tweed out of f****ing office, you d***!” Ibn-Louis said.

“No more jobs, you kid!” Beese added.

”Fine,” I said feeling happy that my friends can have a two-sided debate with them talking not about me and talking about theyr side. Wait it’s not theyr it’s their. AARGH! I should go back to boarding school of forceful relearning!

The same waitress came and she gave us all we asked. Me, my crab soup, a raspberry jam croissant with a cherry on top, and a vanilla spicy decaf cappuccino, John a caffeinated vodka, and Ibn-Louis a low-fat boba tea.

“Hey gal, get me some tulip honey badger muffin with a sprinkle of cocoal,” John called.

“Get me a Kellogg’s cereal cake,” Ibn-Louis added.

“Also come by my place saturday night. The Super Bowl’s on and it’s sushi pizza night!” John told the waitress.

“But I’m going with that young fellow,” she pointed at me.

“He’s a loser who doesn’t know the f***ing word fun!” he called.

“Fine. On saturday I’ll spend 15 minutes with loser.”

“Martin!” I said happily.

”You loser, Martin, I’ll spend 15 minutes with him and I’ll spend 2 hours with hunky…”

“John Beese, or as I like to say, John Beast!”

“Haha!” she yelled. “So yeah!”

“Coffee break is over!” Ibn-Louis said!

“Yeah, I’ll stay here and read my Playboy,” John answered.

“I’m goin’ to stay here and finish my Kellogg’s cereal cake,” Ibn-Louis said.

“And I’ll stay here too and play Candy Crush,” I said.

“No, leave, you’re a god*** motherf***ing bastard who’s a s***ing no funner!” John said.

“Yeah, get out of here, doofus!” Ibn-Louis replied.

“You guys are always right.” I was walking out of the door when my favorite song ever Baba O’Riley came on. I ran up to the podium and started singing the lyrics. Everyone joined in and it was really fun! Until the Workers police came and took us away for late break. I was beaten until I couldn’t get up but I guess what I was doing was pretty bad. Then John Beese came up to me and said CONFIDENTIAL, CENSORED BY NORTH AMERICAN GOVERNMENT. I was taken back to the work building where the great Mr. Tweed came up to me and stabbed me in the cheek.


“Yes,” I peeped. He stabbed me again, this time in the head.

“Why did you do what you did,” Tweed told me.

“I was singing Baba O’Riley, my favorite song!”

“YOU S***! YOU KNOW THE F***ING TIME!” Tweed yelled back. Now he kicked me in both of my shins. I fell down in pain, but I didn’t cry. “C’mon, cry!” he yelled. I started to cry. “Look, I’m treating you better than your folks, Mr. Beese and Mr. Ibn-Louis.”

I looked up a bit and I saw that Mr. Tweed was telling me the truth; Beese was getting bit by bloodhounds, and Ibn-Louis was getting waterboarded, yelling profanities every time he got hurt.

“Thank you for treating me better, Mr. Tweed,” I complimented. In response, he got his nearby monkey wrench and threw it at me. It hurt and it didn’t hurt at the same time.

“I’m not your f***ing parents!” he yelled. Then he sat down in a chair right next to me. “Listen, I gotta tell you something important. You’re going to space.”

“Really, Mr. Tweed?” I asked, in disbelief.

“Please, it’s Archibald Tweed Jr.”


“So you are going to the space hotel to see if it can house life. You, Mr. Beese, Ms. Mabatai, Dr. Jockisoin, and Ms. Pelican will be going tomorrow at 11:00 p.m. You got that?”

“Yes, sir!” I replied.

“The reason we picked you and everyone else is because we did a survey of which person who will be not missed by anyone staying here and here were the rankings: you, Mabatai, Jockisoin, Pelican, and Beese. Also, since today is Sunday, you will be back on Earth anywhere between next Sunday to 17 years! Now scram! You can go back to your house!” And that was it for his monologue.

I ran out, doing the airplane. When I got back, I was stopped by my landlord.

“You owe me money,” he said.

“How much do you need?” I replied.

“$7,000,” he told me.

“Ok, here’s a check.” When I gave it to him I went back up to my apartment, where I stayed all day.


January 10th, 2019


I woke up with a sock on my head. It was a crusty, old sock that must have been worn I don’t know, ten to thirty years ago. Then it struck me that it must have been Mabatai! I ran out and right in front of me a bright pink drone started telling me an announcement: Come to the work building! Mr Tweed wants to show you your comrades. I found my bicycle and I rode it to the work building.

“Hello Martin, come with me,” Tweed walked with me to this green room with two blank computer monitors and a poster for Hotel California by The Eagles. First I saw Beese, who wore an undershirt and blue jeans, along with a baseball hat with the flag of Texas on it. He ruffled my hair and told me,

“You’re not gonna find any good babes here.”

Then came Dr. Jockisoin. He was wearing a light grey labcoat with a Led Zeppelin t-shirt underneath. He had some yellow church pants along with a green beret and bowling shoes. I also saw that he had long hair and he was really sun-tanned. He started telling me the Periodic Table when Ms. Pelican came in. Ms. Pelican had a big straw hat with a pink ribbon on it. She wore a white shirt with a Yale University sweater over it. She had sweat pants with Toms on. She also had shiny grey gloves. She came up to me and we had a conversation about the death penalty and then about labor unions. Then John came over to her and asked her “if she wanted to go with him later” (which from experience means that he was interested in her).

She raised her eyebrow and said “Possibly, I’ll think about it YOU IGNORANT SON OF A B****!” She put down the tequila she was holding and ran to what she thought was the farthest corner from Beese, which is apparently not that far.

John looked down at me and said, “I’m not giving up, you hear!” Then, to my joy and hopefully the joy of my colleagues, Ms. Emmaline Mabatai came in. She had a hoop skirt with HUMONGOUS stockings with Wall St. signs on them. She was wearing her Cardinals Jersey, a family relic since her great-grandfather (she told me that it usually goes to boys but since her parents never had a son they gave it to her). She had a lot of conmetics (no, it’s cosmetics. Arghh!). So she had a lot of cosmetics on and she had a turban on her head along with her suitcase. I looked a bit closer and I learned that she was listening to her teal iPod with Bob Dylan on. Specifically, the album Blonde on Blonde.

I waved my hand in front of her face to get her attention. It worked and she paused the music and looked at me. “What do ya want, Martin? Are you having the good life?” she said.

“Y-y-you are so b-b-beautiful Emmaline!” I stumbled out of my numb mouth.

“Thanks, you look pretty cute Martin,” she replied.

Our chit-chat was interrupted by the booming voice of Mr. Tweed’s secretary. “Hello, Dr. William Jockisoin, Ms. Emmaline Mabatai, Mr. John Beese, Ms. Louisa Pelican, and Mr. Martin Malkin, welcome to our first meeting together. I am Mr. Tweed’s Secretary, Mrs. Secretary. In a few hours you will all be Ripoff & Soups first commercial passengers to our Space Hotel. Hopefully you survive.” (Then I saw out of the corner of my eye the DJ putting in the turntable the record for Journey’s Greatest Hits.) “Thank you for your bravery and your consumerism. Goodbye,” Mrs. Secretary monologued. (It’s a word Ibn-Louis made up a year ago).

We all left the work building and then Me & Ms. Pelican with Dr. Jockisoin went to the nearbiest (another word that Ibn-Louis made up) church that belonged to the Church of Good Hope. When we got to the church, Saint Marc Jacobs had a seminar. “God made us to be your conscience, and our guidance is telling you to give us $130, with tax.”

People were throwing money at Saint Jacobs when Mr. Tweed blasted through with a toupee on. “I am here to become a saint, right now!” he declared, giving Jacobs some money, humming Pink Floyd while he did it.

St. Jacobs said, “Everyone, we have a new Saint, St. Tweed, who joins our ranks of Saints. Johnny, declare for me our Saints.” Johnny, St. Jacobs’ personal helper, put on some fake glasses and read out something from his iPhone.

“St. Marc Jacobs, St. Gregg Only, St. Job Less, St. Jim ‘Lucky’ Duck, St. Paul Simon, and now St. Archibald Tweed!”

Everyone clapped along, except Ms. Louisa Pelican. “So, I can pay to become a Saint?” she asked, nearly sarcastically.

“No, girls can’t become Saints until 2039,” St. Jacobs replied stubbornly.

“So you are sayin’ that girls are too incompetent to be Saints?” she quommented (it’s another word Ibn-Louis made up, a mixture of a question and a comment).

“No, I didn’t say anything abou — ”

“If no, why can’t we be Saints?”

“I, I, I don’t know about this stuff. I didn’t start this religion.”

“Well, who did?” That left St. Marc Jacobs speechless. the whole church was in suspense, a suspense which can not be words, a suspense which can only be seen to be described. Jacobs ran away from the podium he was standing, in the heat of the suspense. Then a person in a preacher’s clothes jumped up from his seat and started twiddling with his rosary.

“I know about this whole thing. It’s a big f***ing scam, a big one!” he yelled.

“Really?” Louisa asked, with a wanting-to-know look on her face. “Tell me more about this scam?”

“This was all started as a religion where you don’t have to do anything, just a religion which is a religion just in name, not at all in practice. All these seminars and stuff are all made up your local preacher and/or saint makes this stuff up,” the preacher said.

Then Louisa asked. “How do you know all this stuff Mr…um…”

“It’s Starling Mann, and I know all these things I told you ‘cause I co-founded this religion.” The name Starling Mann made Louisa’s eyes bulge.“Wait, youre the person who owns that nearby record store! You started this religion?” Ms. Pelican questioned in shock.

“Yes, strange things can happen these days. Now, you all leave, I need to talk with Johnny here. NOW!!” Mr. Mann told all of us. We all left, and I was strangely happy. Right outside of the Church, Ms. Pelican & me saw a Creedence Clearwater Revival cover band playing. I looked closer at their drums (drums always have the band’s name printed on them) and I found out they were called “Fogerty’s Lost Boys.” We started dancing and soon we spent three or four hours listening to this cover band. By the time “Fogerty’s Lost Boys” left, there was a Simon & Garfunkel cover band coming, “The People Who Can’t Hear The Sounds of Silence.” But for us though, it was time for lunch & coffee break. More coffee break for me, more lunch for Louisa. I ran to the closest coffee shop that was not Giribaldi, and I found it. It was called “The Closest Coffee Shop That’s Not Called Giribaldi,” and it had the best coffee that was not from Giribaldi. I saw that with me was John Beese, Dr. William Jockisoin, and Ms. Pelican! John had his registered “hooking up with women and either making out with them in the bathroom or getting their phone number to make out in my bathroom” clothes on (will it work? I don’t know), Dr. Jockisoin had an infamous blue overcoat on, and Ms. Pelican just put on a winter hat from her purse.

“I’m in the mood for some karaoke,” Jockisoin said.

“I would like to hear some gossip,” Beese replied.

“How about some 20 Questions?” Ms. Pelican said.

“But what do you want, Martin?” Louisa said.

“Malkin, Malkin, he’ll do anything!” John boomed in self-confidence.

“I’ll gossip” I repleyeid (It’s replied not repleyeid!! *** grammar!)

“That’s a great idea!” Beese started saying. “I think we should start with Ms. Louisa here,” he stated.

“No, I think we should start with Beese here,” Ms. Pelican replied.

“Yeah, we should,” Jockisoin looked at Beese with a suspicious eye.

“OK,” Beese said nervously, and he started.

“I was born on April 31st, I don’t know what year in Everston, Texas. My father Hamilton Beese was a 1st Commander in the U.S Army and my mum, Mary Beese, was a housewife. Now, it seems like my dad was kind ‘cause he was in the army, but he had a severe case of PTSD and he was a bit schizo. He had fought in the Vietnam War and had seen things that shouldn’t be known to 9 to 10-year-olds like me. He had recorded the sounds of war on his tape recorder that was shown to me. He also told me stories that were the most gruesome. I remember that once when I was 1-8 months old he had a horrible thought that made him get a carving knife and chase my mum. She held me and I was the only thing separating her from him. He anyway charged Mom with the knife and slashed her in her arm. She dropped me and I was picked up by my crazy dad. He was about to kill me when mother Mary grabbed me from his arms and ran out of the house, locking the door so he couldn’t chase us. That was the scariest experience of me with my dad until I wa — ”

Jockisoin interrupted by pointing at the window, his mouth gaping. There were some people holding up signs that read “*** the meaning of Religion, Bless your inner feelings!” and some people with signs that said “The government is a company!” Louisa, John, and William were all talking about the signs, but I looked at a waitress who was coming to give us all our coffee.

“Um, excuse me miss but can I talk with you?” I asked.

“Sure,” she replied.

I went up to her and I asked the hallowed question, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, well, I used to but I dumped him two days ago. He was a douche. He thought that to be a boyfriend you need to make you and your girlfriend be pretty much identical. So he made me do whatever he did and it was the WORST relationship ever.”

“Well, why didn’t you break up with him earlier?” I replied in thought.

“Because, when someone, like, cheats on him or says that they want to break up with him he goes PSYCHO! His doctor says he has a bad mental disorder. So I didn’t do it until I didn’t care about giving him a mental breakdown, but I’m looking for a boyfriend,” she said.

Then I let it out, “Can I be your boyfriend?”

After backing up a bit and almost running away, she said in a calm voice, “Sure.”

I let out an inner victory cheer and then I asked almost as soon, “What’s your name and what’s your phone number?”

“My name is Melanie Kippwoff and my number is 1-916-879-3288. What’s yours?”

“My name is Martin Marty Malkin and my number is 1-000-111-2233.”

“Where do you work, Martin?”

“I’m an assembly clerk at Ripoff & Soups, you?”

“I work here as my day job, but my real job is being the owner of Ticky-Tacky Records and cashier of its subsequent store.”

“Well, that’s a pretty good job!”

“Thanks, Mart! Is it OK that I call you Mart?”

“Yeah, it’s OK!” I responded. “Also I’m goin’ to be one of the first people to be in Ripoff & Soups, and first commercial space hotel.”

“That’s amazing! When are you going up there?”

“Today in fact, at 11:30!”

“Great, I can’t wait to see you! Skype me from the space hotel!”

“Oh, my skype address is martinmalkyc@skype,” I said.

She answered back by saying, “Well, mine is melanierainerl@skype.”

My heart was racing but then Jockisoin was racing, using his feet, to go tell me, “It’s 3:30, we should go.” I looked at the clock, he was right, it was 3:30, then 3:31, then 3:32, then 3:33. My precious time with Melanie was being wasted! I said goodbye, then I ran out of “The Closest Coffee Shop That’s Not Called Giribaldi” and ran to the department store. You always need a few supplies for living in space for who knows how long! I bought some cookie cutters, some spoons, knives, forks, sporks, combination locks, hairbrush, aerosol, ziploc bags, headphones, paper, a fax machine assembly kit, and an aqualung. I went to the clothing store and bought shoes, shirts, tuxedos, sweaters, undershirts, and helmets. Last but not least, I went to Amazing Savings and bought some gluten-free gluten, rainbow cookies, ice cream sandwiches, modified green beans, edible glue, M&Ms, Hershey’s Chocolate Beer, Fosters, Coca-Cola-Pepsi-Dr.Pepper-Sunkist-Fanta Mixable Fountain Soda pack (it also comes with five cans of each soda individually), tonic water, kale, and finally, pink peeps.

When I finished my shopping spree my personal sense of time told me it was 5:09. I ran home and started folding my clothes and packing stuff into stuffcases. Then I found a picture of my mom, Nicole, and my dad, Casey, with me at Washington Monument when I was 8. For some strange reason we all doing peace signs, at a monument. I started laughing in a sort of inside joke kind of way. Then I found some more pictures where that picture was. One of them was with my first girlfriend, Joane, and me at age 13 at a hockey game at Mexico City. There was another picture of me and my half-cousin Georg, pretending to put our hands on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I can see that I was 10 when we did that picture. And finally I found a picture of Nicole and Casey about to board a plane to Rwanda as Peace Corps volunteers (my parents said they weren’t there long ‘cause they mistranslated their Kinyarwanda, an official language of Rwanda, wrong). I stuffed quickly the pictures and the subsequent photo album into one of my packs. I also packed lots of books, old & new vinyl records and a turntable, movies, two computers, and a foolproof razor.

When I had finished packing all my stuff into stuffcases, I got something that in the writing world (which I’m afraid to say in a world I’m new to) we call writer’s block. So I called the advice hotline.

“Hello, how can I help you?” called the receptionist in a calming voice.

“Hi, my name is Martin Malkin. I would like some advice on what to do when you have nothing on your hands at the time being?”

“Yes, you should go get a life!” the receptionist yelled right before she hung up. I sulked until I looked and saw that John Beese was running my way.

“Mart, come quick!”


“Ibn-Louis is gay!”

I thought about it for a while. then I saw a mixed feeling on John’s face that gave me the idea that he did not like this simple fact of life.

“What’s the deal?” I told Beese.

“I don’t know. Goodbye!” John said and he ran away to somewhere.

As I was walking to the work building I passed a bookstore that I mysteriously walked into. I started to buy some books, since I had now (dang it! It’s ‘no’! Aaah! spelling strikes again!) sorry no real anything to do at all. I bought War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy (since I was going to be there for a long time, right reader?), Ulysses by James Joyce, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes, and Animal Farm by George Orwell (as you can see reader, I am trying to dig deep into classic literature).

But then, a bright green book caught my eye. It was some philosophy of Phillipe Froufrou. I bought it quickly because of 2 things. 1.) It was because bright green books are usually very entertaining, and 2.) ‘cause I wanna know some good philosophy! I went up to the cashier and asked her what the price was.

“$29.06 please!” she answered in monotone. I gave her the wanted price and started my very short sprint to my wanted destination. Then suddenly some prostitutes fell on my knees asking for a chance, their infamous business having gone smaller by the day. I contemplated and I gave them a chance. I paid their price. It felt good. I could easily possibly remember some of those minutes for a few years. I left the old rusty condos where “it” happened and I checked the clock. It was 9:50. I skipped all the way to the Work Building.

There Mr. Tweed was waiting for me in glossy black designer shoes with designer Gucci clothing on. I could see the hair gel too. Don’t forget the hair gel. Looking very impatient, he ushered me into a blue-walled room, or auditorium to be specific, with a cool organ that I ran to, to bang random keys on. In the middle of my own improvised symphony Tweed ordered me to stop it at once, for it was, quote, “grinding his eardrums into dust.” I sulked into one of the pews. I started to read the Holy Bible, having nothing else to do. Then everyone came in, not just including the crew, the guests of honor, but also secretaries, dancers, entertainers, professional organ players, backup astronauts, technicians, priests and much more others! I also found Syria Jacks and Ibn-Louis here! We all gathered around and talked about politics and religion when we heard a professional organ player play “Rise of the Valkyries” by Richard Wagner and Mr. Tweed and Mrs. Secretary strutted to the pulpit like it was a runway.

Mr. Tweed got up to the pulpit and started talking. He motioned the professional organ player to stop playing. He stopped abruptly and immediately. “Hello!” he started. “My name is Archibald P. Tweed Jr. but please, call me Tweed. I am so glad to say that in exactly two hours Ms. Emmaline Mabatai, Mr. John Beese, Ms. Louisa Pelican, Dr. William Jockisoin and Mr. Martin Malkin will be Ripoff & Soups, or in general first at all, people to go on a commercial space hotel. I say we give these astronauts an ovation!” (There was a quick ovation.) “This is a big deal for the history of big business and space and science! We’ve beaten Virgin Galactic! I feel so glad to have this company taken completely different and new paths that have gone rock steady so far, such as our successful space program! Maybe soon, we’ll be able to populate Mars! Now, let’s get this show on the road and get these men on the shuttle! C’mon!” Before we got out of the auditorium we were stopped by Tweed and some of his goons. “Here is the Bible and the Book of Mormon, a Bag of medications and a Hoover Vacuum Cleaner, it could get dusty in there,” he said. Then we went to the shuttle. Jockisoin whispered into my ear, “I vomited when I was at the simulators in Cape Canaveral.” I gulped. I have no idea where I’m going right now. They start the countdown. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Goodbye Earth, hello space hotel!

To Be Continued…

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